Isobel shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
“Thor, with his hammer and whatever other weapon or tool he wielded. I can’t remember now. Wow, it’s awful how the memory deteriorates.”
“Mmm.”
“I mean, maybe Thor didn’t carry anything but a hammer.”
“Yeah.”
An image of Jeff wielding a hammer—or maybe an ax—his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his shirt buttons mostly undone, threatened to send Isobel into a fit. She resisted the urge to peer into the rearview mirror. She wondered if Jeff would think she looked pretty in her new scarf.
But she would probably never know.
Chapter 17
Catherine let out a monstrous sigh. “What a freakin’ awful day.”
“You, too?” Louise asked.
The women were in the kitchen. On the table Louise had put out a selection of cheeses (all made in Maine), some good bread (ditto; it was easy to be a well-fed locavore in Maine), a dish of cured green olives, her own homemade tapenade, and a plate of shortbread cookies baked that morning by Bella. There was also a bottle of sauvignon blanc from Chile and a bottle of Malbec. Each bottle was almost half-empty and the women had only been at it for a half hour.
“I wonder if this is really what it all comes to in the end,” Catherine mused, sipping her wine.
“What?”
“This. Sitting at a friend’s kitchen table, drinking.”
Louise grinned. “And eating. Could be worse.”
“Yeah. Maybe this is all that really matters. Hanging out with someone who gives a shit about you in spite of your annoying qualities.”
“Something’s got you in a funk. Spill.”
“Well, if you must know, I got a call from this woman I knew back in Connecticut.”
“Bad news?”
“Not for her. She’s getting married. First time. She’s forty-three and he’s fifty. She made a point of telling me that I shouldn’t lose hope. Her hubby-to-be assured her that lots of men were willing—willing!—to date women my age.”
Louise grimaced. “You must be kidding me.”
“I wish that I were. And I hadn’t heard from this woman since I moved here two years ago! What possessed her to call me now? I’ll tell you what possessed her. The need to boast about her man-hunting prowess. The need to make me feel bad.”
“Sounds like quite the bitch. Poor guy.”
“Oh, I don’t give a crap about him. He’s an adult. He should have figured out before now what he’s getting himself into.”
“True.”
“You know, I’ve been accused of being too fussy when it comes to men. Me, fussy! That’s ridiculous. I’ve been in several serious, healthy relationships. But none stood the test of time, or the guy just wasn’t the right one to marry. And in one memorable case, I wasn’t the right gal to marry.”
“Ouch.”
Catherine shrugged. “Why must there always be a reason for something to have happened or to not have happened? Why must we attribute events or non-events to human agency when maybe there’s something else at work?”
“Like what?” Louise asked.
“Like a random occurrence in a random universe. Or God. Or Fate. Or sheer dumb luck, good or bad. It should be enough to say, I have never met someone I wanted to marry. It needn’t be made into a psychological drama.”
“In other words, shit happens.”
Catherine smiled. “Crudely put, but exactly.”
“Well, I’d have to agree. Though some people do seem to bring misery on themselves,” Louise noted. “I think my mother was one of those people. Not that anything horribly traumatic ever did happen to her. But she always expected it to, and I think she was half-disappointed when it didn’t. She was all about doom and gloom. I’m afraid I inherited—or learned—some of that attitude.”
“What a waste of time and energy, anticipating misery, when the fact is it’s going to come at some point, anticipated or not.”
“Right,” Louise agreed. “Worry is interest paid on a debt that might never come due. Andrew taught me that, actually. The man has nerves of steel. Well, that or he’s so supremely arrogant he fully believes he can conquer any crisis that might come his way.”
“A helpful attitude in a career like his. Or in any career, I guess.”
“But pride cometh before a fall,” Louise said. “My mother taught me that, and it’s a hard lesson to shake entirely. First, you have to really understand the difference between healthy pride and unhealthy arrogance and assumption.”
