by Nancy Thayer
“Ben.” Usually Emily would kiss him hello, but something in his expression makes her hesitate. She holds open the door. “Come in.”
She leads him to the long living room where the fire is nicely blazing, warming the room. She sits in an armchair facing the sofa. Ben lowers himself to the sofa. For a long moment, they say nothing, both afraid.
Ben is clean shaven and smells freshly bathed, like pine-scented soap. His black curls gleam, but dark circles shadow his eyes.
“That sweater looks good on you,” she observes.
It was her Christmas present to him last year, a navy blue cashmere crewneck that sets off his vivid coloring. He and Maggie have always looked more distinct than other people. Emily always felt wan and anemic next to them.
“Thank you,” Ben says simply. “It’s a great sweater.”
She thinks her heart will split open with love and sadness. He is so brave to wear this sweater, to try to please her, to remind her of their profound connection, especially after all their discontent lately.
“Look, Emily, I have something to tell you.” Ben leans forward, clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees.
“All right,” she responds warily.
“I know you’re worried about me and money. About my ability to support you.”
Emily cringes. “I’m so sorry—”
He holds up his hand to stop her. “I haven’t come here to criticize you. I love you, Emily, I’ve loved you all my life. I’ll never stop loving you, no matter what happens.”
Emily’s heart is breaking as she looks at this lovely man with his clear, honest eyes, his open, trusting face. She does love him, too, but clearly they aren’t good for each other. She clasps her hands. “Oh, Ben—”
“Emily, I think we should end it.”
She feels as if a bolt of lightning has struck her, shearing her in half. He wants to end it? Confused, she touches her forehead, trying to make sense of what he just said. “Ben, I’m not sure …”
“I am. We’re making each other miserable, and it’s getting us nowhere.” Rising, he paces the room, running his hand through his black hair. “We’ve talked ourselves crazy. We haven’t found a solution.”
“If you weren’t so stubborn—” Emily starts to protest.
Ben turns and honors Emily with such an affectionate smile he takes her breath away.
“Yes,” she admits quietly. “I’m stubborn, too.”
Ben nods. “We’ve worked ourselves up into a truly unpleasant snarl of disagreement. We need to end it and move on with our lives. You should finish your master’s degree. I’ll focus on my work here.”
“Other people?” Emily’s eyes fill with tears. The thought of Ben with another woman makes her feel first wild with jealousy, then weak with sadness.
Ben sits down next to her on the sofa. “Other people.”
“Oh, Ben.” Emily’s crying, and if she had to say why, she wouldn’t be able to sort through all the reasons.
He puts his hand on her shoulder. “You know I’m right.”
Does she? Does she know anything for sure? Almost frantically, she embraces him. “Oh, Ben, I do love you.”
“I know you do.” He kisses her forehead.
“Ben—” She has never loved him more. She has never wanted him more. “Please, Ben.” She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for.
Ben whispers, “Hush. It’s all right.”
His mouth finds hers. Their kiss is passionate, knowledgeable, dense with memories and sorrow. She pushes him away long enough to strip off her sweater, jeans, and underwear. He pulls his sweater off over his head, his black curls crackling with electricity in the dry air. He stands to unzip his pants and step out of them, then perches on the edge of the sofa for a moment to bend down and take off his shoes. He pulls her naked body against his. He is strong and powerful, his chest and thighs and forearms are meaty with muscle. He is no angel, no spirit, he is as real as the earth they walk on. He lifts Emily onto the sofa and rises above her, telling her with his mouth and eyes and his body that he loves her. He steals her soul, he forcefully melds spirit and body, making her whole. He cannot be breaking off with her, he can’t. Emily clutches Ben against her as tightly as she can.
He shudders and subsides against her. When he tries to push himself up, she doesn’t release him. “No. I won’t let you go.”
Ben lies with her while their breath evens out. She can feel the wrinkles of the dust sheet against her back, the whisper of his hair against her neck, the bulk of his body against hers.
