Ten yards from the private docks on the far side of the cove, Ben stops paddling and waits for me to slide up beside him. I plunge my oar into the water and rotate it, expertly bringing my board to a stop. Feeling triumphant, I glance at Ben to find him watching me.
“You’re awesome,” he says, and I am excessively pleased by his praise. Take that, Nina Montrose!
“This is actually pretty great,” I admit. It would be better in the Bahamas where the water temperature is like eighty-seven degrees, but as long as I stay afloat, I like it just fine.
“Race you back?” he asks, deftly swinging the nose of the board around with one fluid stroke of the paddle.
“Nah,” I answer, then follow his example, cranking the oar until I am facing Pier Three. I have no desire to compete with this man, and moreover, I don’t want to lose this sense of tranquillity by adding a challenge to the mix.
“Me either,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. And maybe he does.
Our return journey is slow and languid and, for the most part, we remain side by side. We are able to chat, but do so only minimally; occasionally one of us will point to a boat with a humorous name like The Happy Hookers (fisherman joke) or a house designed to look like it belongs in the Swiss Alps (why?) or a pelican dive-bombing for his afternoon snack. Pier Three grows larger as we approach, but it is not until I hear the rev of a boat engine that I realize we have drifted farther out than we should have. The buoys bob up and down a mere ten feet from where we are.
Ben notices the sound of the motorboat at the same time I do, and he jabs an elbow toward the shoreline. As we both put our muscles into our strokes, a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser tears past at a speed that far exceeds the posted limit, just beyond the buoys. I glance over my shoulder and see the foamy wake moving toward us, and even though the ridge of water isn’t even big enough to qualify as a wave, it might as well be a tsunami.
On his board beside me, Ben starts laughing. I turn to him, still furiously paddling, trying to outrun fate.
“What’s so funny?” I holler.
“We’re toast,” he cries, laughing harder still. And suddenly, I am laughing with him. I draw up my paddle in surrender as the first crest of the wake pushes at my board. I desperately try to compensate, squeezing my muscles tight as the unrelenting water rocks me back and forth, back and forth like a seesaw. I go with it, alternately bending my knees and using my paddle for balance. And for a glorious instant, I think I am going to make it, am just about to congratulate myself for my newly acquired skill, when the last and most powerful part of the wake slams into my board and sends me ass over teakettle into the frigid sea. My only consolation is the sight of Ben hurling toward the water a split second after I do, laughing all the way.
Eric is waiting for us, and he quickly guides us to the shore. Ben and I lay the paddles down on the boards and hop into the shallow water. My teeth are chattering and I am having trouble feeling my hands and feet, which is why I immediately trip and fall face first into the wet sand. Ben grasps my elbow and hauls me to my feet, then herds me up to dry land where his beach towel and my bag lie. With numb fingers, I dig through my bag for my towel, then fumble to draw the inadequate rectangle of terry cloth around myself. Ben shakes the sand off his own and dons it.
I don’t know exactly what time it is, but the sun is low enough in the sky that it offers no warmth whatsoever. I pull my towel more tightly around my shoulders, wishing it were a battery-operated electric blanket.
“Thanks, Eric,” Ben manages to say through lips that look disturbingly blue. I would like to say Thank you as well, but can’t seem to form the words, so I settle for a quick wave in Eric’s general direction.
“Come on,” Ben says, placing an arm casually around my shoulder and guiding me toward the pier.
By the time we reach the bathrooms, I am shaking so violently, I am afraid I am going to have a seizure. Before I push through the door, I claw at the zipper on my wet suit, but my fingers will not cooperate. Ben notices my struggle and comes to my rescue. He reaches up and clasps the tongue of my zipper, then slowly eases it downward. If I weren’t so cold, this would be a very sensual experience. But I cannot enjoy it, because, aside from worrying about burst brain vessels and hypothermia, I am now self-conscious about the too-low position of my breasts and my upper arm jiggle.
