“You haven’t even begun to hurt.”
“Oh, come on, you two. Let’s not be hypocrites now. You’ve sent him to all of us before.”
“We weren’t sending him to you. We were sending him away from us,” Tuck says darkly.
I draw a deep breath. “Dean.”
“Yes, Sabrina?” He has the nerve to chuckle.
“This ends today, you hear me? We’ve all been complicit in this, but no more. I don’t care how much he cost. The moment we hang up, I’m taking him outside and throwing him in the ocean.”
“You can’t pollute the ocean,” Dean protests.
“Watch me.”
Then I grab the phone and end the call.
Tucker grins at me. “Are we seriously going to give the little dude a burial at sea?”
“You down?”
“Oh yeah.”
And that’s why, five minutes later, we’re carrying Alexander to the beach, only a few steps down the hill from the house. Other than a dark, somewhat-ominous cruise from St. Maarten to the dock last night, I’ve never really seen the Caribbean Sea up close before. And it’s a gazillion times better than the Atlantic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen water this transparent. You can see the bottom, for Pete’s sake. I admire the gentle waves rolling ashore and the cloudless blue sky. The sand is crisp white against the turquoise water. Man, Jamie would go completely nuts for the hermit crabs scurrying from one tiny hole to the next.
“Ready?” Tucker says.
“Do it.”
Nodding, he winds his arm back and hurls Alexander as far as he possibly can. Then we stand there holding hands, watching the doll bob in the calm waves, slowly carried out to sea.
“Go with God,” Tucker says solemnly.
“Babe. He’s going to Satan and we both know it.”
“Truth, darlin’.”
When Alexander is finally out of sight, I don’t feel grief. Only relief.
Freedom.
An hour later, we’re stuffed from breakfast and lying on a pair of beach chairs. Tuck’s on his stomach, dozing. His sculpted back glistens from the sunscreen I rubbed all over it. I’m in a red bikini with a paperback thriller in my lap, but the book starts off too slow and I can’t seem to get into it. Eventually I set it on the table between our chairs, pick up my phone instead, and FaceTime home to check in.
“Hello, little one!” I say when Jamie’s adorable face fills the screen. “Miss you. Say hi to Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy,” she says, waving at the screen.
“Hey, little darlin’,” Tuck calls without rolling over. “You being good for Grammy?”
“Yeah.”
“You brush your teeth this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Not yet,” Tuck’s mom says in the background where she’s holding the phone up for Jamie, who’s already dressed in her bathing suit and a tulle skirt. They were getting ready to go to the neighborhood pool when I called.
“Get upstairs and brush those teeth,” Tucker tells her. “Two minutes. And don’t use too much toothpaste.”
Once Jamie bounds off, Gail assures me the house is still standing and Jamie isn’t getting a leg up on her. When she asks how we’re doing after the emergency landing, we answer in unison.
“Still shook.”
“Already forgotten about it.”
“We almost died, Tuck!” I turn to glare at him, but he’s still got his face smushed against his forearm. His auburn hair shines in the late morning sun.
“Was it that serious?” Gail sounds concerned. “I thought it was a minor mechanical thing.”
“Don’t get her started, Mom. It wasn’t that bad. Although Sabrina was about to put a handwritten will in a bottle and toss it in the ocean.”
“The entertainment system exploded,” I inform her.
“It did not.” Tucker laughs.
“Grammy! My teeth are clean and they wanna go to the pool!”
Jamie’s return signals the end of the conversation. I send a bunch of air kisses into the phone which my daughter pretends to catch and smack onto her rosy cheeks. After we hang up, I settle back on my chair, enjoying the sun beating on my face.
Down the beach a few yards, I notice a guy, maybe early thirties, carry a camera tripod onto the sand. The bizarre sight captures my interest, and I spend the next five minutes blatantly spying on the dude. After attaching an iPhone to the tripod, he proceeds to do a series of push-ups followed by modified burpees, while animatedly narrating for the camera. He’s muscular, oiled, and well-tanned. One of those perfect Instagram fitness dudes.
When he catches me staring, I can’t even muster up any embarrassment for spying. I wave hello, mesmerized by watching him perform. It’s weird, watching from the other side of the screen. Which gets me thinking about an idea for a TikTok that’s just the backside of other TikToks. A brilliant idea if I had the time or inclination to pursue such a thing. Oh well.
Beside me, Tucker lets out a groan. “Ah, I’m melting away here, darlin.’ Wanna come for a swim?”
“Sure.” I’m starting to feel the heat too.