“Oh, this morning was wonderful,” I assured him, quickly removing my hand from his leg and placing it in my lap. “It’s been a perfect weekend. Maybe we should quit our jobs, move to Connecticut, and spend our days making mad, passionate love.”
He laughed again. “Now, there’s an idea.”
On Sunday, after only forty-five minutes spent poking through antique stores, art galleries, and clothing boutiques in downtown New Bern, Brian insisted we get going.
“Let’s go for a drive. There’s something I want to show you.”
“What?”
He smiled enigmatically. “You’ll see.”
Next thing I knew, we were driving down a country road to the north, in the opposite direction to New York. Brian took a sharp left into a narrow driveway lined with privet hedges on both sides and pulled up in front of a white clapboard cottage with peeling paint and a sloping porch.
He shifted the car into park and opened the door. “Well? How do you like it?”
“How do I like what?”
Still confused I got out of the car and followed Brian to the house. The front door opened, and a short, chubby woman with gray hair and rhinestone wingtip eyeglasses stepped onto the porch.
“Brian Oliver,” he said, striding forward to shake the woman’s hand. “You must be Wendy. Sorry we’re late.”
Late? How could we be late for an appointment I didn’t even know we had?
“That’s all right. It’s not like I had anything better to do besides sit in the office and wait for people to not buy houses. The market’s been flat as a pancake for more than a year.” She laughed—actually, it was more of a snort—making her rhinestone glasses bounce on the bridge of her nose.
“But if you’ve got the money to do it, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, you couldn’t pick a better time to buy a second home.”
I looked at my husband, wide-eyed, finally realizing what he was up to.
“A second home? Brian, we can’t—”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the door. “I can’t wait for you to see it. If it looks half as good as it did online, it’ll be perfect for us.”
Perfect for us?
The porch was rotted as well as sloped, but not as sloped as the wooden floors, and the roof was covered with moss. The kitchen was bigger than the little galley affair in our apartment but still very small, with ugly green linoleum and untrimmed cabinets, painted beige. The only bathroom had rust stains in the tub and a flow of water that was more a drip than a stream. An impossibly steep, narrow staircase led to two tiny bedrooms tucked under ceilings so low and sharply angled that Brian could straighten his back only when standing in the center of the room.
In spite of all that, it was charming. And cozy. I wondered what it would be like to lie in bed on a morning in early spring and listen to raindrops patter against the moss-covered roof. Or to pull up a chair next to one of the many-paned windows and stare out onto a wide, grassy meadow dotted with huge maple trees ablaze with bright red leaves.
“It’s only two acres,” Wendy said apologetically. “But the trees are planted so thick along the border of the meadow that you can’t see your neighbors, even in winter.”
Two acres? That was more land than I’d ever dreamed of owning.
“There’s an oil furnace, of course,” Wendy said as she escorted us into the living room. “But this fireplace can practically heat the whole house. Well . . . the main floor.”
I could believe that. The huge fireplace seemed a little out of scale in comparison to the rest of the room, but I could imagine how warm and safe the room would feel with the fireplace blazing on a cold day, how peaceful it would be to sit by that fire on a snowy night with a book and a glass of wine at hand and no phones or computers to jar your sensibilities or inhibit your focus—a simple and peaceful existence, like something from another time, which it was. No one lived like that anymore, us least of all.
Brian squatted down next to the fireplace. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out to take hold of an iron bar and swing it out into the center of the firebox.
Wendy squinted through her rhinestone rims. “That’s for cooking. See that groove on the end of the bar? That’s where you’d hang your soup pot. When this house was built, they were still cooking over the fire.” She bent down for a closer look. “And see there? That’s a beehive oven. Two hundred years ago, people baked their bread in that.”
Brian sat back on his haunches and looked up at me, an enormous smile on his face. “Well? What do you think? Let’s make an offer!”
“An offer? What . . . now?” I sputtered. “Today? On this house? Why? Brian . . . we’ve never even discussed getting a second home. And now, after forty-eight hours in Connecticut, you just want to . . .”
Brian was looking at me blankly, as if he couldn’t quite grasp what was distressing me, as if I was the one who was behaving irrationally.
“Honey, you don’t just decide to buy a house five minutes after you walk through the door!”
“We decided to buy our apartment five minutes after we walked through the door.”
“That was different. If we hadn’t snapped it up right away, somebody else would have, and we actually needed a place to live. And it was in New York. In an established building with management, and a concierge, and a super . . .” I threw up my hands.
“Brian, you don’t know anything about this place! It could have rats, or termites, or God knows what. It could have a leaky basement or broken windows or . . .”
He must be joking. He had to be! Sure, we’d had the occasional romantic, wine-induced conversation about living in a farmhouse off in the country and raising chickens or peaches or something. Or buying a run-down Victorian in a little college town somewhere and restoring it to its former glory. But that wasn’t for now. That was for . . . someday. When we had time and money and fewer responsibilities. And anyway, the reason those romantic conversations were so romantic was because, in our hearts, we both knew it was never going to happen!
