I got out of my head and came back to earth just in time to hear Brian say that, while he missed me and the apartment felt too big when I wasn’t there, for the first time in a long time, he had taken his guitar out of the case and played a little music. It felt good, he said.
“Who knows?” he joked. “Maybe we should both take a sabbatical.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “I have to say I’m really excited about my garden. I planted the lavender this week and a whole flat of purple salvia. I put in some hydrangea bushes too.”
“Oh, yes?” Brian asked, making a miming motion with his hand, like he was signing his signature in the air, so the server would know we were ready for the check. “That’s wonderful, darling. Good for you. That’s something you’ve always talked about, isn’t it?”
I nodded and touched my napkin to my lips before laying it on the tablecloth, ready to wrap up the evening and head home. “Of course, it turned into a bigger project than I would have imagined. I got a little carried away.”
Brian paused in the middle of calculating the tip. “You? Carried away?” He chuckled and turned his attention back to the bill.
“I’m so grateful Dan lives right next door. It’d be too much for me to manage on my own. Don’t know what I’d do without him. He comes over practically every day.”
I hadn’t planned on saying that. It just popped out, an unnecessary, immature, and somewhat untrue utterance by Crazy Me, a pathetic attempt to rouse my husband’s jealousy. I knew I was being ridiculous, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy his reaction. Rational Me’s grip on the reins still wasn’t as tight as it should have been.
Brian looked up. “He’s there every day? Why every day?”
“I told you—because it’s gotten to be a big project. It’s too much for me to deal with alone, especially installing the hardscape. Lifting all those huge rocks and shoveling all that dirt? I’d never be able to manage it. But Dan is incredibly strong, picks up those rocks like they’re nothing. It’s fascinating to watch. Dan comes highly recommended, and fortunately for us,” I said with a sweet smile, “he’s right next door. How lucky is that?”
Brian frowned as he slipped his credit card back into his wallet. “I don’t like the idea of him coming over to the house all the time, not when I’m not there.”
“Well, he’s not in the house, Brian. He’s in the garden. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Take that look off your face. I needed help with the garden, and Dan turned out to be the perfect man for the job.”
I almost said, It just happened; it doesn’t mean anything, but managed to stop myself.
Brian slid out of the left side of the booth. I slid right.
“How much is he charging? Whatever it is, I’m not paying for it.”
I picked my handbag up from the banquette and looped it over my forearm.
“Well, then. Isn’t it fortunate that I am perfectly capable of paying my own way?”
The ride back to the cottage seemed even longer than the ride to town had been. Our earlier silence had been awkward, as we struggled within ourselves, trying to think of what we ought to say. This silence was more smoldering, as we struggled to keep from saying what we ought not to say.
Even so, when we got to the cottage, Brian once again exited the car first and jogged quickly around to the other side to open my door for me. I appreciated the gesture, his effort to move us past our moment of mutual pettiness, and so when I stood up I leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips and said thank you for a lovely evening.
He kissed me back, but not lightly.
He put his hand on the back of my head, running his fingers under my hair, which I’d worn loose because I knew he liked it long. He cradled my head in the bowl of his hand, making it impossible for me to pull my lips from his.
But at that moment, pulling away from him was the last thing I wanted.
My mouth fell open like a sigh, and I let go of all the tension and my right to be right because, at least for that moment, I didn’t care about who was right or who had been wronged, or the balancing of scales, or the paying of debts. I just wanted him to kiss me, to feel his tongue tracing the curve of my lips, the ridge of my teeth, his body shifting mine to the right with the unyielding metal of the car at my back, so he could press his hips hard against mine while his lips moved from my mouth to the soft flesh of my neck, to that sensitive spot just at the top of my collarbone, the place that makes me melt, that made my arms lift of their own accord, fluid and thoughtless, like water birds in flight, to drape over his shoulders and around his neck, while I arched toward him so my buttons would be easier to undo, my skirt easier to raise. I opened my mouth again and closed my eyes. At any second, I was going to cry.
Because it had been so long, so long since he touched me like this, weeks upon weeks that added up to months upon months, and I didn’t know, not until that moment, how much I missed this and how very much I wanted him.
He moved his lips lower, and I dropped my head back, making that small sound that I don’t make at any other time, the utterance that has no exact translation, a sound that is part yielding, part possession. Brian lifted his mouth from the curve of my breast, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “Let’s go inside.”
And when he said it, I knew he meant forever and for always, that if I let him come into the house, he was in; he would stay. Allowing him entrance would be my pact and promise to let go of all he had done, and not done, and left undone. And for a moment, I wanted him so much that I thought I could say yes. I wanted to.
But then he did something I didn’t expect.
He lowered his head again, brushed his lips across the top of my breast, his lips and then . . . his teeth. Not a bite, not precisely, but more like a bite than a kiss, something new, something he had never done before, not in the twenty-six years of our lovemaking, and I knew that this thing, this new thing that made my skin shiver and my nerves go taut, was something he had learned, and practiced, and done with her, for her, and maybe she had liked it.
I turned hard to the left, pulled my body away from his, buttoning my undone buttons and said, “I don’t think so. It’s not a good idea.”
