Bronwyn Hughes is a certified public accountant who recently completed her MFA in creative writing from Randolph College. She enjoys filmmaking, beekeeping, and boating on the many creeks and rivers feeding the Chesapeake Bay. Bronwyn lives in Tidewater, VA, with her partner and a Maine coon cat. Her writing works has appeared in Atherton Review, Clackamas Literary Review, Evening Street Review, Isele Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, and Sinister Wisdom.
Wide awake, watching the strawberry moon rise and set over the tidal creek outside my bedroom window, I replayed the scene from yesterday in my mind. I couldn’t blame my insomnia on my ex-husband’s snoring anymore. Nor could I blame it on waiting for my daughter to return from a faraway sailing regatta. Both had moved out last fall, leaving me alone in the oversized house.
A harrowing screech tore open the night. Gunshots and a string of profanity followed the gruesome sounds of a fox attack on my neighbor’s chickens. They must have forgotten to lock the coop again. I rose to slam my window closed.
Giving up on sleep, I wrapped myself in my terry cloth robe and slipped downstairs to make a mug of instant. I couldn’t be bothered to brew the perfect cup at home. Not since I started managing my father-in-law’s gourmet coffee shop in town.
I caught my breath.
Just my own reflection in the glass doors. During the day, those doors framed a perfect view of the Chesapeake Bay, but at night I wondered who might be out there. I turned off the light and watched the blue flames flicker on the stovetop. When the kettle hissed, I flinched again. My heart raced, reminding me how Coach Kent had whistled a cocky little tune as he followed too close behind me on the stairs to my father-in-law’s conference room.
It began last fall, shortly after he chose my daughter, Amber, to be on the varsity sailing team. He knew I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her chance at a college sailing scholarship. Late one night, on the way home from a regatta I was chaperoning, he stopped the van at a Krispy Kreme. As the teens spilled out to run inside, he slid his hand up my blouse. I froze, trapped by the fear of making a scene in front of my daughter and her friends. Once they had all disappeared inside the store, I clamped my hand on his and wriggled out, telling him firmly to stop. When the kids returned, he reached for me again, knowing I would stay quiet. Sometimes he sent dick pics afterward with the note, “Thinking of you.”
I was enraged with myself for acting so perky after it happened again yesterday. My father-in-law left us alone together in his conference room while he prepared a check for the unveiling celebration. Coach Kent grabbed me between my legs, pinning me against the heavy, wooden law office doors. When Dwight Sr. returned, I laughed nervously like nothing had happened. I took the check and slipped out as he and Coach Kent sat down to discuss the order of events for the ceremony.
If I blew the whistle, would my daughter believe I hadn’t invited the coach’s attention? She hero-worshiped him and, I suspected, also had a huge crush. I told myself to forget about it. Today was his last day in Mobjack.
As the sailing team’s communications mom, I often composed my text blasts in the early hours when I couldn’t sleep—but I never allowed myself to press “send” before seven o’clock.
Good morning, everyone!
Join us today at 10:00
for the unveiling of our sailing champions’ mural
and to wish Coach Kent farewell
Cookies and punch to follow on the Village Green!
I forgot my rule and, bwoop, sent it to everyone at 3:37 a.m. Realizing it a second too late, I threw my phone across the room into the couch. After fishing it out of the crack in the cushions, I buried my face in a throw pillow and drifted off.
Summer solstice rays jolted me awake. I would be late for work if I didn’t hurry. Passing Amber’s bedroom at the top of the stairs, I caught sight of her America’s Cup poster signed by Coach Kent, surrounded by sailing trophies and colorful burgees from the yacht clubs where she and her teammates had competed.
Before Amber’s senior year, she had been a quiet loner without many friends or interests. At sixteen, she spent her free time in our neighbor’s yard, playing with their neglected farm animals. When my ex-husband, Dwight, would try to talk to her about colleges, Amber would remind us, “College isn’t for everyone, ya know.”
Amber’s life changed overnight when Coach Kent recognized the skipper in her. Her confidence snapped open like a billowing spinnaker. After winning her first regatta, she burst into our bedroom with the news, “Coach Kent thinks I might be a good candidate for a sailing scholarship to college.” Elated by our daughter’s new spirit, Dwight and I had sex that night for the first time in forever. But it wasn’t enough to save our marriage.