As he slides the zipper down, exposing the top half of my black-and-red one-piece that I nabbed from a clearance rack at Target, Ben looks at my face. I assume that he is being chivalrous, averting his gaze from my newly exposed flesh, or that he is horrified by the sight of an extra ten (okay, fifteen) pounds of flesh, but when I look into his liquid eyes, I see that they are suddenly smoldering, even though the rest of his body is akin to a Popsicle.
“Th-th-thanks,” I say, although now I am not sure whether I am trembling from the cold or from the feel of his fingers so near to my navel.
He quickly drops his hands and steps back.
“You’re welcome. Hurry and get dressed before you catch pneumonia.” His tone is a little gruff, which surprises me, even hurts me a little, and I flee into the safety of the women’s room.
Pulling off the wet suit is not much easier than putting it on, and I find myself thinking of that vat of Crisco again. I think about the fact that if I hadn’t shaved, the hair on my legs might be keeping me warm, like a fur coat, at this very moment. I think about the boat in the marina with the funny name. I think about all of these things so that I won’t think about the tenor of Ben’s voice.
I strip naked, my body racked with uncontrollable tremors, and do my best to dry myself off with my sodden towel. I can hear the hinges of the men’s room door squeak, signaling that Ben has already finished dressing. A thought flashes through my brain, a fantasy maybe, of Ben throwing open the door, catching me naked and ravaging me against one of the stalls, but on second thought, the idea of gettin’ jiggy in a dreary pier bathroom that smells of urine and sea life and has a mirror made of aluminum foil leaves a lot to be desired.
I shimmy into my jeans and T-shirt, then stuff my wet bathing suit and towel into a plastic grocery bag I keep in my purse (all prepared mothers carry one for emergencies). I gather the wet suit and my belongings, step into my shoes, and hustle out of the bathroom, expecting to find Ben waiting for me. But he is nowhere in sight.
I look left and right, but the pier is deserted. Still shivering but starting to regain feeling in my extremities, I head away from the water and toward the parking lot. When I reach the place where the wooden planks give way to asphalt, I see Ben at his Land Rover, the back hatch gaping open. I move toward him as he stows his duffel bag in the cargo area and reaches up to close the hatch.
“Hey,” I call to him, holding out the wet suit. He turns to me, his face a mask of ambivalence, and gives me a curt nod. When I am a few feet from him, he reaches out and grabs the wet suit from my hands.
“Thanks,” he says briskly, then tosses the suit in with his bag. “So, thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, it was great,” I say awkwardly. His sudden coldness has nothing to do with the arctic temperature of the ocean, and it confounds me. Less than a half an hour ago we were having a great time, albeit freezing our asses off, flailing around, trying to get back on our boards, poking fun at each other, and laughing so hard we both nearly choked on the salt water. Now he is treating me like he owes me money, like he can’t get away from me fast enough.
He slams the hatch shut with resounding force and places his hands on his hips, trying for studied casual.
“Well, I’ll, uh, see you at soccer.…”
I nod and offer him a smile. “Or Trader Joe’s.”
His chuckle is forced. “Yeah.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say softly, taking a step back. I want to say something to him to bring back the fun, charming, irresistible Ben, but I have no idea what the right words would be. Instead, I give him a casual wave, then turn and head for my car, fo
rcing myself not to run.
• Nineteen •
It’s close to five o’clock by the time I enter my empty house. Shadows envelop the downstairs, but I do not switch on the lights as I wander through the foyer to the kitchen and absently open the back door to let Sally out. I stand in the dark, waiting for her to do her business, then fill her bowl with dog chow, take a minute to give her some love, then head for the stairs. On legs that feel like lead, I climb to the second floor, finally flipping a switch when I reach the landing. I am still scratching at the mental bug bite that is my last five minutes with Ben Campbell at the marina.
In true female fashion, I lay the blame squarely on my own shoulders. It must have been something I did, something I said, something about me. Maybe it was the angry-looking scar on my upper arm that has never faded even though I got it when I was nineteen, or the unflattering swimsuit that bulges at the belly line, or my breath, which probably smelled like a sea anemone. Or maybe it was my gravity-challenged boobs.