He pushes up again, this time with enough effort to break her grasp. He jumps off the sofa and goes into the bathroom. She pulls on her clothes, runs her hands through her hair, attempts to corral her thoughts into some order, but when he comes back, she can tell his mind is set. He’s ready to leave her.
“Ben, can we at least talk on the phone? Email?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Better to make a clean break. It’s a new year. Time for both of us to start over.”
She can’t prevent the tears swelling her chest and throat and spilling down her face. “Ben, I love you,” she pleads.
“I love you,” he replies evenly. Then he delivers the blow: “And I wish you well.”
He goes out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. A moment later Emily hears the engine of his Jeep roar, and headlights flash across the front of the house.
Ben’s gone.
Somehow this was not what she meant to happen.
“Hi, Maggie.”
“Cameron!” She almost leaps off her chair with joy. “How was your trip home?”
“The trip was easy, but I arrived here to find a shit storm, excuse my language, of work waiting for me. Sorry I didn’t phone last night like I said I would, but I had to go to the office. I was up half the night with John Endicott working on some tax problems for a client.”
“Oh, dear.” Maggie sighs theatrically. “How terribly unbohemian.”
“Right. Dull as dirt and wickedly complicated. In fact, I’ve got to rush back to the office. I wanted to say hello and I’d like to talk longer. I don’t know when I’ll find a chance to call again. This is like trying to wrestle Medusa.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Maggie tells him confidently. “I’ll be right here on the island whenever you have time to call.”
“That’s good to know, Maggie, it really is.” Cameron’s quiet for a moment, then says, “All right. Good-bye for now.”
“Good-bye,” Maggie says, but she’s not sure he’s still on the line to hear her.
Part Five
Treasure Island
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Frances holds Maggie’s head while she vomits into the toilet.
“Thanks,” Maggie says weakly. Slumping against the cool tile wall, she catches her breath.
Frances hauls Maggie up and walks her to her childhood room in Thaddeus’s house. “I’m glad you came home to be sick. I wouldn’t want Clarice to catch this flu, and she’s hardly up to taking care of you, anyway. Want some more 7Up?”
Maggie collapses on the bed. “No, thanks, Mom. I want to lie here and be miserable.” She moans as she looks around the bedroom with its cheerful yellow walls, pristine white trim, and daisy-sprigged curtains. Such a sweet, optimistic place.
Frances pulls the daisy-spotted covers up over Maggie, then bends to kiss her forehead. “Don’t be miserable. Dream.”
Maggie obeys, curling beneath the covers. She hasn’t seen Cameron since their romantic liaison in the Jared Coffin House. It’s been six weeks since he phoned her from Manhattan. Since then, she’s had only one brief, rather impersonal text from him: First of year crazy busy. I’ll call soon. But he hasn’t called or texted since.
Next to her, the February wind rattles the bedroom windows. A blizzard heads over the island like a relentless unstoppable fate.
Emily returns to Amherst to work on her master’s. She forces herself to concentrate on h
er research. She tells herself it doesn’t matter if her phone doesn’t buzz.
But by the middle of February, everything has changed.
Emily sits alone in her apartment. Her two roommates are in class. She told them she had the flu, but she’s sure that’s not what’s making her nauseous. The past week she’s kept saltines under her bed and munched a couple before sitting up.
She can’t be pregnant, absolutely won’t be.
New Year’s night with Ben …
That December night with Cameron.
She picks up the phone and punches in Maggie’s number. “Maggie? Can you talk? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“Oh … I’ve got the flu.” Maggie’s voice is weak.
“I know exactly how you feel. I really do. I’ve got the flu, too.”
Maggie chuckles. “Poor us. It’s the season.”
“Listen, Maggie … not that I don’t want to talk about you. I do. But I need to know about Ben. It’s been a month now. He won’t answer my phone calls. He won’t answer my emails or texts. I don’t know what to do.”
“Emily, a month isn’t very long. Give him more time.”