I ran into the house. He walked quickly after me, taking big strides, calling my name like a question, wondering what he’d done. How could he not know?
I closed the door and locked it, standing with my back pressed to the hard wood and cold glass until he gave up, walked back to the car, and drove away. As the headlights swept over the driveway, rippling across the windowpanes like water from a crystal fountain, I sank to the floor and buried my face in my hands.
21
Gayla
The next day, I brooded. And that night I had a dream. The kind of dream I haven’t had in a long time, a very sensual dream.
Brian and I were walking down a street in New York—I think it was somewhere in the Village because the streets were narrow and the buildings pressed in on us closer than they do in the wide avenues of midtown. Anyway, we were walking and talking. I don’t remember what about, just that it was nice and that we weren’t mad at each other. I think we were window-shopping because, at one point, we stopped in front of a big display window filled with guitars, all painted red, and looked at them for a while, trying to figure out how much they cost and if we could afford one.
And then he grabbed my hand and said, “I want to show you something,” and pulled me down the street and around the corner and into an alley with brick walls that had thick green grass underfoot instead of concrete. It was strange.
We walked down this alley for a little way. Brian was ahead of me; I could see only his back because he was actually pulling me and telling me to hurry. I was struggling to keep up with him because, for some reason, I was wearing these very high black stiletto heels, and they kept sinking into the grass and tripping me up. He kept pulling me, so I was sort of mad at him, but at the same time, I thought it was funny, and I started to laugh, telling him to hold on a minut
e for heaven’s sake, hopping on one foot and then the other while I tried to take off my shoes, half bent over with my hair coming out of the clip and falling down into my face until I finally pulled out the clip and let my hair fall loose to my shoulders.
I kicked the shoes off, too, at about the same time the alley opened up into a beautiful wide meadow with a tree in the center, covered in lovely white blossoms.
Somehow I had lost Brian. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so I started walking toward the tree, calling his name. I wasn’t worried. I knew he was there somewhere. I remember how good the grass felt on my bare feet and that there was a teasing little breeze blowing, making the edge of my skirt flutter against the skin of my legs.
I got to the tree. Still no Brian, so I decided to wait for him there.
The dress I was wearing was turquoise cotton with a pattern of little green leaves. The fabric was light and thin, almost transparent, and when I leaned against the tree the rough bark felt good on my back, a gentle scratching of fingernails filed smooth. Wondering when Brian would return, I slid slowly down the length of the tree, the bark catching on the fabric of my dress as I sank toward the soft grass, my skirt inching above my knees. It was warm, and I started to feel drowsy, so I closed my eyes to doze, breathing slowly and deeply, my limbs heavy, quickly falling into the half-life that lies between slumber and consciousness.
A moment later—or it might have been an hour—someone was next to me, kissing me. I felt a hand on my shoulder, another at my waist, pressing me down, and I lay back willingly, yielding to his touch, my hand covering his as he slid the silky folds of my skirt high on my bare thighs. There was a lifting and rising and shifting sensation as he moved above me, his head so close to mine, his breath warm and sweet in my ear as I opened myself to him, and he whispered, “Let’s go inside.”
I stopped, confused because the voice asking for the entrance that I had been so eager to allow had an American accent. I opened my eyes, saw his face, and pulled back. The voice, the face . . . it wasn’t Brian. It was Dan.
I woke in the dark and sat up in bed, confused by my surroundings, flooded by terrible sadness and a profound disappointment. Knowing there would be no more sleep for me that night, I went downstairs and made tea. I carried my cup into the living room and sat staring out the window into the black night, feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. I didn’t know what to make of that dream. I didn’t know what to make of a lot of things. But one thing I did know was that I couldn’t deal with this by myself anymore.
22
Ivy
“I haven’t gotten very far,” Margot said apologetically as she turned the piece of patchwork she was stitching outward so everyone could see.
“That’s all right,” Virginia said. “The whole idea is to take our time and enjoy the process, right? You’ve got some beautiful fabrics here. Where did you find them?”
“That red silk piece is from one of my dad’s old ties, and the blue paisley is from one of my mother’s old blouses, but the green velvet is new. Mom made green velvet Christmas dresses for my sister and me when we were little. I don’t have the dresses anymore, so I bought a scrap of velvet in the same shade as a stand-in. Does that count?” she asked, frowning a little.
“Of course it does,” I said. “Your quilt, your rules. I think it looks great so far. What else are you going to use?”
“I’ve got fabrics to add from Paul’s, James’s, and Olivia’s old clothes yet. I found some extra lace from my wedding gown that I’m going to use for the trim later. Plus,” she said with a nervous giggle, “I unraveled the sleeve from one of Paul’s sweaters so I could use the yarn. I hope he doesn’t mind. He never wears it anymore, and it was just the perfect shade of gold for the vines I want to embroider along the border.”
“Bring it in to me, honey,” Virginia said. “I’ll rework the sleeves and turn it into a vest. Chances are he’ll never know the difference. Men don’t pay attention to clothes.”
“Oh, would you? Thanks, Virginia!”
“Anybody else?” Evelyn asked, looking around the room. “Gayla? How is your project coming?”