I do remember the way he’d looked at me, have called up the image of his heated gaze several hundred times since getting into my car, yet I realize that I must have misinterpreted what I saw. Perhaps it’s been so long since a man has looked at me with unadulterated lust that I simply don’t recognize it anymore. It’s possible that Ben’s expression was one of disgust or derision. Or that I was projecting my own desire onto him.
Stop it, Ellen. You know what you saw. He wanted you.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter what I saw as I drop my tote on the bed. The plastic bag with my wet gear spills out onto the bedspread, and I grab it up, tear open the top and dump the contents into the laundry basket by the bathroom. I should take the towel and suit downstairs to the washing machine and rinse them out, but I simply don’t have the energy. My muscles are already starting to make their displeasure known at the workout they were given earlier. And although I have stopped shivering, I feel a bone-deep chill that the Lexus’s heater could not dispel no matter how high I cranked it.
I strip off my damp jeans and T-shirt, pile them on top of the hamper, then head straight for the bathtub. I twist the hot handle as far over as it will go, turn the cold handle just far enough that I won’t give myself third-degree burns, then squeeze some of my favorite bubble bath under the gushing stream and climb in.
As soon as the blissfully steamy water reaches my chest, I hear the phone ring. I briefly consider getting out of the tub, even scoot up into a sitting position, but think better of it and allow myself to slide back into the foamy tub. A few minutes later, the muffled, electronic ring of my cell phone sounds from the bottom of my bag. Again, I ignore it, this time by submerging my head.
I stay under for as long as I can hold my breath, then bob up and wipe the bubbles from my eyes. I lie against the hot porcelain and struggle to regain that peaceful state I experienced at the marina. Of course, struggling to be Zen is an oxymoron, so my failure to clear my mind doesn’t come as a shock.
The bottom line is that Ben Campbell’s sudden cold shoulder was for the best. Today, on that board, I felt an emotion that has eluded me for years. I felt free. But it was only an illusion. And the illusion of freedom is seductive. It makes you forget that you are married with children. It makes you forget your responsibilities and the promises you have made. It makes it easy to say Hell, yes! when what you should be saying is No, thanks. I know now that I am not strong enough to say No, thanks to something that feels so great.
I will always have this afternoon, and I will carry it with me like a talisman. I will be able access the memory of trying something new with someone terrific. I will be able to remember the way Ben looked at me, and I will not bastardize it by pretending it wasn’t what it was. And the knowledge that someone actually wanted me, even if it was only for a moment, will perpetually fill the gas tank of my ego. But I won’t have done anything I’d certainly regret or that would inspire that gnawing rodent of guilt.
The water in the tub grows tepid, and one glance at my wrinkled-prune fingertips tells me it’s time to get out. I stand and grasp at the towel on the rack beside me, quickly dry myself, and pull the drain plug.
Feeling better and warmer, wearing my favorite pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt with my husband’s company logo on the front, I walk into the bedroom to find Sally lying on the bed. Jonah is vehemently opposed to dogs being allowed on the furniture, and Sally is usually very obedient about this, but somehow she knows that she is safe for the time being. I plop down next to her and stroke her soft fur, for which I receive a few enthusiastic licks, then reach for the remote. My brain is as weary as my muscles, having been on overdrive for the past hour, and I figure a little television will give it the rest it sorely deserves. I click through the channels until I come to an airing of Titanic. Since it’s water-themed, I interpret this as a sign and, of course, the ship sinks, which is a perfect metaphor for the way things ended with Ben today. I drop the remote, lie back against the pillows, and let the James Cameron epic sweep me away.
I awaken to the now familiar ping of my cell phone. I glance at the clock, which reads 9:07, and realize that I have been asleep for more than two hours. On the television, Kate Winslet is just prying her fingers loose from Leonardo DiCaprio’s icicle digits, and down he goes into the murky depths.
