After years of visualizing success, Melanie was finally on the path to achieving her dream of becoming a world-class interior designer. She kept reminding herself to stay focused, have faith, and patiently allow God’s plan for her to unfold, a plan which was infinitely more magnificent than she could ever imagine for herself. In her heart she knew that it was only a matter of time before she would progress to the hospitality side of the firm.
Already she had her finger in the mix, assigned the task of helping to pull together ideas and materials for this week’s presentation to the highly regarded firm of Carlson and Tuck. Even though she’d begun work on her first solo project—a costly make-over for a summer home in East Hampton—Melanie was most excited about the potential Vogue Belize job. While she was simply coordinating the furniture and accessories for the private balconies of this luxury resort, it kept her in the loop and gave her direct exposure not only to her firm’s partners but to the decision-making employees of one of the most prestigious architectural companies in the business.
Melanie finished her shower and decided to air dry, enjoying the cool clash of damp skin and artificial wind. She pulled on a light cotton kimono robe and turned on her laptop. It had become part of her morning ritual to check her e-mail as her bosses, Paco Benjamin and Whitney Alexander, sent daily morning messages with project updates to each of the firm’s designers. While her computer booted up, Melanie laid out her work attire. She always wore stylish but comfortable clothes, as her day often sent her traipsing all over the city in search of the perfect “whatever.”
When she heard the you’ve-got-mail signal, Melanie turned her attention from the closet to her computer. She read down the list of e-mails, noting her daily communication from work and happily recognizing several of the e-mail addresses as contacts from the East Hampton house renovation. There was also a message from COCOMOM, a.k.a. her sister, Francesca, and one screen name that caused her heart to drop. Melanie read all the others, taking notes and writing down dates in her day planner. Upon completion, she paused, took a deep breath, and double clicked on STILLWILL.
Subj: Hello
From: STILLWILL
To: VINTAGEJEWEL
Hello Melanie,
I saw you on-line yesterday. It took me five minutes to compose a witty opening line to instant message you, but I couldn’t drum up enough courage to click SEND. I guess I was afraid that like my phone calls and other messages, I’d be left hanging. I just sat there staring at your name on my AOL buddy list, feeling strangely comforted by the knowledge that you and I were in the same space for those few minutes.
As I sat there, I came to the sad realization that in all this deafening silence between us these past months, I can no longer hear the sweet sound of your voice. I’ve been trying to let go and get on with my life, but baby, I have to tell you that the void I feel without you is unbearable. Knowing you are a part of my life is what makes me feel complete and whole. I desperately want and need to feel connected to you again.
Please, Melanie, we have to talk. Tell me what I can do to fix this for you so we can get on with our life together. We are meant to be, Mel. I truly believe this. You said you love me and God knows that I still love you. I won’t give up on us. I can’t.
Today and forever,
Will
Melanie felt the pain and guilt over her failed engagement bubble its way to the surface. She had deceived herself into believing that by throwing herself into work, she could successfully ignore the responsibility for her actions. Will’s ardent plea for communication was a melancholy reminder of the popular maxim: You can run but you can’t hide.
Melanie sat back, closed her eyes, and heard the rhythmic drip of the shower faucet. She felt her face grimace in strained concentration as she listened for the voice she desperately needed to hear, but only the quiet whir of blades cutting through air breezed through her ears. Melanie felt tears pooling around the lower lids of her eyes. She could no longer hear Will’s distinct sound and took this to be a definitive sign that their short and bittersweet stay in coupledom was over.
With doleful determination, she maneuvered the arrow to the right of the screen and pushed the REPLY button. Through teary eyes Mel watched as a fresh “write mail” template appeared. After thirty-five minutes of composing and editing her reasons why, of documenting and deleting her excuses for why not, Melanie gave up and erased it all. Finally she bit her lower lip and proceeded to tap out the most difficult and unavoidably hurtful words she’d ever written:
Dear Will,
There’s nothing to fix and no one to blame. Sometimes love is simply not enough. Please don’t contact me again.