“Yeah.” Catherine seemed to be considering something . . . “Did you know that my situation is called ‘circumstantial infertility’? Well, my former situation, as I’m no longer really in the running for a pregnancy. I mean, I’m not officially menopausal until my period has stopped for over a year—I think—but I’m close enough.”
“Huh. That’s kind of an odd term,” Louise said, “but it could be way more offensive.”
“Yeah. It’s all right. You know, why shouldn’t I have held out for love and marriage, in addition to motherhood? Yeah, I wanted a child. But I also wanted a loving husband and a committed relationship.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. In other words, you don’t have to convince me.”
“I know what preaching to the choir means. Sorry. That sounded snippy. And thanks.”
“No worries. It’s a sensitive subject. You know about my seminal experience, losing that first baby. It’s colored the rest of my life. Not a day goes by when I’m not aware on some level or another of that lost child.”
“It must be horrible . . .”
“You get used to it, like you get used to most things in life . . .”
Catherine snorted. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to how carelessly, casually cruel people can be. One so-called friend actually had the nerve to say to me that if I had really wanted kids I would have just gone ahead and had them. As if a kid was the equivalent of a pint of ice cream. You want the ice cream, just go ahead and buy it already. The message there is, stop complaining. You should have adopted or settled for Mr. Less Than Right.”
“It’s amazing how some people have the nerve, the audaciousness, to pronounce on another person’s desires! The only person who really knows how badly you wanted a family of your own is you. And it behooves those of us you tell to believe you.”
“Behooves, huh?” Catherine smiled. “But seriously, thanks. You’re right, of course. You know, even worse than idiotic presumption is the pity. Poor barren woman . . . What a horrible word to use, isn’t it? Barren. As if the very essence of my womanhood is a dry and dusty wasteland.”
Louise nodded. “Pity is rarely easy to accept, even when you want it, and we all do, sometimes. How do you handle it?”
“With humor, of course. Inside, however, I harbor visions of wreaking bloody havoc. Or, at the very least, of smacking her smug face until I’m the one feeling pity for her. And it’s always a female who says such stupid things. Why is that?”
“Women feel they have immunity, given the subject matter?” Louise suggested. “I don’t know. I’m sure there are plenty of men out there voicing their moronic and hurtful opinions to women who can’t properly fight back.”
“Probably. Except in my world—I mean, the corporate world—if any man dared mention the subject of motherhood or marriage or sex, he’d be out on his can with a sexual harassment suit.”
“Thank God for small favors! But then why can male—and female—politicians get away with making crude and ignorant and downright insulting pronouncements about women whenever and wherever they please?”
“Don’t get me started on politicians! But as for God . . . Do you know the very worst thing someone ever said to me? That God didn’t want me to be a mother. That He knew I’d be a terrible mother so He saved me—and the unborn child—from the experience.”
Louise gasped. “That’s appalling. And incredibly stupid. Who are these people with a hotline to Go
d, anyway? And why doesn’t God tell them to stop calling?”
Catherine laughed. “Can you imagine the scene? I wish I were a comedian, maybe Louis C.K., so I could write a sketch showing God trying to let down a loonie gently. Or maybe not so gently. Maybe God gets a restraining order on the fanatical caller . . .”
“Restraining orders often don’t work as well as they should,” Louise pointed out. “If I were God I’d just send a lightning bolt and be done with the loonies.”
“I think Zeus is the one with the lightning bolts. The Hebrew and Christian God sends plagues.”
Louise shrugged. “Same thing. Far more efficient than taking legal action.”
“And then there are the women who say, ‘You have no children? Oh, my, God, you are so lucky! I have four and I haven’t slept in ages!’ They smile when they say that, of course. Some of them laugh. A few of them tell me how young I look, and that it must all be due to a stress-free, ‘childless’ life.”
“Ow. I’d be tempted to punch someone who said that to me.”
“I’ve come close,” Catherine admitted. “Only my incredible self-control stopped me. Oh, and once I was even told that it was a good thing that I didn’t have kids because it allowed me to concentrate on myself. What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m assuming that helpful soul meant that as a childless—or as some like to say, a child-free—person, you were able to take up a variety of costly and time-consuming hobbies.”