I rushed through the shower without waiting for the water to get hot. Sifting through the dresses in my closet, I searched for something nice to wear for today’s events. Not too dressy, but a step up from my usual black jeans. In my hurry, I jabbed myself in the eye with my liquid eyeliner brush, making one of my blue eyes secrete thick black tears.
* * *
I began punching in the café’s alarm code before I discovered it wasn’t armed. The oily aroma of flavored coffees—hazelnut, French vanilla and Irish cream—had seeped into the old wooden floors and beams of the Slack Tide Café in the short time since our grand opening. As I moved around the room counterclockwise to turn on the lamps, I detected a cigarette burning in the back room.
“Another fight with your girlfriend?” I called Sylvia from behind the register, where I saw she had already completed the crossword puzzle.
She pushed open the wooden swing door with her hip, holding the stray cat I had told her to stop feeding. “Nah. Full moon.” When Sylvia was upset, she would sometimes paint all night at her easel under the high-wattage fluorescent lighting in the back room of the café. She put the cat down, turned on the vacuum, and began running it around the seating area.
I started making coffee and filling the milk containers, hollering over the noise of the vacuum and the coffee grinder. “You could’ve come over to my place—I was awake most of the night too.”
She yanked the vacuum cord out of the wall to kill the noise and flopped in one of the overstuffed armchairs. “Claire, you’re gonna be really pissed at me this time.”
I dropped the bean scoop and wiped the coffee grinds on my apron. Sylvia was my best friend, but she could be unpredictable and impulsive. Like last fall. When we arrived at the Mobjack Invitational Regatta, she insisted that the blonde standing next to my husband was the woman she had seen him having an affair with. A little drunk on mimosas after a gallery opening, Sylvia dismissed my protests and made a scene in front of all the other parents. As it turned out, the woman was just a client. I could have killed Sylvia, but her good heart and deep loyalty always made me forgive her. Dwight Jr. was having an affair—but not with that woman.
I took off my grimy apron as she loosened another cigarette from the pack in her oversized, paint-covered smock. “If you’re going to smoke,” I said, pulling her to her feet, “let’s go out back.”
Outside, she sat on one of the cement steps next to the walk-in fridge, between the recycling bins, scooting to one side so I could join her. I shook my head, not wanting to get my linen dress dirty.
“So what’s going on?” I coaxed, mindful that we only had a few minutes before the morning rush. Strains of heavy metal music came from the auto-repair shop next door, where Benny started work every morning at six, waiting until eight to be our first customer.
“Today’s the unveiling,” she whined, playing with the laces on her paint-splattered Doc Martens.
I put my hands on my hips and stared down at her. So talented and creative, she had easily won the design contest for the three-story mosaic mural celebrating Mobjack’s sailing team winning the national championship. “It’s not like you to worry about what other people think,” I prodded, impatient to know what was wrong.
“I’m worried you’ll be pissed because the mural they’re going to unveil isn’t based on the approved design.”
“Excuse me?”
My father-in-law, Dwight Sr., had converted the former department store in the center of town into office space to house his growing law firm. As a favor to his granddaughter, he agreed to let the sailing team put a mural on his building with one condition: He had to approve the design. Sylvia’s profile of Coach Kent with a line of triumphant sailboats in the distance met with Dwight Sr.’s conservative approval. Everyone contributed broken pottery, tile, mirror shards, and ceramics, along with locally abundant materials like piles of oyster shells and colorful sea glass. When the scaffolding came down, an enormous drop cloth clung from the roof of Dwight Sr.’s building, concealing the mural for today’s ceremony.
Sylvia ran her hand through her salt-and-pepper shag-cut before looking up at me. “I altered the design when I made the template. That’s why I insisted on keeping the project tightly veiled until today.”
“Oh my God, Syl, what’s on that wall?” I squeezed my temples, imagining the worst.
Benny cleared his throat from the doorway. “Can I get some service here?”
Sylvia jumped up. “Benny, we’ve told you not to go behind the counter. You’re supposed to ring the bell if we’re not there.” She never liked for anyone to see her unfinished paintings.
* * *
Our morning rush was busier than usual with everyone coming into town to say goodbye to Coach Kent.
A year ago, he arrived in Mobjack by boat to open a sales office for an international yacht company to cover the tidewater region of Virginia. Today, he planned to sail away after the ceremony to open another sales office across the Bay. When he arrived, the Mobjack Mirror printed an interview with him where he described his experience crewing for Team USA in the America’s Cup. When he heard that our small public school had no varsity sailing team, he offered to help us form one.
