Honeymoon Alone: A Novel

by Nicole Macaulay

  Rock on, mom.

  Posted by @Jules at 2:18 PM on december 25 on TheGrayBlog

  Help is on the way, Mom.

  And Lucy- I can’t wait to see you. And if you do ever decide to do another international vacation, don’t believe mom. She won’t help you pack. ;-)

  Love,

  Jules

  * * *

  s the Chunnel pulls away from the station, I gaze out the window. Paris rolls on by, bidding me farewell and Merry Christmas. I still can’t believe I just had a two-day getaway in Paris! This whole thing –this whole trip – is just so surreal. Jessie told me to come back someday, that I was welcome to stay with them again (even though I burned a hole in their countertop). I actually have an acquaintance in Paris.

  “Would you stop smiling?” Cary eyes me from over his newspaper.

  I look up at him and tilt my head. “Smiling is not allowed?”

  “Not the way you’re doing it.” He rests his head back and gazes past me, out the window, a sad yet hopeful expression dancing across his face.

  I realize it’s up to me to keep the spirit high since we have to sit on this train together for hours. “I can’t help it,” I explain. “If you asked me two weeks ago where I’d been in this world, the words ‘pit stop’ would have come up. But now England and France. I’m going to be tough to deal with when I get home. That’s for sure.”

  He laughs, refocusing his gaze on me. He shakes his head. “I think it’s hysterical, personally,” he says.

  I pull my knees up against my chest and circle my arms around them before looking up at Cary, feigning offense. “Not everyone does yearly workshops overseas.”

  “Actually, I mean you. This permanent grin. Ever since you walked through the door last night.”

  “I had a great day,” I answer defensively. Like I should have to defend smiling. “No thanks to you,” I add, which makes him narrow his brown eyes at me.

  “I had things to do, people to see,” he murmurs quietly, unsuccessfully attempting lightness.

  “You know, it was your idea to be my ‘husband’, but I think Oliver is more suspicious of me now than when I just looked like a liar who parades around honeymoon joints alone.”

  “I don’t think Oliver is suspicious of you at all, actually,” he says knowingly, crossing his arms and looking at me expectantly. Except I have no idea what he’s talking about. Has he been paying attention? Because Oliver is definitely suspicious of something.

  I’ve heard the British are polite and reserved. Not shady and chatty. He’s definitely up to something.

  “Cary, every time I turn around, he’s there. I’m amazed – honestly amazed – that he decided to take a later train today.”

  “And why do you think that is?” he presses, smirking a little.

  “Because he wanted to spend more time with his sister—“

  “ – I mean,” he cuts in impatiently. “Why do you think it is that he’s everywhere you are?”

  “Maybe he thinks I’m committing identity theft in his family’s exclusive –“

  “—and that, Miss Gray, is what’s hysterical about you.”

  Before I can ask him to explain, he shoots a smug look my way and hands me a section of the newspaper that he is apparently done reading. “Let it simmer a bit,” is all I get in the way of an explanation.

  Cary turns his attention back to the newspaper in his hands, quieting the subject for now. I look at the section in my hands and scan for a good headline. I spot an article called “The Honeymooners.” We have a winner. It takes me about ten seconds to realize that this is no fluff piece. The article’s subhead states, “The famous criminals can now add murder to list of crimes”. The article begins with the ominous words “Who will be next?” This question is followed by statements like “their fifth crime, committed on their latest ‘honeymoon’ in Italy left an innocent man dead” and “police believe the couple is heading to southern Italy then Spain.”

  The Honeymooners are not a lovey-dovey couple at all. These ‘honeymooners’ are thieves on a global ‘shopping spree’ now wanted for murder in addition to their numerous crimes. They’ve stolen goods from hotels throughout Europe totaling up to seven million pounds. Why hadn’t I heard of them before? Apparently they’ve been on the run for six months. No one knows what they look like or anything about them. Taking out security cameras and moving from place to place quite fluidly have made them something of a nightmare for European authorities. The only way they’ve been linked to all the crimes is from the note they always leave at the scene of the crime that simply says “Still Honeymooning.”