“Yes, that sounds like quite the life, doesn’t it? What do you think of my raising carrier pigeons? Or maybe collecting model trains is the way to go. Knitting? Bonsai? Extreme mountain climbing?”
“I always thought macramé would be a fun hobby . . .” Louise mused.
“Macramé? Hmm. I used to enjoy macramé when I was a kid . . . And was it just last year that macramé was said to have made a fashion comeback?”
“Really? You’d have to ask Isobel about that. I’m afraid I don’t keep up with the trends these days.”
“Trends are boring,” Catherine pronounced. “Isobel would agree.”
“Forget about trends. I’m going to eat this last bit of goat cheese unless you want it.”
“Go ahead. I’ve got my eye on the cheddar. You know, these perimenopausal years are pretty hellish. I have this awful sense of my body mocking me. The whole system that makes us so biologically special was useless in my case. Before, when I was younger, at least it was of some potential value. But now, my period feels like a sick joke my body’s playing on itself.”
“That’s awful. Really, I don’t know what to say to console you.”
Catherine shook her head. “Oh, there’s nothing to say and I shouldn’t be whining.”
“I don’t think it’s whining to bemoan—okay, let’s say to mourn—the loss of something as important and as potentially powerful as the ability to bring new life into the world. I think you’ve got a very justifiable reason to mourn. Or to whine and rant and rave.”
“Thanks. Hmm. I shouldn’t have let you eat that last bit of goat cheese . . .”
“Sorry. But hey, your life isn’t so bad the way it is, is it?” Louise asked.
“God, no. I had a fantastic career that allowed me to retire early with plenty of money. Face it. If I had married and had children, my career would have taken a backseat. It’s just that the life I have now is entirely different from the life I imagined I’d have.”
Louise nodded. “I think a lot of people can say the same. Maybe most people. I grew up with this boy who was an amazing runner. He won every medal you could win and was in training for the Olympics when he broke his leg. And that was it. The leg healed badly and a career as a track star was out of the question. He was only seventeen and everything he had planned for his life was suddenly scrapped.”
“Yikes. Whatever happened to him?”
Louise smiled. “Last I heard he was a college track coach. So, I guess he found a way to make the dream come true after all.”
“I wonder if he’s an example of the rule or an exception to it.”
“And I wonder if he’s happy or bitter.”
“I once dated a guy who was bitter,” Catherine said. “From morning ’til night, it was all about what rotten luck he had always had and how he could have been a great success if only the world hadn’t been against him from the start. Honestly, I don’t know how I stood it for so long.”
“Why did you go out with him in the first place?” Louise asked.
“I was young. I mistook bitterness for brooding masculinity. Too many romance novels as a teen, I guess. I didn’t make that mistake again, I assure you.”
Louise nodded. “Ah, yes. Young women really do have a knack for turning a guy’s annoying character traits into evidence of heroic suffering and his faults into charming quirks. A tendency to throw punches becomes evidence of unfathomable bravery.”
“And moodiness means he’s a poetic soul when really, he’s just a nasty son of a bitch.”
Louise laughed.
“I wonder,” Catherine said, “if that sort of thing is as common with today’s young women as it was when we were young, or when our mothers were growing up. Take Isobel or Gwen, for that matter. Neither strikes me as likely to make a complete ass of herself over a totally unsuitable guy.”
“They might be an exception to the rule,” Louise said. “Let’s hope they are. And let’s hope we’re not so biologically determined that a future generation can’t break a mold that’s clearly destructive to our well-being.”
“Well, I hate to be the pessimistic one—or, as I would prefer to call myself, the realistic one—but I think we humans—we women, to be more exact, for the purposes of this conversation—are indeed pathetically predisposed. If we don’t convince ourselves that guys are romantic heroes, we’ll never sleep with them and thus the end of the human race. Which, of course, might solve a lot of problems for the planet, but it ain’t gonna happen without some weirdo dropping a bomb.”