“Hell yeah, we’re going to win the Baker Trophy,” he had bragged to a group of excited parents. “I only coach champions.”
His company donated a fleet of international 420 class dinghies. Unlike most high school sports, interscholastic sailing was coed. As our kids competed to make the team, the parents vied for opportunities to chaperone.
While Sylvia and I served a steady stream of customers, I grew more worried about what Sylvia had put on that wall. After the rush died down, my father-in-law stopped by on his way to the office. Reflexively, I made his caramel macchiato and used tongs to place a blueberry scone on a plate.
“Mornin’, Dad,” I called over my shoulder as I steamed his almond milk. I still called him Dad, even though my divorce was almost final. Sylvia thought he looked like Andy Warhol with crazy white hair and vintage sunglasses, a high compliment coming from her. I admired him too. Dwight Sr. was kind, gentle, and honest—nothing like his foul-tempered, lying, cheater of a son. I don’t know what I would have done without his support throughout the divorce.
“Thank you, dear,” Dwight Sr. said, taking his coffee drink and scone from the counter. With a tilt of his head, he signaled that he wanted to talk to me.
I blushed, wondering if he somehow knew what happened in his conference room yesterday. Or had he peeked at Sylvia’s unapproved mural? Struggling to seem casual, I removed my apron and asked, “Should I bring the expense reports?”
After Dwight Jr.’s midlife crisis ruined our marriage, my father-in-law stepped in to take care of Amber and me financially. To get me out of the house, he hired me to be a legal secretary in his estate planning law firm, but after a week, he could tell office work wasn’t for me.
“What do you think you would like to do,” he had asked.
My reply that I enjoyed interior decorating gave him an idea. His firm would buy the country store across the street from his office and let me fix it up as a coffee shop. He assured me that the café didn’t have to make a profit because his law partners planned to “use the losses to offset some gains,” creating dream jobs for Sylvia and me.
“No, don’t bother with the reports. I just want to know how you’re doing. I worry about you in that big house by yourself.”
“I’m okay, Dad. Thanks for asking. When the divorce is finalized, I’ll sell it and find something smaller.”
Dwight Sr.’s mouth was full, so he nodded. After a pause, he asked, “Has Amber started speaking to you again?”
My eyes filled with tears as I shook my head.
“I’m sorry I brought it up. She’ll come around soon, don’t you worry.”
When Dwight Jr’s affair came to light last fall, Sylvia offered to let Amber stay with her. At the time, I thought it was a good idea. I wanted to spare Amber the ugliness of our fighting. But I soon regretted it. Amber was so angry at Dwight and me when we told her we were divorcing that she stopped speaking to both of us. From then on, she confided in Sylvia the things she used to share with me.
Dwight Sr. wiped the crumbs from his mouth and looked at his watch. “Not long now.” He pointed outside at the volunteers setting up for the ceremony. On his way out, he hollered over his shoulder toward the back room, “Big day, Sylvia—bet you’re anxious to see how your work looks three stories high.” Without waiting for her response, he strode through the door saying, “Put it on my tab.” He cracked himself up since he owned the place and didn’t have a tab.
My stomach tightened at Dwight Sr.’s mention of the unveiling. I found Sylvia in the back room spreading a thick layer of red paint across her canvas with the blade of her Swiss Army knife, like she was frosting a cake. As I drew in a breath to ask again what was on that wall, the phone in her paint smock rang—Amber’s ringtone.
Sylvia held up her paint-covered hands. “Put her on speaker.”
I removed the phone from her smock and placed it on one of the jugs of pink hand soap for the bathroom dispenser.
“What’s up, Amber?” Sylvia said.
“Hey. Can I invite the team for a sleepover at your place tonight after Coach Kent leaves? They’ll bring sleeping bags—I promise we’ll keep the noise down.”
Sylvia looked at me with widening eyes. “You know, your mom has a huge house where you and your friends could spread out—maybe even have a cookout?”
“Nice try, Sylvia. Is she standing right there?”
I appreciated Sylvia’s attempts to help us reconcile, but I knew Amber wouldn’t come around until she was ready. Leaving them to negotiate a sleepover, I busied myself by watering the plants in the front windows.