  “This is just like Mickey and Mallory.” I fold the paper and look at Cary.

  “Excuse me?”

  “From Natural Born Killers.” I jab at the headline. “It’s them all over. A couple in love but severely misguided and, frankly, nuts.”

  Cary chuckles and folds the paper in his own hands. “I read that one, too,” he says, nodding to the article. He looks back at me and smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the Honeymooners come after you.”

  “I don’t think I’d exactly be a target for these guys. My ‘Lucy’ necklace from Tiffany’s is about the most expensive thing I have with me and it’s only worth a couple hundred dollars. Somehow I don’t think they accumulated their seven million pounds pulling petty crimes.”

  “I think you might be right.”

  “I would’ve pegged you more for Legally Blonde than Natural Born Killers.”

  I swat him playfully and close the newspaper. “I like a lot of things, for your information. I’m not that predictable.”

  He looks down at me, the smile leaving his face as he meets my eyes. “I think you’re right about that.”

  “So you never did tell me what happened with Anne,” I say, looking up at him.

  He stares out the window as his expression quickly grows grim. “Nothing happened,” he mutters miserably. He rakes a hand through his hair, agitatedly, and sighs. “I come all the way out to Paris to visit her, she invites me out, and parades around with a date in front of me the whole time I’m there.”

  I frown, thinking about that. When I met her, Anne seemed so mature. But I am getting the distinct impression that she’s toying with poor Cary.

  “You know, it’s funny,” he says after a long moment. “I really don’t think Anne would play mind games with me. We’re friends. At the very least, we are really very good friends.” He suddenly laughs. “I’d be very turned off if that is what she was doing.”

  I peer closely at him, knowing he’s leaving something out. “But?”

  “But,” he adds, grudgingly, “I can’t help but wish that were true.”

  Four hours later, we’re back on British soil. Cary helps me and my bags out of the taxi and we walk into the familiar charm of The Chaizer. I’d spent the last half of the Chunnel trip reading all I could find about The Honeymooners. Authorities received an anonymous tip that they were headed to Florence, Italy next. But still, I look around at all the honeymooners heading to their morning Pilates session or couples’ massage treatments and wonder what if the crazy couple in the paper looks anything like the actual honeymooners here? Do they call themselves that because they walk around all in love or are they a cranky old couple being a little ironic? The fact that authorities cannot even put a sketch together creates a buzz in my mind at all the possibilities.

  I take a seat on the love seat in our flat and turn the fireplace on as Cary disappears into the bathroom to grab a shower. Looking around the flat, my mind wanders away from thoughts of thieves turned murderers and travels about a thousand miles away to Haley, Massachusetts. To my loft where Mary and Jake are possibly up to no good. I can picture the dark hardwood floors beneath my feet, covering the small expanse of space that was mine. I can practically hear the wood creaking the way it does with every step. I imagine Ricky asleep on the rocking chair in the corner that connects my kitchen to my living room, by the tiny 1950s diner tab
le for two. If I were there, I would scoop him up into my arms and walk to the window where I’d be greeted with a view of…well of the brick-faced apartment building next to mine and the window of Mrs. Suzayaki. But if I peek just beyond the window and the brick, I can see some lights – the city of Boston.

  The distant sound of running water signals the start of Cary’s shower. Is it possible to miss something so much you can ache inside, while loving the place you are in? I rest back on the soft, velvety cushion on the love seat and prop my feet up, glancing at the large picture window by the bed. The thrill of London outside mixes with a sad little voice that softly says, “But it’s not home.”

  I dig into the pocket of my jeans and grab my calling card. I reach for the phone on the coffee table and proceed to dial a number I know as well as my own name.

  “Mom?”

  “Well, if it isn’t my daughter, deciding to tell me she’s alive, after a week.” She can’t fool me. Her high-pitched voice is scolding, but relieved.

