by Gary Braver
“I’ve been to Jamaica, but not Martinique.”
“Maybe someday you will. In the meantime…” He poured the champagne. “It seems appropriate that it’s Independence Day.” He raised his glass to hers. “To the new you and freedom from the old.”
She thanked him and clicked his glass.
While they chattered, she could see how pleased he was with the results because he could not stop staring at her, his pupils looking permanently dilated.
Nonetheless, she felt a tiny prick at the back of her mind. Perhaps it was the expectation that she was starting all over, that these procedures were tantamount to a rebirth—as if the needles, nips, tucks, and nose job meant she was officially divorced from her past, that like some exotic reptile she had molted her old self and was scuttling off in pride to a new dawn. The rhinoplasty was an improvement, and she was delighted. And perhaps it would take time for her interior self to catch up. But she felt like the same person inside.
Over the next few hours, Pierre and Cho took them for a sunset cruise around the harbor, passing some of the many islands that Aaron named and gave brief histories of, including Kingdom Head where, he said, in the seventeenth century a woman was executed for witchcraft. Rumor had it that her ashes and ancient Celtic ruins lay buried somewhere on the island. He was very knowledgeable about the seafaring history of Boston. He didn’t joke or laugh much, and she concentrated on his stories and resisted trying to lighten the discourse that bordered on a lecture.
But that was fine, and it was a glorious night with a magnificent view of Boston over the pearly lavender water and under a cloudless indigo sky. You wanted some romance back in your life, she told herself. Well here’s one hell of a start.
Dana two.
The moon rose full on the harbor, and the setting sun silhouetted the skyline in flaming reds. Along the waterfront, buildings glowed like so many jewels floating on a black expanse. In a couple of hours the sky would be exploding in fireworks.
“They’re still talking about the suicide of that professor fellow in the news,” Aaron said. “That it was an act of confession. I imagine your husband must feel some relief in that.”
“I think he is. But it’s been bad press for the department, as you can imagine.”
“Of course. But maybe it’s behind them.”
She took a sip of champagne and wondered what Steve was doing at the moment. Probably poring over depressing crime reports. He’d love to be out here since he had a half-mystical yearning for the sea and always wanted to own a boat. Last year at this time, they picnicked on the Charles with Marie Dacey and her husband John and her friend Jane Graham and her husband Jack. Then they walked up the river to watch the fireworks.
“Well, I wish him the best.”
She suddenly felt a jolt. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“I forgot something.” She reached for her handbag and removed her cell phone. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up and moving away from the table to talk privately.
“I’m afraid you’re not going to have much luck out here.”
He was right, they were beyond range for a connection. She had gotten so caught up in the unveiling as Steve put it that it she had forgotten that tonight they had a date to talk. Damn!
“If it’s an emergency, we can use the ship-to-shore radio.”
She imagined him getting an emergency call from the coast guard that his wife was at sea with someone else. “No, that’s okay.” Steve was probably at the house calling her cell phone. He’d hang out there for an hour then head home, feeling jilted just as he was hoping to work things out with her. She felt awful.
“Are you sure?” Aaron asked. “We can go back in.”
They were at the outer reaches of the harbor, near the Boston lighthouse island. It would take an hour to reach the marina. And even if they got within calling range, Steve would have left, resigned to the fact that she had forgotten. “No. It’s okay,” she said, knowing that it wasn’t okay. But there was nothing she could do.
I’m sorry, Steve.
Later, under an outrageously starry sky, the fireworks show started.
It began with the faint strains of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the Hatch Shell playing “The 1812 Overture,” followed by a fusillade of cannon fire that sent up a roar from the crowd gathered along the Charles, filling the Esplanade and the banks between which floated the huge barges where the pyrotechnics were staged.
Then the sky opened up with fiery chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue, followed by half an hour of continuous starbursts and booms that echoed and re-echoed across the Boston Harbor. The cityscape flickered in colored fire under the canopy of smoke. Then for maybe two consecutive minutes the final volley turned the night into crackling, booming bouquets of Technicolor explosions followed by a moment’s silence then one solitary boom that concluded the show.
And a million people said, “Waaaaaaaaaaw.”
They returned to the marina after midnight. Because of the holiday, the waterfront was still bustling with activity. They took a short stroll along the walkway of Atlantic Avenue and through Columbus Park. She tried not to think of Steve, although that was impossible. Her guilt kept surfacing throughout the evening, sometimes crossing with resentment that he had put pressure on her to reconcile just as she was emerging into postop, post-separation singlehood. She’d call him in the morning, hoping he’d forgive her.
When they returned to the marina, Max was waiting nearby in the limo. “Thank you. This was wonderful.” And she leaned up and kissed Aaron on the mouth.
He was attractive, charming, brilliant, and disturbingly wealthy. Yet he did not seem arrogant or taken with himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He said very little about himself or his accomplishments, so often touted in the media. He was a good listener and said the right things; though at times he appeared awkward, she decided that he was probably not used to dating or dating someone like her who felt the compulsion to be on, to fill the silence. Maybe that was why he seemed so removed. Her only regret was that he lacked a sense of humor or perhaps her sense of humor—what she shared naturally with Steve. But that was fine. Maybe big-time cosmetic physicians didn’t joke like ordinary mortals.