To soften the blow, she signed her note Love, Melanie. Mel quickly reconsidered and then deleted the affectionate expression, asking the same question Tina Turner had turned to gold: What’s love got to do with it?
After a long and laborious morning meeting, Will was anxious to return to the privacy of his office cubicle. He tossed his yellow legal pad on the desk and sat down to decipher his notes. His concentration held for approximately three minutes before he found himself leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, searching out the white noise the company piped in to filter out extraneous hubbub. After one grew accustomed to it, the light humming disappeared unnoticed into the atmosphere, but there were times when Will actively listened for it, finding the monotonous sound soothing.
As usual, thoughts of Melanie clogged his mind, usurping all available space for anything work-related. He knew that if he could just see her face again he’d be all right. And while Mel’s brutally direct response to his e-mail this morning dismayed him, its brevity also breathed hope into his sagging heart.
I am losing it. She tells me not to contact her again and I read hopefulness into the situation? This is the same woman who broke up with me in front of a room full of people, left me and the life we were planning together, and two months later has yet to give me any reasonable explanation for her actions. What kind of chump am I?
A chump still in love with a woman I’m certain still loves me, he answered himself, feeling his anger dissipate as quickly as it had erupted. While Will fully acknowledged his feelings of hurt and confusion, he would not allow himself to give life to his anger, knowing it would only eat away at his soul, leaving him as emotionally barren as his empty house for sale in Mitchellville.
Will knew full well that most men, and some women, would call him soft for his willingness to cling to any scrap of hope Melanie threw his way. But they couldn’t know how important she was to his ability to live life, not just plod through it. A huge part of him died nearly ten years ago—a plane crash taking from him not only his beloved parents but also his sense of security and belonging. Yet in Mel’s arms he felt reborn. No woman prior or since had made him feel that way. Life with Melanie Hitts meant escape from the prison of his solitude and he refused to give up on his heavenly stay of execution.
Understanding Melanie as well as he did, Will was certain that the short and impersonal communiqué was her way of running from a situation that continued to perplex and frighten her. A patient and empathetic man, Will decided that if Melanie needed more time to work out her issues, he would give it to her. He would honor her request and not contact her, at least for the moment. But he was also self-respecting and tenacious, and as far as he was concerned, Melanie Hitts was living on borrowed time. Will fully intended to make good on his pledge to not give up on the two of them. They were meant to be together and he was capable and damn sure willing to do any-and everything necessary to reclaim the woman he loved.
Chapter 3
“I definitely think it’s the right thing to do, honey. And now is the right time. Look at this,” John Carlson said as he handed his wife the real estate section of the New York Times. “It’s a seller’s market. Real estate around Connecticut is booming. We can more than double what we paid for this house.”
“This is not just a house, John, and it’s c
ertainly more than just an investment. This is our home,” Sharon Carlson replied, emotion causing her voice to waver.
“Home is where you make it, not the bricks and mortar you make it with. We bought the apartment on Central Park West over three years ago. It’s time we moved in. Let’s start taking advantage of New York City’s good life before it’s too late.”
Sharon looked out over the deck and onto their lakefront property. Immediately she was transported to a peaceful, relaxing Louisiana bayou. The hydrangeas, daylilies, and mountain laurels were in magnificent bloom, peeking colorfully over the split-rail fence. A gaggle of geese floated aimlessly under the feathery foliage of two large weeping willows, while the empty hammock tied to their trunks rocked in the gentle breeze. Her hazel-green eyes became fixated on the rowboat tied to the small dock and floating on the watery edge of their grounds. What could Central Park offer her that she didn’t already have in her own backyard? The Carlsons’ five-bedroom, saltbox-style farmhouse was built on over an acre and a half of prime wooded real estate in the lush community of northern Stamford, Connecticut. How could John even imagine leaving this serene splendor of nature for the cement thicket of New York City?