  “Mom, you know I’m alive.” I fall into the love seat and put my feet up on the coffee table. ”You’ve talked to the others. And I’m sure Mary has told Jake and he’s told you that as of yesterday, I was still, you know, among the living. In London.”

  I can almost see her eyes darting back and forth as she clutches the phone nervously and searches for something to say. She doesn’t like spontaneity. Growing up, we were all made well aware of the evils of spontaneity, having been told elaborate tales about children who lived on the wind and ended up dead or friendless. This is probably the reason I made it to twenty-six years old without ever having done anything truly adventurous.

  “Hi sweetie,” I hear my dad’s voice say into the phone. “Are you having fun?”

  “Don, it’s not about her having fun. It’s about her being careful.”

  “Tomato, potato.”

  “That is not the saying! I’ve told you a thousand times—“

  I smile. My parents are so completely opposite from each other. Charles clearly takes after my mother, over-worrying about every little thing. I like to think I’m a bit more free-spirited like my dad. He and I always have loved taking road trips, blasting Springsteen, and generally laughing at all the crazy around us – though we wouldn’t change one thing about anyone in our family.

  “So,” my mom says with measured, controlled calmness. “What is London like?”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “Fantastic like Boston?” she asks.

  “Different,” I answer honestly. “I guess you might say I’m an entirely different person in London.”

  She pauses. “You’re not slutty there are you?”

  Oh, my God. I stare at the phone. Only my mother would say that. “Yes, Mom. I stepped on British soil and became easy,” I say, sarcastically.

  “Lucy.” She sounds downright horrified.

  “Mom, you’re being dramatic.” I roll my eyes, knowing she can’t see me and lecture me about how it’s rude to. “Anyway, I was calling to see how you are.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard all the news,” she says in her cheery gossispy voice, sounding much more like my normal mother now. “I’m going to be a grandmother again, have to support poor Julie until she’s married as she’s chosen a penniless career, and judging by the look of Mary and Jake, be planning yet another wedding probably in a year. I tell you that boy has been hit over the head with the love stick. They’ve known each other for years. Why now they’ve chosen to fall in love is beyond me,” she gushes all at once.

  “Everyone must be really excited.” Even as I say the words, I feel a little twinge of jealousy knowing so many exciting things are happening at home and I’m not part of any of it. “And I’m sure Julie has a plan that won’t leave her completely reliant on you for life.”

  “Everyone really misses you, Lucy,” she says after a moment. And I can tell that she really means that, which I appreciate.

  “I miss everyone, too.”

  “Now,” she says, returning to her business-as-usual voice. “I hope you’re being extra careful because they do everything backwards there.”

  “Actually, Mom, since they were here first, I’m pretty sure that we’re the ones doing everything backwards.”

  “Hm,” she mumbles, the way she always does when one of us ever makes a point she can’t argue. “Just don’t get run over because of it.”

  “Hasn’t been a problem yet.”

  I jump when the bathroom door opens. I look up to see Cary walk out, wearing only a towel. My breath catches. Water drips down his toned, tan body. I look back into his eyes when he clears his throat.

  “You’re kind of staring,” he says, smirking.

  “Sorry.” I turn away, my cheeks flushing from embarrassment.

  “Lucy, who is that?” my mother demands from one thousand miles away.

  “No one, Mom.” I clear my throat. “But I have to go now.”

  “That was a man’s voice,” she says. “Lucy—“

  “Give my love to everyone there, okay?” I hang up to the sound of protest.

  “Okay, you can look now,” Cary says finally.

  I turn toward him and smile sheepishly.

  “Class is only for an hour today. Then, I am coming back here. And you and I can have our own little Christmas celebration.”

  I sit up straighter. “Really? You’ll come back this time?”

  “I promise,” he assures me, putting his watch on and his wallet in his pocket. “I dragged you to Paris, barely spent a moment with you, and I know that I owe you.”

  “You definitely owe me.”