“Is he seeing someone else?” Emily asks. Her heart stops when, for a long time, Maggie doesn’t respond. “Maggie? Maggie, answer me. Please. Oh, God, Maggie, Ben is seeing someone else!”
“Let’s say he’s seeing quite a few someone elses,” Maggie admits.
“Oh, Maggie, no.”
“Emily, it’s better than if he were seeing one special woman. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand him, Maggie.” Emily stands up when she speaks, and a wave of nausea nearly knocks her to the ground. “How could he start seeing other women so fast?”
“I think he really meant it when he said it was over between you two.”
“It can’t be—”
“I know, Emily, I hate it, too. I’ve tried to talk to him, I really have. I’ve spent hours trying to make him change his mind, but he won’t talk to me. He feels deeply, I know, but he shoves the emotion inside and it fuels him like a race car.” It sounds like Maggie’s crying. “Emily, you know I’ve hoped for years you two would get married. But now …”
Emily’s weeping, too. “Do you truly believe Ben is through with me?”
Maggie’s quiet again before she says, “Emily, I don’t know what to say. Except, maybe, couldn’t you allow him some time to sort this all out in his dim male mind? Give him a year or two?”
Emily almost laughs through her tears. Her call-waiting light blinks; the number comes up on her phone. Cameron Chadwick is calling her.
“No, Maggie,” Emily says sadly. “I don’t think I can wait that long. If Ben’s made up his mind, well …”
Maggie interrupts in an urgent voice. “Emily, I’m going to barf. I’ll call you back.”
Emily puts down the phone and sits staring into space, lost in her thoughts, lost in her life.
Then she listens to her voicemail message. Cameron’s going skiing at his boss’s ski house this weekend. Would Emily like to come?
Well, okay. Yes. She would.
At the end of February, Maggie’s curled in a ball when she hears her mother come into the room.
“Good morning, sweetheart. How do you feel?”
“Awful.”
“Would you like to see the doctor?”
“No, Mom.” Maggie sounds more brusque than she means to.
“Maggie.” Her mother very carefully sits on the side of Maggie’s bed. Lightly, she puts her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. The warmth feels nice. “Maggie. Do you think it could be something else?”
Dread flushes Maggie, as if she’s inhaled dry ice and it’s freezing her veins. “No.” She rolls over. “Oh, Mom. It can’t be.”
“I don’t mean to scare you, but when did you have your last period?”
Maggie presses trembling fingers to her eyes, trying to remember. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe not since the middle of December. But, Mom—oh, my God.”
“Look,” Frances decides practically. “Before you spin into freak mode, let’s find out, okay?”
“Okay,” Maggie whispers.
“Tell you what, I’ll go buy a pregnancy test.” When Frances rises, the bed creaks lightly, like a baby’s whimper.
The ski lodge in Stowe, Vermont, is decorated in a rustic style, all open beams and fires in stone-faced fireplaces, but the rooms are luxurious and modern. Cameron’s boss, John Endicott, and his wife, Cornelia, had seen on the snow report that Saturday would be a perfect day to ski, so they booked the firm’s private plane, a nine-seater. The other partner, Clark Streeter, and his wife, Mindy, flew up, too. The Streeters are an ancient couple, so they choose to snowshoe around the grounds before cuddling up in front of the fire with books. Cornelia Endicott is fifty, but a tremendous athlete, a better skier than her husband. Emily is good, but it’s been a while since she’s skied, and she is grateful that Cameron matched his pace on the slopes to hers.
Her morning sickness faded the moment she stepped into the private plane and disappeared completely as she skied over the pristine white powder. Her legs felt strong and flexible, her heart pumped out energy, and her senses expanded with pleasure at the beauty of the world. She’d forgotten this, the exhilaration of winter sports.
