His dad was picking him up, and Brad suspected the two-hour drive to Wilmington would give them a good start on the conversation. At least they would have time to catch up before Brad got to the heart of the matter. No one knew the terrible details about Brad and Emma’s final summer together. Brad was very close to his parents, but he had never found the time or courage to tell them the truth about what happened. Now that was about to change. He was close to his mom, but he needed the sort of advice only his father could give.
The American Eagle commuter plane rumbled through a patch of turbulence. Brad looked out the window. Small planes didn’t bother him, even though at six-foot-one he couldn’t quite find a comfortable position for his legs. He didn’t have a seat-mate. If he kept his eyes on the window, he could pretend he was asleep and avoid all conversation with anyone — even the flight attendant.
Already he could feel the strain of the city melting away. How long had it been since he’d seen his parents? Since he’d walked along the beach with Wilmington’s own Carl Cutler? He closed his eyes and pictured his dad, his eccentricities and endless love. Even with everything that weighed on Brad’s mind, a smile tugged at his mouth. In all the world there was no one just like old Carl. No one in Wilmington more prepared for whatever life might bring.
The man was a decorated retired sergeant in the army, a strong leader who had served in Germany at the beginning of Vietnam. He still ran his life with the discipline of a military mastermind. For one thing, he was crazy about lists. When Brad was growing up, he and his older sister and their parents would often take one of their infamous road trips. Old Carl had a list for road trips, a list that detailed every item that absolutely must be taken when they left, even for a few nights.
Brad felt his smile fill his face. There were the usual things, of course. A flashlight, first-aid kit, extra water, and jumper cables. But the list was nearly two pages long and also included must-have items like bolt cutters, safety goggles, WD – 40, 3x5 cards, a hard hat, an ironing board, and a hammer. Not only that, but the entire list was alphabetized.
“That’s my trip list,” his dad would say, each word slow and deliberate. His southern drawl made him sound like the Looney Tunes’ Foghorn Leghorn. “I like to be prepared.”
No one was more prepared than Carl Cutler.
In addition, his dad kept lists in a file cabinet, and smaller lists in his wallet. Some were erroneous notes to himself about which grocery stores were having sales on which food items — most of them having expired years earlier. Also in his wallet were small pieces of paper with lists of what his kids did and didn’t like to eat. Last time they were together, Brad had gone through the contents, teasing his dad that no guy had a wallet so thick. Tucked amidst receipts and outdated coupons was a single piece of paper that said, “Brad: Doesn’t like onions, mayonnaise. Likes Mountain Dew, Sunkist, G. Ale.” There was a similar list for his older sister and his mother.
“Really, Dad?” Brad had asked when he found the strange, small list. “How often do you look at this?”
His father didn’t mind his family teasing him. He smiled as he took the list and tucked it safely back in his wallet. “Often enough.”
Over the years, it was Brad’s mother who stayed up late talking to him, easily expressing her love and pride, her concern and interest in his life. If Brad analyzed his parents, he was more like his mom. But from the place where he sat now, this far removed from his life in North Carolina, he had learned more about love from his father.
For one thing, love was harder for his dad. Carl was a man’s man, tough to the core. He didn’t easily pick up the phone to tell Brad he loved him. But he did pick up the phone. “Any travel on the horizon?” he’d ask in his unhurried way.
Brad would tell his father about his brief upcoming business trips to Chicago or Detroit or Denver, wherever his ad campaigns took him. A few days later in the mail would be a package from his father — a map from the automobile club, complete with sections his dad had highlighted. Certain restaurants and points of interest. The better hotels. Often he highlighted a specific line in a tourist attraction entry, something like “half off Navy Pier’s Ferris wheel on the first Friday of the month.”
As if Brad would have time to take in an amusement park in Chicago.
