Page 20 of Stony Point Summer
So Maris hurries inside for what she came for—ice cream. But now? Well, now she buystwo, one a double-scoop chocolate, one a triple-scoop cappuccino-fudge crunch.
With a cup in each hand, she shoulders open the shop door. Once outside, she takes a few steps on the sidewalk, then stops. Jason’s still going at it—on the phone and eating at once. He’s also sipping from some monster paper cup filled, she’s sure, with iced soda, or lemonade. Something cold on this steamy evening.
She watches him briefly. He wears a navy polo shirt loose over cargo shorts. His hair is wavy in the warm humidity. He could use a shave, too. Familiar, familiar. Everything about him is familiar, yet she hesitates. It feels awkward, this whole situation. This coming upon your husband who you don’t actuallylivewith—but still care about. Immensely.
A quick breath, then. A few words whispered to herself.Get it together now. And a casual walk to the outdoor seating area. Still, Jason doesn’t look up until Maris steps onto the gravel, where the black wrought-iron tables are set out. Beyond the tables, on a manicured strip of land covered with brown bark mulch, ornamental dune grasses reach high.
The funny thing is that when Jasondoeslook up, he gives a double take—as though not recognizing her at first.
“Hey,” he says, setting down half a wrap-sandwich and picking up his napkin. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” She stops just shy of his table.
While wiping his mouth, Jason motions for her to sit with him. “I finished up at White Sands, at that shotgun cottage. Drove by here and pulled in for a bite to eat.”
Maris sets down the ice-cream cups and sits on a black patio chair. “Still working?” she asks, hitching her head to his phone on the table.
“What?”
“Your phone. I saw you typing … and scrolling through screens. Working?”
“Not exactly. More like shopping.”
When he turns the phone her way, she squints at the retail photo there. It’s of gray moccasin slippers with a thick suede sole. “Oh, nice,” she says.
“Yeah. The fabric’s canvas, so it’s breathable. And they’ve got memory foam in the foot bed, which looks pretty comfortable.” Jason turns the phone back and glances at the picture. “I’m buying them for Ted, after Maddy chewed up his pair.”
“Chewedthem?”
“To shreds. I found one under the couch the other night.”
“Jason! You have to get her under control!” Maris peels the lid off her ice-cream cup. “This behavior isnotlike Madison.”
“Itis, though,” Jason counters while lifting his half-wrap loaded with sliced turkey, dressing and shredded lettuce. He takes a double bite. “She always picks up on our energy. Which hasn’t been that chill lately,” he says around the food, then holds out the wrap. “Want some?”
Maris nods and leans across the table. Lightly looping her fingers around his wrist, she takes a hefty bite herself. “Mmm. Good.”
“It is,” Jason agrees as he stuffs the last of the wrap in his mouth.
Washing down the sandwich with a swig of Jason’s soda, Maris winces at what she sees next.
“What’s the matter?” Jason asks, still chewing.
Squinting through the dusky late-day light, she reaches over and touches the mottled bruise on his forearm. It’s changed from the purple she last saw to a greenish-yellow hue. The color’s actually alarming. “You still have that bruise,” she tells him. “From when you hit the door.”
Jason simply looks at her across the table as she scoops a spoonful of her ice cream now. “I didn’t hit a door,” he tells her. “I fell.”
“What?”
“Flat on my face. And my arm, apparently,” he adds, rubbing the tender-looking injury.
“What do you mean, youfell?”
He hesitates. Pulls over his cup of cappuccino ice cream, removes the lid and digs in. When he finally looks at her again, he’s shaking his head. “Woke up one morning last week and forgot I was missing a leg,” he quietly says. “Hopped out of bed and down I went.”
“Oh, Jason,” she whispers.
And sitting there on the gravel dining area beside the concrete-block wall of the convenience store, Maris listens to his story. To the low inflections of his voice. To his explaining how his arm flailed to grab onto something,anything, to break the fall, but whacked the nightstand instead. How thesoundof his body solidly hitting the hardwood floor was worse than the actual fall. How the dog flew up the stairs to investigate the racket, and he had to calmherdown. How he lay there and tested one arm, then the other for breaks. One foot, then the other.