Now as she stands under the steaming hot water in the glass shower, her sensation of delight continues. So many little, seemingly insignificant moments happened today, and Emily smiles smugly as she reviews them. The way Cameron introduced her to the Endicotts and the Streeters, subtly stressing her last name, Porter, which naturally led his boss to ask Emily if her father was Peter Porter, the financial lawyer. The glances the Endicotts and Streeters exchanged when Emily told them that yes, he was. When Cornelia Endicott told Emily she knew Emily’s mother, Cara, from charity work, Cameron looked pleased. Emily’s acquaintance is an asset to him.
But is that the only reason he invited her here?
Emily comes out of the bathroom wearing a fluffy white terry-cloth robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, her entire body flushed with the heat of a hot shower.
Cameron’s waiting, stripped naked for his shower. His body is narrow and slender, and while not bulky with muscle, it is fit and firm. Elegant, a greyhound’s racing body.
He sees her looking and grins. “Uh-uh. You have to wait. We have to meet the others for drinks and dinner.” He brushes past her as he moves into the bathroom. “I won’t be long.”
Emily pulls on her black tights and Icelandic sweater. She pulls her hair back with a headband and applies the minimum of makeup. Her morning sickness has almost disappeared, and her belly’s still flat. But her breasts are larger than normal, and they tingle. She won’t think about that this weekend.
Steam rolls through the room as Cameron comes out. He dresses in corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt. “So what do you think?”
“I think this is a perfect weekend,” Emily tells him, enunciating carefully as she applies her lipstick at the old-fashioned vanity table.
“Do you like the Endicotts?” Cameron brushes his blond hair, and he’s ready.
“I do.” Emily gives herself one last assessment in the mirror and stands. “The Streeters are a bit … old-fashioned …”
“Well, of course. Clark and Mindy are a million years old.”
“True. I do like Cornelia. She’s fun, and she’s a fabulous athlete.”
“Good,” Cameron says. “I’m glad you like her.”
As he opens the door and ushers Emily out of the room, Emily wonders why Cameron’s glad. She’s had the sense over the past month that he’s been vetting her, putting her through her paces in front of friends and family. Does he want to marry her?
Does Emily want to marry him?
She wonders what Ben is doing.
Frances and Maggie sit together on her bed, watching the second hand of Frances’s watch click around the tiny round face.
When the tim
e’s up, they lift the indicator and read the color: blue.
“Blue as baby’s booties,” Frances says.
Maggie covers her face with her hands.
Back in Amherst after their ski weekend, Emily strolls through a baby care store to see how it feels. To her surprise, the sight of it all enchants her: the sweet little furniture, the bassinets and cradles, the musical mobiles, and especially the miniature clothes, with the cotton as soft as baby powder. They’re all the most seductive things she’s ever set eyes on.
She has to be sure.
Emily goes to a pharmacy across from the public library, off campus, where she’s not likely to run into anyone. She buys a pregnancy test, then hurries into the library and down the stairs to the rest-room. Here, in the silent basement of this majestic institution, she takes the test.
One last time she calls Ben’s cell. This is it, Emily decides. Here we go, Fate, she thinks, she prays, I’m rolling the dice. You make the call.
Ben doesn’t pick up.
She calls Cameron. He answers. Emily invites him to dinner at her parents’ home in New York that Friday night.
Emily’s parents have left for their Florida house, so Emily tells the other grad students she has a family emergency (well, she does), finds her little Touareg in the underground garage, and drives down from the university into the city.
Snow falls on Manhattan, transformed by the streetlights into powder puffs. Emily goes around the apartment’s living room, turning on lights, pulling the drapes closed over the long windows. It’s as if she’s shutting them into a cozy, private little world. A luxurious world.
She’s wearing a scarlet cashmere sweater that does an excellent job of displaying her breasts, swollen with pregnancy, for once a decent, commendable size.
Cameron steps off the elevator into the foyer, shaking snow off his fur hat. “We’ve got a real winter storm going on,” he says. “Good thing you wanted to eat inside. I don’t think our chances of getting a taxi are high.”
“It’s nice in here, too,” Emily coos, kissing Cameron’s cheek. “Let me take your coat.”