Either way, the maps were one way his father could demonstrate the love he didn’t often speak of. Another way was his propensity to purchase whatever item Brad was currently promoting. If Brad worked on the ad campaign of a product, his dad bought the item. Every single time. On one of his last visits a year ago, Brad walked into the house and saw a case of Way Cool Lunch Snacks on the kitchen counter.
“Dad?” Brad looked from the box to his father. “When did you start eating packaged lunch snacks?”
His dad would chuckle and brush off the comment. “Don’t eat ’em. Just want to support your advertising.”
Brad tried to explain the reality to his father. “One purchase isn’t going to make a difference, Dad. Really. Don’t buy the stuff I’m working on unless you’ll use it.” He lifted a package of jellied fruit snacks from the box. “You don’t care about this stuff.”
His father’s smile was content and unwavering. As if to say he might not care about Way Cool Lunch Snacks, but he did care about his son.
Lately his dad was into metal detecting along the beach. That and entering sweepstakes. Sometimes, if the contest allowed, he’d enter the same sweepstakes a dozen times, driving to different post offices to drop off his entry in an attempt to somehow increase his odds. The night before last year’s American Idol finale, his dad called to inform Brad that he’d won an Idol Party Package. “Don’t know much about the Idol show.” His dad sounded nonplussed. “But it’s another win.”
For all his eccentricities, his father was kind and warm to everyone who passed through the Cutler home. That was especially true for Emma. His dad even had a silly nickname for her — Emma Jelly Bean. “Because that girl has all the sweetness and color of a bucket of jelly beans.” He would wink at Emma. “Emma Jelly Bean. Better than a string bean.”
So it had stuck. Emma Jelly Bean.
The flight smoothed out and remained uneventful. Brad stared out the window and let himself go back — even just a little. He and Emma had been playmates in grade school. She didn’t have a dad and her mom worked two jobs, so she was home by herself often. By the time they were in sixth grade, Emma phoned him nearly every afternoon.
“Why does that girl keep calling?” his mother finally asked. She wasn’t upset, just curious. “Doesn’t she know boys are supposed to call first?”
“There’s no one at her house after school.” Brad wasn’t interested in girls at that point. He was a seventh-grade boy, looking out for a friend. He shrugged as he grabbed an apple. “She calls me because she wants to hear the sound of another person.”
His answer must’ve touched his mother. He could tell because tears formed in her eyes and she softened her tone. “That’s sad.”
“I know. I mean she’s safe and everything,” Brad took a bite of the apple, “but I figure I can talk for a few minutes.”
His mother was on the phone to Emma’s mom later that night. “She can come home with Brad and stay here until you get off work,” she offered. “That way they can do their studies together.”
Emma’s mother was thrilled with the arrangement. She delivered papers before sun-up and worked at the local pharmacy, sometimes until seven o’clock during the week. The deal was good for Brad and Emma too. They studied together and did Brad’s chores together, and on warm spring days when they were finished, they would ride their bikes to Wrightsville Beach and watch the sailboats come and go from the marina.
Brad could easily picture her as she looked back then — long dark hair and exotic eyes, the full lips and skinny legs that she didn’t grow into until they were in high school. Of course they fell in love. There’d never been any question about whether they’d wind up together, right?
By the time they realized how they really felt about each other, the decision was already made. They’d been in love as long as they could remember.
The hurt spread through his chest, a physical pain over all they’d lost that awful summer. The two of them didn’t stand a chance after what happened, but that didn’t excuse him from how he handled the ending. There had been no explanation, really. No long good-bye, and most of all, no apology. Just a sudden and certain realization that they could no longer stay together.
The pain between them was that great.
Brad stopped the memories cold. He closed his eyes and thought about the wedding. He pictured Laura walking down the aisle, the innocent, trusting love in her eyes. Was he really willing to jeopardize even a little of the adoration she felt for him? And what about her parents? He appreciated the expense and trouble Rita and Randy James were going to so that the big day would be an event no one would forget. But he didn’t need an elegant ballroom overlooking Ellis Island and lower Manhattan, or acres of perfectly manicured grass or the flowers that would line the pathways to and from the ceremony site to the Liberty House.