“I thought we were already living a good life.”
“Sweetheart, we are, but we’ve lived here for almost fifteen years and we certainly don’t need this big house for just the two of us. It’s time for an exciting change of venue. Think about it. Broadway, Times Square, Lincoln Center, museums, art galleries, and some of the finest restaurants in the world—right at our front doorstep.”
At forty-four years old, Sharon rarely craved the kind of excitement New York’s social scene had to offer. And on the rare occasions she did, she was a mere fifty-minute train ride from the city. She loved this place. Summering in Nantucket or accompanying John on his business trips around the world always left her eager to return to the familiar sanctity of her home. She had all the thrills she needed right here in Stamford. Sharon was a member of the local tennis team, competing twice a week during the season, was a volunteer for various charities, and helped organize the annual fundraisers for the community’s literacy program and the Stamford Museum and Nature Center. A self-imposed loner, she didn’t have many close friends in town, but those she had, like Joe and Myrtle Nunn, whom she and John played golf with once a month, and her doubles partner, Cathy Callahan, would be missed terribly.
“Why is moving such a priority for you all of a sudden?”
“It’s not so sudden. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. After nearly twenty years of designing buildings around the world, I’m burned out. I feel like I’m losing my edge—the punch that makes my work unique. I need to infuse myself with New York’s energy and get my creative spark back,” John admitted to his wife with more honest emotion than he’d shared in years.
“You’re in New York all the time. You stay in the company apartment at least twice a week. Why do we have to move?” Sharon asked.
“I stay because work keeps me in the city late and constantly commuting back and forth wears me out. Honey, the truth of the matter is that I’m fifty years old and living out here is beginning to make me feel ancient. I’m not ready to be put out to pasture, Sharon. I really want this. I need this change,” John said softly as he gently massaged his wife’s slender neck and ran his fingers through her ash-blond hair.
Sharon turned and gazed intently into the face of her husband. Staring back at her was the rugged sex appeal and sophistication of Harrison Ford, Richard Gere’s smooth boyish charm and thick can’t-wait-to-get-my-fingers-tangled-up-in-those-salt-and-pepper curls, and the mischievous eyes and creative intellect of Warren Beatty. My God, how she loved this man! If this was what John felt he needed, how could she deny him?
“I’ll call the real estate agent on Monday,” she conceded with a sigh.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” John stood up from the table and tightly hugged his wife. “This move will be a brand-new start for us. It will be great, honey. I promise,” John said as he kissed her on the lips before heading down to the pool house to change for his daily swim.
Great for whom? Sharon wondered as she cleared the breakfast dishes and stepped back into the house. She stacked the dishes into the dishwasher and mechanically cleaned off the counters as she mulled over her decision. With less than half an hour of discussion, she had once again acquiesced to the wishes of her spouse, this time agreeing to sell the home and life she loved.
But John says he really needs this, she told herself as she swallowed her disappointment and tears. And how much of a sacrifice is it really if we’ll be able to spend more time together?
As she finished straightening the kitchen, Sharon continued to rationalize the situation and sweep her pain and anger into the corner of her heart that stored the countless other sacrifices she’d made throughout their marriage. Over the past two decades she had willingly given up her life to meet the needs of John’s reputation as internationally renowned architect. Yes, she had made personal forfeits that sometimes pained and saddened her, but they’d certainly been worth it. In retrospect only one had been truly traumatic. The others had been relatively small when compared to the rich and joyful life John had afforded her.
Sharon watched from the window as John’s toned and tanned body sliced through the icy water of their lagoon-shaped pool. John liked to do his laps in near-frigid water, claiming it invigorated him. Even though she was a good swimmer, Sharon rarely used the pool, opting instead to sunbathe in the surrounding natural rock garden. She observed his smooth, even stroke take him from one end of the pool to the other and then watched as he climbed out and dried himself. Surely he’d miss his daily laps if they moved or the lazy summer afternoons he spent floating in the rowboat while she read aloud to him.