“What if there’s a fire? Or a blizzard? What if the roof blows off or the pipes burst? Who’s going to deal with that if we’re in the city? How would we even know it happened?”
Brian gave me his exasperated look, the one that says he thinks I’m being overly dramatic. “We’ll get an alarm system or . . . a caretaker or something.”
“People in New Bern generally just find somebody to look in on their places,” Wendy said helpfully, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “There’s a teenage boy, Drew Kelleher, who lives nearby. He could keep an eye on things for you.”
“Sounds perfect,” Brian said. And then, as if everything were settled, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. A single, folded check.
“Hold on! What are you doing? We can’t just buy this house! We don’t even know how much it costs!”
“One ninety-five,” Wendy replied quickly. “The land alone is worth the price. You can’t buy two flat, cleared acres this close to town for less than one seventy-five.”
“Or even a studio in Manhattan,” Brian added, unfolding the check. “It’s a steal.”
“A steal? It’s one hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars!” I shouted.
Brian’s grin disappeared. Wendy stared at the ceiling, trying to look invisible.
“I’ll just step outside and let you two talk,” she said, and made a hasty exit.
“You’re mad,” Brian said as soon as she was gone.
“Let’s call it surprised,” I said flatly.
“I thought you’d be excited. I was trying to be spontaneous.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t buying it. “Making an appointment with a Realtor without telling me isn’t being spontaneous. Neither is taking a check out of the book and slipping it in your pocket so you can make an offer on the spot. Brian, we’ve never even talked about buying a second home. And all of a sudden . . . What is going on?”
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
“I was going to wait to tell you later. Don’t look so worried,” he said, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s good news. I’m being promoted. As of Monday, I’ll be vice president of strategic acquisitions. Comes with a big increase in salary.” His pseudo smile faded. “And in travel.”
“More travel? But you already spend fifty percent of your time on the road.”
“Well, now it’s going to be eighty percent,” he said. “The chairman thinks it’s a good time to pick up some companies cheaply. They want me to acquire a company every two months. You know what that means.”
I did. Trips to investigate companies, most of which would turn out to be dead ends, weeding out the weak from the strong; on-site meetings with the management teams to figure out who they’d keep and who they would let go; return trips with teams of accountants to go over books, inventories, and payables; and endless meetings with attorneys. Brian had been involved in two acquisitions in the previous year. The thought of him doing it full-time, being on the road week after week, made my heart sink.
“We’ll still have weekends,” he assured me. “And if we have a place out in the country, at least we could make the most of what we will have together. I’ll be able to take some three-day weekends. And once I get settled in the job, maybe I can work out of the house, or up here, a couple of days a month.”
He moved closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, Gayla. I’d have told you about the promotion and my idea about the house and all, but I didn’t want to say anything until we’d seen the town. If we hated it, I figured I’d just call the Realtor and cancel the appointment, but . . . I like it here. Don’t you?”
I sighed. “Do you realize how much work this place needs?”
“You’re always saying I need a hobby.” He spread out his hands. “This could be it. We could work on it together. It’d give us something to talk about besides the kids and work. And it would be a kind of refuge. I haven’t started the job yet, but already, I can’t go to the loo without that wanker Mike Barrows calling. But since we’ve been in New Bern?” Brian pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it up so I could see. “No calls from the boss. Not a one. That alone is worth the price,” he said with a teasing smile.
“Baby, are you sure you want this promotion?”
He shrugged. “We’re buried in debt. Now we can pay it all off. Even the college loans—yours and the twins. Think how good it would feel to get out from under that. Anyway, it’s not like I can turn it down. When Mike offered me the job, he said, ‘You’re either moving up the ladder or out the door. There’s no treading water at this company, Oliver.’”
He made a puffing sound with his lips. “Barrows is a git, a total tosser. But he’s right. I can’t turn this down and expect to stay at Ellison-Farley. And so, to answer your question, am I sure I want this promotion? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t?”
“Oh, honey.” I reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead, wishing there was something more I could say, but he’d already said it all.
Brian had spent his whole career with this company, but if he turned down this opportunity, they’d probably turn him out the door. Nobody was hiring, and even if they had been, Ellison-Farley had already bought most of its competitors. Now it looked like it was going to buy up the rest. Five years ago, Brian would have had no trouble finding another job, but not now. And I couldn’t support us on my income alone. Not yet.
There was no choice. Brian had to take the job. But we’d get through it. We always had. And if I looked on the bright side, I could already see how there might be some good for us in this—not just financially, but good for us, as a couple.
I turned in a slow circle, taking in the sloping wooden floor, the dusty beams, the low ceilings, until I faced the fireplace, stained black from the soot of two hundred years.
Brian came up behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
I reached behind and pulled his arm around my waist. “About having my way with you in front of this fireplace.”
I never did have my way with him in front of the fireplace, or he with me.
Our intentions were good. For a few months, a few weeks, we spent every weekend in New Bern. But then he ended up having to stay in the Midwest for some weekend meetings, and I had to do some traveling of my own, attending conferences and visiting campuses, and we fell out of the habit of coming here and making time for each other. Somehow, I never noticed it was happening, never perceived the problem, because I truly didn’t think there was one.