Fumbling for my bag on the end of the bed, I overturn it and grab my cell. In the dim light of my bedroom, I cannot read anything on the screen, so I lumber to the side of the bed and switch on the lamp. I read the information on the LCD and suddenly I am wide awake. Ben has sent me a text. It reads: Are you awake?
“I am now,” I say to no one in particular.
I wait a full two minutes before I text back, watching as Kate, sorry, Rose, hides from her cad of a fiancé. Then I text back the letter: Y. According to my eight-year-old, you no longer need to type out whole words anymore, and when she told me this, I wondered whether the technological advances of our generation are in effect creating a society of illiterate mutes. But in this case, I kind of want to be curt, and you can’t get more curt than a single letter. A ping sounds on the heels of my text, as if he has already written his and was just waiting for an affirmative from me to send it. It reads: Can I call you?
I put the cell down and haul myself off the bed, then pace around my bedroom. Can I call you? Fuck! Can I call you? I should tell him no. I should say I’m busy or I’m on the landline with my husband or I should not even respond at all. But this is what I do instead, because for some reason, when it comes to Ben Campbell, I turn into a jellyfish: I pick up my phone and type the single letter Y.
The cell rings in my hand so fast I almost drop it. I force myself to hesitate, take a deep calming breath, then answer.
“Hello?” Casual. No big deal. Who is this, anyway?
“Hi. It’s Ben.” His voice is low and soft, like he’s trying not to be heard.
“Hi.” I give the word two syllables, bending up the second with a question mark. Like, And what is it you want?
“Look, Ellen, I’m sorry to bother you. I just had to call to apologize for the way I was this afternoon. I don’t know what came over me.”
I do, I think. You came down with a sudden case of manitude.
“Actually, that’s not true,” he corrects. “I do know what came over me, but it’s hard to explain.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. Nonchalant. Carefree. Nothing bothers me, big boy.
“It’s just that I think you think it was one thing, when in fact it was just the opposite.”
“Ben, it’s okay, really.” This time I’m sincere. He might as well be speaking in tongues for all the good his explanation is doing. But if his earlier actions are causing him this much distress, I am fine with letting him off the hook. “I had a great time paddle surfing. I really did. I might even do it again someday. You know, in the summertime?”
I don’t receive even the barest hint of amusement from his end of the line. “You being there made i
t better,” he says quietly.
A knot of tension curls like a fist in my stomach. His admission is not a declaration of lust, nor a proposal for a bump-and-grind session in the back of his Land Rover. It is far more intimate than those would be, and therefore far more disturbing. I can think of no appropriate reply and keep my mouth firmly closed.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, disrupting the silence.
No, please don’t. “Sure.”
“What would your something new be?” He waits a beat. “I mean, paddle surfing was mine. What would you like to try?”
“I’ve never flown in a helicopter.” This is the first thing that comes to mind, and it’s something I have always wanted to do. When Jonah and I went to New York a few years back for a grown-up vacation, we booked one of the helicopter tours to take us around Manhattan. When we arrived at the downtown heliport, we were greeted by a harried clerk who informed us that there was an issue with the main rotor head on their chopper, which meant nothing to us but apparently is one of the causes of helicopter crashes. Although other tours with different lines were available, we took it as a sign not to go up in the air that day and ended up blowing our refund on an amazing lunch at Daniel.
“I highly recommend it,” Ben tells me. “It’s a rush.”
“Says the man who ‘highly recommends’ jumping out of planes.”
He chuckles at this. “Well, it’s not quite the same rush, but it’s pretty good.”
Again, neither one of us speaks. Again, it is Ben who breaks the silence. “So, are we okay?”
I have no idea how to interpret this question. I’m sitting on the bed I share with my husband talking to a man I am exceedingly attracted to while my family is out of town. Am I okay? Not really. Is Ben okay? Maybe. But who is this we he is talking about?
“We’re friends, right?” he asks when I don’t answer him.
Something New (9781101612262) Page 24