“Always lovely chatting with you!”
Catherine executed a mock bow from her seat.
Louise poured a bit more wine into her glass. “Getting back to one’s expectations of one’s life,” she said, “I certainly never expected to be divorced. I knew it was a possibility, of course, but I never counted on it! I was so in love when I married Andrew, and he was so in love with me.”
“Really?” Catherine asked. “Were you really both in love?”
“Absolutely. Even Andrew will still admit that. Which only makes the whole divorce thing that much more depressing, I think.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
There was silence for a long moment, and then Catherine said, with some urgency, “When do you give up? When do you say, okay, it’s not in the cards for me to get married? Okay, it’s not in the cards for me to have a baby of my own?”
“You could still meet Mr. Right,” Louise pointed out.
“Sure, anything’s possible! The world could come to a raging nuclear end tonight. Lady Gaga could decide to enter a convent. Well, actually, I could see that happening . . . Anyway, even if I do meet the right guy we won’t be having a baby together, that’s for sure. Not the old-fashioned way, at least.”
“You haven’t made peace with this yet, have you?”
“Nope,” Catherine said forcefully. “I haven’t. And maybe it’s about time I did. Bitterness, as we have noted, is not an attractive quality.”
Louise nodded. “It’s very bad for the skin.”
“Please pour me more wine. And forgive me for chewing off your ear.”
“You’re my friend.”
Catherine took a sip of the Malbec and smiled. “That’s your expertise, you know. One of them, anyway. You’re a good listener.”
“Thanks.”
“No, really. It’s a gift.”
Louise laughed. “Not when Isobel is rambling on about her latest costume jewelry purchase it isn’t! Then, it’s a liability.”
Chapter 18
CITYMOUSE
Greetings, My Friends!
Today I want to talk about jewelry. Well, pretty much every day I want to talk about jewelry (hehe!), but today especially, as yesterday afternoon I found the most amazing little piece at, of all places, Reny’s. Gwen and I drove down to the store in Wells because Gwen needed some new basic T-shirts (she likes to layer them, which is something she does quite skillfully), and I thought, why not tag along?
So while Gwen examined the stacks of T-shirts for just the right assortment of colors in the scoop-neck style she adores, I carefully poked my way through the small and somewhat haphazard rack of jewelry until, just when I was beginning to despair of finding a treasure, what should I stumble upon but a braided, brown leather bracelet studded with a row of crystals set in bronze right down the center of the braiding. Sounds pretty common, no? Well, yeah, in one way it is pretty common, but in another way it’s very much its own statement. See Gwen’s photo, below. The piece has character somehow, I don’t know how or where, exactly, but the character is there. Character and a good weight on the wrist. It feels solid but not too heavy. I love it!
Don’t ever forget that it’s the little things that can make an ordinary day one of distinction!
More on jewelry: I’ve been collecting vintage jewelry for the past few years, stuff by Miriam Haskell (I’ve only been able to afford one pin so far); those gorgeous, colorful pins in the Juliana style (ditto); some good rhinestone pieces (with only a few stones missing here and there). I would dearly love to stumble upon a Marena pin. They were made in Germany and some are available on eBay but the hunt is part of the thrill for me so I hunt on . . .
Note to self: Attend a live auction soon!
Over the years (don’t I sound ancient!), I’ve amassed a good stash of old crystal stuff (clear and colored), and two Bakelite bangles (one studded with colored crystals), a super-long set of blue pearls for a whopping five dollars (okay, they probably aren’t real pearls but I don’t care, they’re lovely).
And someday I’m going to inherit from LouLou and from my grandmother via LouLou, a platinum and diamond wedding set (the main diamond is a marquis cut, which has always struck me as the height of elegance!), as well as a few other heirlooms, like a gold and pearl brooch and a gold and diamond stick pin. But as long as LouLou can wear the family pieces in good health, I wouldn’t dream of pressing her for them. (Really, LouLou, I swear.)
The Summer Everything Changed Page 11