“You’re welcome, and I hope we can do this again,” he said. “But it’s not good night just yet. Max is taking me home, too. So I’ll be riding back with you.”
73
They rode side by side in the rear seat without saying much, both exhausted from the long evening of sea air and champagne.
“Thank you again. I had a great time.”
“You’re welcome.”
After several minutes, she wondered if he was going to take her hand or put his arm around her. When he didn’t, she slipped her hand on his. It felt warm but limp. Deciding that he needed a little encouragement, she rested her head against his shoulder.
They rode that way for another few minutes until her head felt as awkward as a bowling ball. Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was being too forward, possibly violating some blue-blooded protocol against anything physical early in a relationship. Or maybe he was offended by her presumptuousness, especially after seeing his multimillion-dollar yacht—his coolness merely a self-protected shield against opportunism.
Then she wondered if she wasn’t his type of woman. Or that maybe she simply didn’t turn him on. Or maybe, as she and Steve had speculated, that he was, in fact, gay. But he did ask her out this evening.
After another few minutes it occurred to her that he might not be attracted to women whose faces he had operated on—knowing what she looked like under her skin. But with that logic, male gynecologists wouldn’t sire babies. What the hell, she thought, they’re seasoned adults. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
His only reaction was a slight flinch as if taken by surprise. He stared at her without expression.
“Are you in there?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps it was the champagne, but she kissed h
im again. The stiffness yielded as he slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her back.
Relief passed through her until she became aware that he wasn’t kissing her in the regular way but making little pecks on her mouth and cheeks. It was bizarre, as if he was practice-kissing. What the hell is he doing? she wondered. It was like making out with a child.
Then she realized. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He nodded then kissed her, letting his mouth linger on hers.
After a few moments, she opened her eyes to see Max adjust the rearview mirror as a signal that they were out of view. At a level barely perceptible, she heard the sweet refrains of Brahms flow from the speakers. Dana rested her head on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a flowery scent she didn’t recognize.
“I’m glad you had a good time. I hope we can do this again.”
“Me, too.” She kissed him again, liking the fullness of his mouth against her, thinking about the subtle differences from Steve, the only man she had ever really kissed in the last seventeen years. She shifted in her seat and her hand landed on his thigh. Only half aware, she began to caress him as they kissed.
As if she had hit a power button, he suddenly pressed his mouth to hers and began to deep kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding across her lips until it began to hurt. His breathing became quick and he started to writhe in place. She removed her hand from his leg, a bit startled at his response. His breathing turned into deep-throated groans as he pressed his open mouth hard against hers, as if trying to swallow her. She broke his hold, and he sprung back.
At first she thought he was retreating to catch his breath. But in the light of the street she noticed his eyes and the expression on his face. He was struggling with the heat of his own sensations, as if he were trying not to do this, trying to suppress arousal.
“You okay?” she whispered, hardly registering the fact that they had arrived in her driveway and that Max had turned off the headlights. The motor was still running and the music still played.
“Aaron?” she whispered.
But he did not respond. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers for more, and with his tongue against her teeth tried to wedge open her mouth, and failing that he began rubbing his face against hers, licking her lips and cheeks, all the while making tiny whimpering grunts.
With some effort she pushed him off her because the pressure had exacerbated the tenderness around her nose. “You’re hurting me.”
His eyes were large and glassy and his breath came in pants. Then as if snapping back, he muttered, “Sorry.” He pulled his hands together and straightened up. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Guess you did.” Her mouth was sore.
“I’m really very sorry.” Then he took her face in his hands and examined it in the light as if checking for damage.
She dabbed her nostrils to see if she was bleeding. She wasn’t. “I’m okay.”
He shook his head. “I feel…sorry.”
She put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”
His face struggled with expressions. “You better go.”
She nodded and got out.
As the car pulled away, she gave a little wave and headed up the driveway, digging in her bag for her keys and wondering what had happened in there.
74
“Happy Independence Day,” Steve said to himself, and downed the rest of the scotch.
It was past midnight, and he was standing in the dark of their bedroom, looking out at the empty street. In the distance he could still hear the crackle and booms of the fireworks that had rolled up from the Charles River across the lowlands of Cambridge and up the hills of Carleton. Just above the tree line small starbursts had lit the horizon in colored fire. In a dull sector of his brain he had counted the seconds between light and sound, thinking how they were out of sync. Like his life. Seven months ago this wouldn’t be happening.
He had arrived at six fifteen as agreed. He had made reservations at Flora in Arlington, her favorite restaurant—where they celebrated special events. His plan was to tell about what had happened while walking on Hampton Beach—how something had snapped and he had felt a flood of certitude and resolve. He was ready to assume the commitment. More than that, he wanted to be a father. Yes, the prospect was still daunting and full of unknowns, but he also felt exhilarated—and the thought of a child of their own filled him with warm imaginings. Even if Dana was not yet ready to get back together, he wanted to share with her the fantasies of taking a son or daughter—or both—to the fireworks, the beach, the zoo, of reading to them before bed, of playing ball, of watching them grow up—all of that.