All he needed was Laura. She — not Emma — was the love of his life. Brad was sure about that much. But why had he so willingly let go of Emma and all they’d shared, the way they’d grown up together? And how come he couldn’t remember ever finding closure for himself or that part of his life? That was the problem. He wasn’t sure he could move into a life with Laura when his heart was still hurting over something that happened a decade ago. Hurting as much as if it had only happened last week.
The plane landed on time in Raleigh at 9:35, and sure enough, his father was waiting for him on the other side of security, a smile stretched across his face as he spotted Brad. He raised his hand and mouthed the words, “Hi, Son.” His father wore black dress pants, a crisp white button-down shirt, a black vest, and a striped bowtie.
As if to reflect that Brad’s homecoming even for a weekend was a special occasion indeed.
Brad walked up to him, set down his bag, and stepped into his father’s arms. His dad could say more with a hug than some men might tell their sons in a lifetime. He took hold of Brad’s bag and pulled it behind him as they started walking to the parking lot. The seven-year-old truck was bound to be in the back lot, where it wouldn’t get any unnecessary dings or scratches. And Brad knew better than to try to pull his own bag. His father wanted to help, and this was simply one way.
His dad winked at him. “Good to have you home, Son. Very good.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Brad could almost feel himself relaxing. “I think the city was getting to me.”
“You know … there are lots of day trips you can take from the city. Upstate New York’s full of attractions. I’ll send you some maps, so next time you don’t have to get on a plane to get away.”
Brad smiled and let the comment go. He was here for a reason. His dad would find out soon enough. “Hey, Dad … you have a little time this afternoon?”
His father thought for a moment. “In fact, I do. Wanted to do a little metal work down at Carolina Beach, but that can wait.”
“How about you keep the plan. Wrightsville Beach instead. I’ll go with you and we can talk there.”
“Good idea.” They reached his father’s truck, and with the ease of someone who hadn’t lost any strength, his dad swung the suitcase into the bed of the truck.
The ride home was mostly small talk — the latest sweepstakes and his dad’s belief that maybe this year he’d found a way to crack the Publisher’s Clearing House contest. “That’s the big one.”
“Biggest of all.” Brad savored the way it felt simply being with his dad. They were quiet for a few exits, and his father turned to him. “The wedding’s coming up.”
“Yes.” Brad breathed in sharp through clenched teeth. “That’s some of what I want to talk about.”
His dad glanced at him, then nodded thoughtfully. “That can wait for the beach.”
“Yes.”
Two hours later they pulled into his parents’ driveway, and Brad marveled over how the place never really aged, never changed from what it had been when he was growing up. They went inside, and on the counter was a Finley grill, the kind Brad had designed a campaign for late last year. Brad started to say something about how his father didn’t even like the taste of grilled food, but he stopped himself.
It was one more thing that wasn’t going to change, and besides, Brad was touched by his dad’s gesture. “Doing a lot of grilling, Dad?” He tapped the top of the machine and grinned at his father.
“Trying to get healthy, Brad. You know how it is.”
His mother entered the room from the hallway, and she rolled her eyes as she glanced at the grill. “He’s used it once.” She hugged Brad’s neck and kissed his cheek. “You look wonderful. How’re the wedding plans?”
“Great.” He smiled and then quickly pointed to his bag. “I’ll get this up to my room.” He didn’t want his mother’s scrutiny on why he was here. She would make more of his troubled heart than necessary. He shot a final look at the grill. “Chicken tonight?”
“Funny, Brad.” His mom’s tone was a mix of laughter and sarcasm. She looped her arm around Carl’s waist and smiled at him. “You’re a good sport, you know that, Carl?”
He hugged her in return. “I have to be with the likes of you two.”