Outside, a crowd was gathering in the intersection. The sheriff’s deputies were blocking off the road to traffic, and a fire engine was positioned with its ladder extended so Tracy, one of the volunteer firefighters, could remove the cloth at the designated time.
A reporter from the Mobjack Mirror popped her head in to see if Sylvia would give her a comment before the unveiling.
“She’s on the phone,” I said, flipping the “open” sign to “closed,” and locking the door behind her.
When Sylvia finished her call, I sat her down on one of the stools at the coffee bar. Folding my arms, I said, “We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s on that wall.”
She looked away from me and sighed. “My silent protest.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” I stomped my leather sandal on the wide floorboard. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know it was supposed to be a tribute to him, but the way he’s harassed you makes me sick. You swore me to secrecy—and I haven’t told a soul—but I couldn’t stand creating art that would honor him. He’ll be gone, but we’ll have to look at that wall every day for the rest of our lives.”
“You could have at least discussed it with me and shown me your alternate design.”
“Be real, Claire. You never would have agreed to let me make protest art on your father-in-law’s building.”
With tears of rage surfacing, I said, “You have to stop fighting my battles for me.”
She slid off the stool. “Wait, Claire, I’m sorry I—” She tried to give me a hug, but I pushed her away with the force I should have used on Coach Kent in the conference room.
Outside, my father-in-law’s voice came over a loudspeaker, asking for everyone’s attention. I smoothed the wrinkles in my dress, unlocked the door, and stood on the porch of the café to watch the proceedings from behind the crowd.
Coach Kent approached the microphone. Like a rock star, he had to wait for the crowd to stop whistling and whooping before he could speak. He looked tan and athletic in shorts and a polo with sun streaks in his wavy golden hair. I remembered the smell of his breath and felt a wave of nausea.
“And now…” Coach Kent was trying to settle the crowd, but the audience only got louder. He tapped the toe of his topsider against the pavement like a bashful little boy. I caught sight of Amber in the crowd, her arms raised overhead, clapping.
“And now for the—” More cheering. While he waited for the ovation to subside, he pointed at individuals in the crowd, mugging for their cameras from the podium.
“And now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” He motioned to Tracy in the fire truck bucket to remove the cloth.
It took a while for Tracy to unhook each grommet from the top of the building. The crowd tilted their heads back, shading their eyes from the late morning sun.
As I waited with the crowd, my fingers curled around the phone in my pocket. I suddenly felt light-headed with rage. Before I knew it, I had found one of Coach Kent’s dick pics and prepared a text-blast to send to the sailing community standing before me. I added the note, “Coach Kent sexually harassed me all year.”
Bwoop.
The cloth fell from the roof, but on the way down, it snagged on one of the protruding objects in the mosaic—a teapot spout. We all craned our necks to watch the aerial ladder lower Tracy to the problem area.
Everyone’s phone pinged.
I froze.
Some people glanced down, but most waited to see the mural. Tracy stretched dangerously outside of the bucket to unsnag the cloth, but it caught again on an angel’s wing further down— a broken Christmas tree ornament. Annoyed by the delays, more people looked at their phones. By the time the canvas snagged a third time, everyone was staring at their phones.
Some kids snickered, while others looked confused. Parents and teachers covered their mouths, embarrassed.
Another ping chimed from everyone’s phones—mine too this time. I glanced down at my phone to find another Coach Kent dick pic—this one sent by one of the other sailing moms with the note, “ME TOO.”
Five more dick pics followed in rapid succession from five other sailing moms. The crowd had completely forgotten about the mural. Murmurs turned to shouting with everyone demanding an explanation from Coach Kent. As he tried to escape, two of the sheriff’s deputies who had been blocking traffic pursued him on foot. The crowd, including Sylvia, swarmed behind to see what would happen.
I watched as the fire truck ladder retracted and Tracy ran to catch up with the crowd.
Alone beneath the mural, I sat in a rocking chair on the café porch and gazed at the fully unveiled mosaic. The simplicity surprised me. A single sailboat struggled to remain upright at the base of a tidal wave cresting ominously above. Shards of mirror caught the light at different angles, sparkling like sunlight on water. Small and vulnerable, the rickety copper hull clung to the trough of the wave, beneath the towering swell, propelled by the forceful motion threatening it. At the top, the words Sail Forth slanted forward in a handwritten script, as if the wind were blowing the wave, the boat, and all of us into the future.