Page 27 of The Beachgoers
eleven
— Now —
WELL, THIS IS SOMETHING NEW—this ringing the doorbell at his very own house.
Actually, Jason’s taken aback at the newness ofeverything, lately.
Arriving home… as a guest.
Dating… his wife.
So he notices details like they’re new to him. Like he’s being reintroduced to his own life. He watches the heavy wooden front door open to the dark foyer. Notices Maris standing there, her brown hair side-parted and down. He takes in the long, casual T-shirt dress she wears. Its khaki color is the shade of beach sand; its asymmetrical hem, fun; the multistrand beaded turquoise necklace, well, perfect in the V neckline of that breezy dress. He sees her smile as she steps out to the front porch. Hears her voice as she locks the door behind her. Listens to her say his name.
Together they cross the somewhat overgrown front lawn to his SUV parked at the curb. They pass beach grasses and wildflowers behind a nearby low rock wall—and Jason sees that the bark mulch there needs raking. He listens, too, to Maris talking about the balmy summer weather this Friday evening, her words as light as the sea breeze. He glances from her, back to the gabled house, where branches of the tall maple tree beside it brush the roof. A roof beneath which seaside paintings hang on faded walls, and upholstered chairs fill the living room, and a black lantern-chandelier shines on the painted farm table in the dining room—all of which he misses.
Finally, when Jason opens the passenger door for his date, he feels Maris’ gentle touch as he takes her hand and helps her get in.
* * *
There’s a change, though, after they drive down Shore Road and cross the Niantic drawbridge. The change comes when Jason turns intoCaruso’s Bakery and Café. At first, the change feels like a case of nerves. Date nerves.
But it’s not that.
No, it’s more like worry. Being with his beautiful wife, Jason’s worried at how close he’d come to losing her this summer. And he still could. He’s painfully aware that Maris hasn’t welcomed him back home, not after his impulsive exit weeks ago. So he’s doing everything he can to win her over.
“What a charming bakery,” Maris says as they get out of the SUV.
Jason won’t argue that. A green-and-white striped awning hangs over the bakery’s entranceway. In the multipaned shop windows, mounted mini spotlights shine on layered wedding cakes, and cupcakes, and cookies—all atop raised pedestals. This Italian bakery is one of his favorite haunts on the Connecticut shore, ever since Lauren got him hooked on the place, back in the day, at her cake tasting. Since then, he’s stopped in from time to time for a meatball sandwich dripping with cheese, sauce and peppers. Or a chocolate-covered, ricotta-filled doughnut.
But never before with Maris.
“After you,” Jason says, motioning for Maris to go in ahead of him as he holds the bakery door open. He follows her into the shop. The walls are gold. Tiny white lights frame the room. Lampshade chandeliers hang from the ceiling. There are wood tables with inlaid-tile tops. Glass cases are filled with pastries of all kinds. And that aroma.
“Oh, Jason. This place is exquisite,” Maris turns and tells him.
Score one for him. Already she’s fallen under the bakery’s trance.
He nods to Maris just as a woman approaches. She wears a white apron over a white blouse and black slacks; a black kerchief holds back a head of dark curls. “Welcome to Caruso’s,” she says. “I’m Rita. How can I help you today?”
“Yes, I have reservations,” Jason says. “Table for two?”
“Of course.” Rita’s eyes twinkle. “You must be Mr. Barlow?”
“I am.”
“Jason?” Maris quietly asks, turning to him. “Reservations?At a bakery?”
He leans close, saying into her ear, “Only for someone special.”
“And I have your table all set. Right over here.” Rita, their apparent hostess, motions for them to follow her.
As Jason and Maris walk through the bakery, they slow their step in front of the glass cases. Frosted cupcakes and fruit-oozing pies entice them until they are distracted by something else—one lone round table beside a window. The table, draped with beige linens, is so small there’s barely room for its two bentwood bistro chairs.
Everythingis arranged in intimate twos. There are two place settings of fine silverware and white cloth napkins on the tabletop. Off to the side, a short vase of marigolds and greens is paired with a flickering white candle. And on the finest china plate, three cookies—one sugar-dusted, one chocolate-sprinkled, and one cherry-topped—are nicely arranged. Around that cookie plate, two crystal glasses of water sparkle beside two tiny white dishes edged in gold.
The hostess stops beside the table and waits as Jason pulls out a chair for Maris.
“Would you care for something to drink?” Rita asks then. “A cappuccino with your cookies?”