But Brian did.
He knew the marriage was in trouble as early as three years ago, maybe even before. He’d sensed we were drifting apart and that the distance between us would only widen if we didn’t do something about it. And what he’d done was bought the cottage, thinking it would tether us one to the other, keep us connected even as time, circumstances, and simple indifference pulled us apart.
Three years ago, as we sat on the porch and I was smiling with surprise and confusion, he was smiling with relief and satisfaction because he thought he’d fixed a problem I didn’t even know we had. Or maybe I just didn’t want to know. It’s hard to say.
I laid the photo album on the table and walked down the steps and across the grass to my would-be garden. The planters were finished, defined by borders of gray-white Belgian block, and the boxwood hedges, stubby but promising, had been planted along the outer borders. But the archway entrances had yet to be installed, the pathways were still devoid of gravel, and the soil was scraped brown and bare; no flowers had been planted so far. But as I walked between the expectant flower beds, I spied a small patch of green, the leaves of a weed with especially deep roots that had managed to survive the ravages of the rototiller.
I bent down to pull it out, but as I got closer, I could see that there wasn’t just one green sprout pushing up through the earth, but dozens. I plucked out a few but realized that I needed to spend some serious time out here before we planted the new flowers, digging down deep and getting rid of the roots. Otherwise, weeds would spring up everywhere and take over my garden.
I stood up, brushed my dirty hands on the legs of my jeans, then pulled my cigarettes from my jacket pocket and lit one up, strolling through the garden and around the yard, smoking and thinking.
19
Ivy
Drip, a coffeehouse just outside of New Haven, was the location of the “It’s Only Coffee!” speed-dating event. It’s also where I spent the longest eighteen minutes of my life.
After checking in at the registration desk, getting my packet and a sticker with my number, twenty-three, then picking up a decaf vanilla latte from the counter, I sat down at a two-seater café table. The crowd was bigger than I’d imagined it would be. There were probably thirty tables, maybe more. A lone woman sat at each one.
Mandy, the cheery organizer of the evening’s festivities, who looked to be fresh out of college and seemed unable to speak a sentence that didn’t include the word “okay,” wasn’t exactly the kind of person I’d had in mind when I’d read about the “dating experts” in the ad copy. She clapped her hands to get the crowd’s attention.
“Okay. Everyone should have gotten a piece of yellow paper in their packet with a list of five numbers on it, okay? Wave your hand if you don’t have a list.”
She waited while people opened their packets and pulled out the list, scanning the room for waving hands. When none appeared, her face lit up.
“Okay! Good! That’s your date list, okay? The women are going to stay seated at the tables. Ladies, be sure to put the stickers with your numbers where they can be seen, okay? Okay. Guys, when I blow the whistle, you’re going to look for the table that matches the first number on your list and sit down. You’ve got six minutes to talk to each other, and believe me, they’re going to fly by, so don’t be shy. Just jump right in and start talking, okay?
“When I blow the whistle again,
move on to your next date, which will be the second number on the list, and so on. Remember,” she cautioned, “even if you’re enjoying talking to your date, when I blow the whistle you have to move on to your next date, okay? There are a lot of interesting people here tonight, and we want you to meet as many of them as possible.
“So. Okay. Does everybody understand the rules? Okay? No questions? Okay!” she exclaimed and clapped her hands again. “Ready? Set? Let’s date!”
At the blast of the whistle, there was a sudden murmuring and milling about as men searched for the correct women. I felt conspicuous sitting there, feeling all those sets of eyes checking me out, and so, even though I don’t like sugar in my coffee, I reached for a packet and added it to my latte, just so I wouldn’t have to look up.
Just about the time I was thinking, with a certain amount of relief, that no one had gotten my number this go-round, a skinny, washed-out looking man wearing skinny, washed-out jeans and a red and white plaid shirt plopped down across from me and introduced himself.
Kieran Fleischman took Mandy’s advice about jumping right in to heart. Within two minutes of his sitting down, I learned that he liked watching reruns of Father Knows Best on the nostalgia channel, owned a metal detector and, using it, had once collected fourteen dollars and twelve cents in dropped change from under the bleachers at the Yale soccer field, and spent his weekends geocaching, which basically sounded like using electronic compasses to go on scavenger hunts. He lived with his parents but was going to be getting a place of his own as soon as he could save up the money for a deposit. Last summer, he’d been a camp counselor someplace in New Hampshire, but the camp had been closed down because of some alleged infraction of the health code—“totally bogus,” he assured me—and so he was “between opportunities.”
“You haven’t worked since last summer?”
“Well . . . I mow my dad’s lawn every Friday, but the job market is really slow now. I’ve been applying for some jobs in finance, but they won’t even talk to you if you don’t have experience.” He spread out his hands in a sort of “go figure” gesture. “I don’t think I’d really like finance anyway. I’ve been thinking about auditioning for American Idol instead.”
Apart at the Seams Page 17
