The Yellow Braid Read Online Free PDF Page A

itself as her
memory wrapped around the familiarity of this beach. She’d not
known the allure of yellow heat and tumbling surf until her sister,
Tereza, married Sean, a contractor she met while visiting a college
friend. After the wedding Sean built a home for them in the
neighboring hamlet of Remsenburg, an unimposing suburb away from
the smog and hustle of Manhattan.
    Only thirteen when her sister married at
nineteen, Caro had had the luxury of summering on the Island. Her
brother-in-law was happy to have company for his relocated wife. In
the mid-Sixties, the Hamptons, especially Westhampton,
traditionally considered the poor sister of its more affluent
southern and eastern siblings, had yet to be “discovered.” Duck and
potato farms were still measured in hectares and spanned the Island
from the Atlantic on the north fork to Peconic Bay on the
south.
    Caro was old enough to be helpful around the
house and young enough not to cause any concerns with borrowing the
family car. And dating wasn’t a worry either until Caro developed a
crush on a sixteen-year-old boy, the son of a local policeman. They
got caught parking in an off-limits area on the beach in his jeep
on a couple of occasions until Sean threatened to send Caro home to
New Jersey if she didn’t stop seeing him. Tereza tried to intervene
on her sister’s behalf but Sean remained firm. In word, Caro
complied; in reality, she found ways to date the boy behind her
brother-in-law’s back.
    Oftentimes, Caro, Tereza and Sean set out
with baskets after he came home from work. He’d gas up the
motorboat and they’d head across the Sound to a stretch of beach
kept private due to its inaccessibility by land. They’d swim, dig
for clams if the tide was right, and eat, sometimes not returning
until dusk. The unadulterated joy of those two summers between
childhood and young adulthood was untouchable, sacred for its
innocence—
    Caro opened her eyes. Covering them with her
hand she sat up and put on her sunglasses. The twosome came
immediately into sight.
    “Livia, look this way.” Nina directed her
niece toward an invisible spot to the right of the lens. “That’s
great,” she said. Crouching around her niece, she clicked multiple
shots.
    Livia sidestepped the eye of the lens and
held up her hand to beg no more.
    Nina let the camera drop onto her chest.
“No, Livia. I’m not done yet. The light is perfect.”
    Livia gripped her aunt’s arm with both
hands. “Please, we’ve done enough.”
    “No. Now get in place again.” Nina jerked
her arm free.
    Livia planted her feet and stared at the
spot on the ground where her aunt indicated. Slim and flat-chested,
Livia didn’t have the full-fledged figure of other girls her age.
She was all young ballerina arms and legs but without the apparent
grace that either training or maturity brings. And so she stood in
coltish stubbornness until the sea coughed up a light spray,
inducing her to move. She raised her foot to take up her position,
but stopped mid-air.
    “Get,” Nina ordered.
    Livia stumbled into place and tears seeped
out from under her lowered eyelids.
    Caro watched the scene play out between aunt
and niece, photographer and model. She wished she could see Livia’s
face to know what made her such a special subject, for even the
perspective from her back stirred Caro. There was something about
the way Livia’s plaited hair purled along her spine, wavelike—a
symbolic tribute to the ocean that rushed homeward in dedicated
routine only to leave with equal constancy. Or was the tidal
movement a metaphor for the girl’s position on the threshold of
young adulthood, her defense mechanism against the uncertainties of
life?
    Nina observed Livia’s slackness through the
lens. “Shit!” she said half aloud, and then to Livia, “All right.
Get out of here.”
    Livia started toward her aunt but when she
spotted Caro she set off for home, making a wide arc well out of
reach of the approaching woman.
    Nina