  “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

  “Head to Hugging Mugs, explore more of Kensington, maybe a quick walk over to Hyde Park,” I say excitedly, eager to go out on my own and visit those places.

  “You’re starting to sound like a local,” he says, his eyes twinkling at me.

  “Right.” I can’t hide my smile. “A local who only visits tourist attractions.”

  Something wonderful stirs deeply within me. I am returning to favorite spots in this foreign city. A sense of freedom and independence dances through my veins, energizing me as I get ready to go back out, forget about my own little world in Haley, Massachusetts for awhile. And seize this moment.

  he next day, as I step outside The Chaizer into the morning sunshine, I am sad to report that it still hasn’t rained. Not once. In London. London, a place known for its rain. And Prince William. It’s almost as if my mother called Mother Nature and told her, mother-to-mother, to hold off until I left, just to spite me for embarking on this adventure. Well, I don my turquoise raincoat anyway and walk to Hugging Mugs for my daily fix.

  Once I’m seated with my two iced caramel lattes, I pull the postcards from my pocketbook that I purchased in Paris. Eiffel Tower. Moulin Rouge. The Louvre. Notre Dame. Arc de Triomphe. Champs de Elysees. Paris at Night.

  Paris at Night. I stare at that one – the orange glow of a city alive reflects peacefully in the inky waters of the Seine River. I walked along that river with Oliver, when he first found me after I’d gotten lost, after the “For Sale” moment. We’d seen Paris at night together, exploring that beautiful, quiet quartier before walking back to Jessie’s house. I smile.

  It’s strange that I didn’t see Oliver last night – or yet today. Maybe he’s spending extra time with his little sister. And this is a good thing.

  I pull the cap off my black pen and start crafting my words about the trip to my niece and nephew, Mary, my mom and my third grade class, regaling them all (as much as one can regale with the tiny allotment of space on a postcard) with stories about my adventures through Paris and London so far.

  Re-entering the lobby, I still see no sign of Oliver. Maybe he’s been fired for stalking guests. I walk up to the desk, where Polly sits, reading Romeo & Juliet. She looks up when I approach, huffs rather haughtily and closes her book.

  “If you’re going to ruin this one t
oo, I’ll just go get Geoff and take my break until you’re gone.”

  I raise an eyebrow and regard her curiously. “You don’t already know how Romeo & Juliet ends?” I ask.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “What can I do for you, Miss Gray?”

  “Oh, you remember me.”

  “It’s hard to forget someone who’s not only married to that hot guy, but also has Oliver asking about you and everything that you do nonstop,” she mutters under her breath, placing her book on the counter. She leans forward and looks at me, folding her hands together. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Oliver asks about me?” I ask, ignoring her question. “What does he say?”

  “What does it matter?” Polly says, exasperated. “You have the most gorgeous man I ever laid eyes on married to you for some reason that eludes me. Can’t you just leave Oliver to the rest of us mere mortal women?”

  I laugh, which really seems to upset her. But I can’t help it. She can’t be more than sixteen years old. “I’m sorry. You’re right,” I eventually say, controlling my laughter. Polly just blinks at me, clearly waiting to see what it is that I want.

  I smile kindly at her and wave my five postcards at her. “I have some mail to send. To America,” I add for clarification.

  “Really? America? Is that where you’re from?” she asks, sarcasm dripping heavily from her voice.

  “Can I send them here?” I ask, ignoring her remark.

  She rolls her eyes and puts her hand out impatiently. I lean the postcards warily toward her, but she grabs them as soon as they are near her hands.

  “Will you make sure to send them – “

  “No worries, Miss Gray. Your postcards are as good as on their way now.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Have a great day, Polly.” I genuinely hope that kindness can outweigh teenage angst.

  She waves before turning her back to me, my mail clutched tightly in her hand.

  I turn around to head back outside and nearly collide with Kiki.

  “Lucy!”

  “Kiki,” I say, smiling uncertainly. Every time she says my name, I feel like she is about to ask me if we could be Best Friends Forever. “How did you like Paris?”