Brad took his bag to his room and stood for a minute in the doorway, remembering how it felt to lay sprawled on his twin bed, staring at the Michael Jordan poster on the ceiling, talking to Emma on the phone. Sometimes they talked through the night, holding the receivers to their ears even after they’d drifted off to sleep. “Spending the night together,” they called it.
He blinked and the detail disappeared. He hung up his clothes and returned to the kitchen. His father had made him a meat sandwich with mustard and lettuce. They ate quietly, while Brad’s mom tended to her vegetable garden outside.
When the kitchen was tidied, his dad put the metal detector in the truck bed. “Friday’s a perfect day for beach hunting.”
“Why’s that?” Brad climbed into the front seat next to his father.
“Most people hunt targets as a hobby, so they hit the weekend mornings pretty hard. Friday midday means nearly a week’s gone by without anyone running a detector across the sand.”
“Hmm.” Brad grinned at his dad. “I never thought about that.”
On the drive to the Wrightsville Beach, Brad learned the finer techniques of metal detecting.
“First off … go slow and low to the sand.” Brad’s dad stroked his chin, his eyes glued to the road. “People think the coil will break if they get too low, and maybe it will.” He pointed to the backseat. “I keep a couple extra just in case.”
“Of course.”
“Thing is, you keep the detector too far up and you might save your coil, but who knows what you’ll miss.”
“You could leave a real find back on the shore.”
“Exactly.” His father jabbed his finger at the air for emphasis. “Another tip: Go slowly and turn down the discrimination gauge.”
“The discrimination gauge?”
His dad cast him a quick look as if to say he thought everyone was familiar with discrimination gauges. “That’s how the detector knows something’s in the sand. The higher the gauge, the more metal the object has to have.” He nodded slowly. “I turn the gauge way down. Something is better than nothing. That’s what I say when it comes to beach hunting.”
They parked at a spot on the far end of the beach and his dad said little as he readied his metal detector and placed two water bottles and the extra coils into his gear bag. Not until they’d combed half a mile of shore did Brad spot a bench at the top of the beach where the sand and grass came together. “Can we take a few minutes?” He motioned toward the bench. “To talk, I mean?”
His dad had already found an old Timex, a money clip, and two silver dollars. The goods jangled in h
is shoulder bag next to the water. He flipped a switch on the metal detector and the machine fell silent. “Yes.” A layer of sweat shone on his forehead and upper lip. “I could use a break.”
They took their places on the bench, and Brad’s father handed out the water. Brad waited a few minutes, staring at the dark blue ocean, gathering his thoughts. “I’m having thoughts about Emma.”
His dad rarely looked caught off guard, but at the mention of Emma’s name, his surprise was evident even through his Blu-Blocker sunglasses. “Emma Landon?”
“Yes.” Brad realized how that must’ve sounded. “I mean, no. Not like that.” He braced himself against the edge of the bench and flexed the muscles in his jaw. “Thoughts about that last November.” Brad hated telling this to his father, disappointing him even after so many years. But there was no turning back now. “Something that happened … before we split up.”
For a long moment his father looked at him and then at the water bottle in his hand. When he lifted his eyes, his brow was knit together — a mix of concern and thoughtfulness. “Your mother always said it was just time … two kids who’d grown apart.” He took a swig of water and rubbed the back of his hand over his weathered lips. “I didn’t agree. I always thought something must’ve happened. You loved that girl too much to let her go. I remember.”
His words cut deep at Brad’s heart. “Why didn’t you ask?”
“I did.” His dad spoke deliberately, but with an unmistakable kindness. “I can’t remember the day. You looked down. Very upset. I wondered if something was wrong with you and Emma, so I asked.”
Brad felt the weight of what his father was saying. He didn’t remember the incident, but it meant he’d been given a chance to come clean about what had happened and he’d missed it. He asked the next question even though he knew the answer. “What was my answer?”