Let’s talk about the real reason you don’t want to move, directed a small but forceful voice inside her. Sharon tried to push the thoughts back into the Pandora’s box from which they came, but like a prankster’s can of snakes, they kept popping up, bringing with them a fresh onslaught of the tears.
Okay. Okay, Sharon silently yelled back. The truth was that yes, she did love this home dearly, but it wasn’t leaving this particular house that pained her so, it was leaving what it had come to represent. When she and John moved to northern Stamford, Sharon brought high hopes of fulfilling her longtime dream. She held on to and fostered her desire for twenty years, refusing to let it wane, allowing it to sustain her during all the lonely stretches of time when John was away on business. In her mind, as long as they continued to live in this house, her wish and the possibility of it being realized lived on as well. How could she ever explain to John that moving into Manhattan was not about giving up her home? It was about giving up the one dream that had made all her sacrifice tolerable.
“Make it the diamond watch. I don’t care which one. You pick something out and send it directly to the house,” John instructed his jeweler. “The card? Say, ‘You’ll always be my girl. I love you, John.’”
He hung up his cell phone, feeling uncomfortably conflicted. While a six-thousand-dollar diamond timepiece was a small token for the woman who had unselfishly given him the life he’d always wanted, John knew that his gift came just as much from a guilty conscious as a grateful heart. He leaned back into his pool-side chaise, unable to curb the renegade twinge of guilt rising within him. John had long since eliminated that particular sentiment from his repertoire of emotions. Guilt was wasted energy, sapping valuable concentration that could go into his work. But every now and then the feeling defied him and bobbed to the surface, riding his emotional tide like a message in a bottle.
He knew that Sharon didn’t want to leave Stamford, just as he knew that she wouldn’t fight his decision. She never did. In twenty-three years of marriage, his wife had always been predictably compliant. There was an inherent fragility about Sharon that often left John feeling and acting overly protective. Sometimes he felt more like a parent than
a spouse. And even though he had gotten used to being in total control of their life together, there were times when John wished Sharon would display more backbone and fight for her desires. Yet John also realized that this freedom to act unilaterally in both his personal and professional life had been the number one factor in his meteoric rise to the top of the architectural tower.
John Remington Carlson was a talented man of creative vision. His lifelong professional desire to erect standing monuments of functional art was second only to his wish to live the solid, stable personal life he’d never known as a child. Even as a teenager, John had been determined to prove that the Carlson family legacy of alcoholism and divorce ended at his threshold. He vowed to never repeat the selfish and hurtful mistakes of his womanizing father. In all their years together, out of respect for his wife and dread for his past, John had successfully curbed any attraction he felt toward other women.
Together they had built a gratifying existence, and while Sharon frequently credited him for saving her from a lifetime of being ignored, in many ways John felt that she was the legitimate hero. He was so fortunate to have found such an understanding and unselfish mate and was conscientious about not taking her unfailing support for granted. Through the years John had been a responsible and loving spouse, working hard to provide her with the best that life had to offer. He’d bought her jewelry, exotic vacations, luxury cars, and even had a suite in a hotel he’d built in Dubai named after her.
You’ve given her everything except the one thing she really wanted, he thought, unable to will away his annoying guilt pangs. John looked up into the kitchen window and saw Sharon staring down on him. He blew her a kiss and smiled. Grateful love was a heavy burden to bear for both giver and receiver.
“You’ve been going back and forth on choosing a Realtor for three weeks now. If we want to be living in Manhattan by the holidays, Sharon, we have to get moving on this. Now I have to get to the office. We’ll finish discussing this at dinner,” John said, ending their breakfast discussion as he grabbed his Coach briefcase and headed toward the garage door.
Hitts & Mrs. Page 3
