Page 125 of The Me I Left Behind

Moving back to the porch, she stood against the rail and gazed out over the beach. The sun climbed steadily in the eastern sky, and the colors she’d used a few minutes earlier were lost now, no longer visible.

That’s okay. There will be another one tomorrow. Same sun. Different colors.

Breathing deep, Maggie closed her eyes and savored the quiet, the waves, the seagulls calling out to each other. She always imagined the gulls telling each other about snacks left on the beach.There’s bread over here, one would say.Pizza on the deck there.An ice cream cone on the path.She laughed to herself, just thinking about it.

Scanning the beach, she spotted Sam, Julia’s boyfriend, casting a line into the surf near the edge of the resort. He was there most mornings, sometimes with Julia. Today he was alone.

The kids would be up soon, although Jason and Chloe were sleeping later each day as the weeks rolled on. Carol would head to The Sandcastle in about an hour for her breakfast shift.

Glancing again at her painting, she remembered the day they left Rocky Mount. She’d stopped by the art supply store, wanting to pick up supplies to take with her—unsure what materials she would find in Tuckaway Bay—and had hoped to see Andy while she was there.

She did not—but asked about him when she checked out, and learned he’d taken the morning off. Her bad luck. Glancing at the counter, she noticed a stack of flyers with the fall class schedule.

Feeling brave, she asked the young girl behind the counter—the nice one, not the crabby one—if she could leave a note for him. Taking a flyer, she perused the class times and then circled the watercolor class. Thursday mornings, at ten o’clock, starting in September.

She scribbled her note:Andy, please add me to the roster for this class. Thanks. See you in September. Maggie Oliver.

Then she added her phone number for good measure.

Later that day, he texted.

Andy:Got your note, Maggie. I’ve added you to the class list.

Maggie:Thanks! I appreciate it.

There was a brief pause before the next text, and then….

Andy:Coffee again soon?

Maggie:I can’t, sorry. At the beach for the summer. See you in the fall.

He didn’t respond.

After a quick breakfast,they carted off sand toys, beach towels, chairs, and their big beach umbrella to their daily spot—halfway between the cottage and the surf. Mid-morning was a good time to claim their place, although Maggie knew that as more vacationers invaded the Sea Glass Inn resort in July, they might have to settle in earlier.

But today, the beach was blessedly uncrowded. Sam was still fishing, although she knew it was about time for him to pack up and head home. She’d given him a wave earlier, and he’d given the requisite nod back.

I wonder if he’d teach Jason to fish one of these mornings? I’ll have to ask him.

Settling into her chair, Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the kids’ chatter, while Chloe played in the wet sand and Jason dodged waves at the shoreline.

Picking up her book, she intended to read, but knew she’d likely doze off, or let her mind drift….

Lately, peace and solitude often coaxed her brain into reflection—and she supposed that was a good thing. She needed time and quiet to process all that had happened over the past six months—and what was to come, she suspected.

She’d done some things right. Hadn’t she? In all the years of their marriage? As a wife? Mother? She’d not always been the total screw-up Max told her she was.

One look at the kids told her she’d not screwed up there, even though she’d sometimes wondered.

But her marriage? She would not blame herself any longer. That was on Max. She’d been gullible, yes, and naïve, but also perhaps love-struck. And perhaps a little addicted to the sexual power Max had over her.

That was the really fucked up part, though—she’d put him up on a goddamn pedestal, hoping he’d do the same for her in return. Why? Because she’d needed to feel loved—and wanted and cared for and adored. All the things she never, truly, got from Max.

From anyone, really. Even her family. Especially her mother, whom she could never seem to please. But that subject was beach therapy for another day and time.

She’d kept Max up on that pedestal, even when she’d had to fake it. Isn’t that what she’d done all those years—fake it? She’d played the game because, on some level, she mistakenly thought he might actually care.

Mightlove her.

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