“Slowly,” she said. “All I’ve really done so far is practice my embroidery, find a few fabrics that I want to use, and . . .” She hesitated and shifted her eyes to the floor before going on. “And decided it was time to let you in on some things.”
Gayla’s words and the tone of her voice caught everyone’s attention. One by one, we put our stitching aside and turned to look at her. The room was perfectly silent.
“I tried something new last week,” she said. “I went on a date—with my husband.” Her eyes scanned the circle of faces. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, but I didn’t come up to New Bern for a sabbatical. A few weeks ago, I discovered that my husband had had an affair. It was over before I found out about it, and Brian apologized and told me he wanted to salvage the marriage, but I didn’t know what to do. I got in my car, started driving, and ended up here. I ran away.”
So I’d guessed right. The dish throwing, the midnight ditch digging, the crazy behavior that seemed so out of character with the calm, kind, and somewhat cautious woman whose kitchen I’d sat in while practicing embroidery; it all made sense now. She’d had her life turned upside down by a cheating husband and had come here, to New Bern, to our quilt circle. Funny how that worked. But maybe it was like Tessa said: People don’t choose to become part of our circle as much as the circle chooses them, expanding to make room for the people who, whether they know it or not, need it most. As I looked at the faces of my friends, I realized that at one time or another this had been true of every one of us.
Evelyn ended up in New Bern almost the same way Gayla had. After her husband divorced her for another woman, she’d gotten in her car, drove all the way from Texas to Connecticut, and never looked back. I glanced at her, wondering if she would say something, but she kept silent, listening to everything Gayla had to say.
Gayla closed her eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath, as if she had absolutely decided not to cry, then opened them and went on.
“Maybe you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this now.” She gave a mirthless little laugh. “I’m kind of wondering the same thing myself. I’ve never been one to confide in other women, but I’ve been watching all of you these last weeks, the way you support one another, and as I was thinking through some things, I realized that . . . well, maybe I need some help getting through this.”
“Of course.”
“Absolutely.”
Words of encouragement came from every corner of the room, and Evelyn said, “Tell us how we can help. Have you made any decisions about your future yet?”
Gayla nodded slowly. “I have, at least in the short term. Brian had this idea that we should try dating, sort of starting over from square one. At first I thought it sounded crazy and that things had gone too far for that. But,” she said, “I agreed to give it a try. I also promised I wouldn’t file for divorce before the end of the summer—”
“As a kind of cooling-off period?” Tessa asked. “That seems like a smart idea.”
Gayla shrugged. “Maybe. I didn’t think for a minute it would work. Honestly, I think I mostly agreed to it because of the kids. I don’t want Maggie and Nate to be able to say that I hadn’t even tried to save the marriage. I don’t want to be the bad guy in all this. Sounds pretty selfish, I know, but that’s the truth.
“Anyway, we went out on Saturday. A lot of it was awkward, but some of it was great—much better than I’d hoped. But”—she shook her head—“things didn’t end well. He did something—I don’t even think he realized he was doing it—but it reminded me of everything that had happened, all the lies he’d told me, and I just . . .”
Gayla took another deep breath, but this time it wasn’t enough to keep her emotions in check. She moved a hand to her face, covering her eyes, and took several more big breaths, trying to collect herself.
�
��It was like finding out about the affair all over again. I spent the whole day crying and brooding and smoking cigarettes. I went through a whole pack. I hadn’t had a cigarette for twenty-six years before this happened; now I’m smoking like a chimney.” She sighed and lowered her hand from her face. “I’ve got to stop.”
Virginia reached over and patted her hand. “You will. But maybe one problem at a time, hmm? Once your divorce is final, you can—”
Gayla shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. I’m not sure I want to divorce Brian. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . I had this dream. Dreams never make sense when you try to explain them, but when I woke up, I knew that I could never feel about anyone else the way I felt about Brian.”
“So you’ve decided to take him back?” Madelyn queried, giving Gayla a skeptical look.
“No, I haven’t decided that either. But what I have decided to do is to give him a chance, a real chance. Not for the kids’ sake or just so I won’t look bad. But because I know in my heart that if I can’t resurrect my love for Brian, I’ll never be able to love anyone else. At this moment, I honestly can’t imagine how we can move past this, but I’m going to try. The reason I wanted you to know all this is because I think it will help if I have some . . . some friends I can talk to and who will cheer me on.
“Although,” she said with a little laugh, tipping her head toward the ceiling and blinking back tears, “now that I’ve heard myself saying all this, I realize it sounds completely nuts. You must think I’m some kind of spineless idiot to consider taking him back.”
“No, we don’t,” Evelyn said, handing Gayla a box of tissues. “This is one of those things that every woman has to answer for herself. My first husband cheated, too, you know. Later, after the divorce, he came to Connecticut and wanted to reconcile, but not until after his girlfriend had dumped him. He didn’t want to be with me; he just didn’t want to be alone. But, if he’d made that offer early on, who knows what would have happened? I might have taken him back. I certainly would have thought about it. You’re not being spineless, Gayla. None of us sees you that way.”
Apart at the Seams Page 20