But as he had paced through the rooms and watched the hours tick by, that enthusiasm iced over. She had forgotten. By eight o’clock, he had placed his seventh call to her cell phone and still no answer. Then his mind slipped to the dining-room liquor cabinet downstairs.
Around nine he thought to check her desk calendar. There was one entry for July fourth: four P.M.
Four P.M. He had said six fifteen.
Maybe it was a hair appointment. Or a pedicure. He turned back the pages. Last month there was an entry for “Philomena—2:30.” Philomena’s was her hair salon. Another box a few weeks ago said “Ped—11.” The same with other appointments: She always designated the destinations or party. That meant whatever was scheduled at four was understood, not something that would have slipped her memory. Like a date with someone other than him.
She had stood him up. And it wasn’t a night out with Lanie Walker or Jane Graham or any of her other close friends. They lived between here and town, so when they went out she always drove and picked them up on the way. And her car was out back in the garage.
He headed downstairs, feeling like an intruder. The rooms, the furniture, the wall hangings, the decorations—all the same stuff, but it was as if he were viewing it all through a warped lens. Everything had an alien distortion to it. None of it felt familiar anymore.
He moved to the dining-room liquor cabinet and opened it. The old fifth of Chivas still sat untouched as it had for half a year. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left the room and went back up to the bedroom window.
At about nine thirty, he returned and removed the bottle and laid it on the island counter in the kitchen, circling it like a vulture. But he didn’t open it. Instead he headed for the front windows and waited. He called her cell again. No answer. That didn’t make sense since she never turned it off.
At ten thirty he pulled out a tumbler and filled it with scotch. But he again talked himself out of breaking his vows to himself and to her, of yielding to a dumb, self-destructive urge—something he should be above, especially at a moment of crisis.
Stood me up. She’s out with someone else.
He again went back upstairs and stood by the bedroom window. The fireworks were over, and a dark shroud of smoke hung over the horizon.
At midnight, he went back down and without waiting for the Greek chorus to rail at him, he guzzled down the drink.
The fire burned his throat and the fumes filled his head. It was his first drink in twenty-three days. And he didn’t give a shit. But it did little to dull the hurt. He poured himself a second, then put the bottle away and went upstairs to their bedroom to wait.
Another hour passed, and Dana still had not shown.
She almost never stayed out this late when they were living with each other. Besides, she had her summer aerobics class at nine in the morning. And she never missed a session.
The thought of her overnighting at some guy’s house left his fingers a bloodless cold.
The only lights outside were from the front door, the yellow cast of the single streetlight two houses up, and the hard crystalline moon through the trees. No. His eye fell on lights flickering through the distant trees of Old Mystic Road. A car. It was heading this way. A moment later it pulled around the corner and stopped at the bottom of th
e driveway.
A long black Lincoln Town Car.
In the dimness he could just make out a driver, but he could not see who occupied the rear seats. Why a limo, unless Dana and Lanie had decided to hit the town in a big way?
He waited. Several minutes passed, and still no movement. The driver sat without budging, staring straight ahead as if politely waiting for his passenger to leave. Steve could hear the hum of the engine and faint strains of music. At one point the driver switched to parking lights, clearly not in a hurry.
While Steve stood there, all sorts of possibilities shot through his mind—that Dana was drunk and digging out her keys from her handbag, maybe trying to count out a tip in the scant light. Or she had passed out and he had called 911 and was sitting there like a crash-test dummy, waiting for the paramedics.
Or maybe she was injured.
Then another thought cut across the others like a shark fin: Dana was dead, and the driver was waiting for the police.
He was about to head down when the rear passenger side door opened and Dana emerged. She closed the door, and as the car pulled away she gave a little wave.
Someone was silhouetted in the rear seat, a figure Steve could not make out. He watched the car head up the street, which was not the direction one would take to Lanie’s, Jane’s, or anyone else’s. Dana walked up the driveway, dangling keys in her hand. She looked perfectly sober.
He headed downstairs. In a moment he heard her unlock the front door. Steve waited for her in the dim night-light of the kitchen. “Who was that?”
Dana screamed.
He flicked on the lights. “Who was he?” He felt crazy.
“Jesus Christ! You nearly scared me to death.” She leaned against the counter with her hand on her heart, trying to catch her breath.
“We had a date and you were out with someone else.”
“I forgot,” she stammered. “I tried to call but I couldn’t get through.”
“How could you not get through?” The words nearly died in his throat. He barely recognized her. It was the first time he had seen her since the nose job, and she looked like someone else. The flesh under her eyes was still discolored and her nose looked slightly swollen, but the aquiline hook was gone, opening her face. It was like addressing someone who only vaguely resembled Dana.
