by Maggie Dana
Bill scratches his head. “Firewood?”
It’s a log—or more precisely, half of one—with a note stapled to the top that says: I’ll bring the other half with me.
I lean against the wall, blinking back tears and hugging my log.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Really fine.” I turn the note over and read: I’d like to come and see you—on my own. How’s the second weekend in March?
My birthday.
“Bill, I’m sorry if this was a nuisance.”
“No problem,” he says. “Enjoy your fire.”
I drive straight to Lizzie’s. She pours me a glass of wine and says, “I admire his approach, but wouldn’t it have been cheaper to send you a fax?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“He’s wooing you with wood.”
“Better than boring me with bullshit.”
“Touché,” Lizzie says. “Are you going to burn it?”
“Not till he gets here.”
“Will I meet him or are you planning to keep him in bed?”
I panic. “What will I do about, you know, sleeping arrangements?”
“I’d have thought that was obvious.”
“Lizzie!”
“At the risk of repeating myself,” she says, “it’s time you got laid.”
* * *
The first snow of the season is soft and powdery like confectioner’s sugar. It frosts the salt marsh, fills the pot holes in my road, and adds a touch of realism to the plastic fir trees in front of Wal-Mart.
I decide to throw a party on Christmas Eve. My family, plus Lizzie’s, Harriet and Anna, and Harriet’s friend, Beatrice, who entertained us at Thanksgiving with one wicked lawyer joke after another. Should I invite the people next door? I caught a glimpse of them today on Bay Street and only recognized them because of the dogs. The man, with a small child astride his shoulders, held hands with his wife and they wore matching red and green ski jackets. The Labradors had red bows tied to their collars.
“I’m going to invite my new neighbors,” I tell Lizzie when I call about the party. Their name, I learned from Bill Edwards, is Grainger. Tom and Carrie and their daughter, Molly.
“Don’t bother,” Lizzie says. “I was behind them at the post office this morning and they were putting their mail on hold. They’ll be gone till after the New Year.”
“What are they like?”
“He’s about my age. Beard. Nice smile. She’s slender and pretty. Their little girl is adorable.”
“How old is she?”
“About three.”
“Not the child, his wife.”
“Mid-thirties would be my guess.”
I cover the phone with my hand and sigh.
Claudia’s card arrives on Christmas Eve. Squirrels, dressed as choirboys, are holding sheets of music upside-down and singing while the choirmaster, resplendent in white surplice and red cassock, conducts them with one hand while playing a piano with the other. I place it on the mantel next to the card I got from Colin.
My party’s a festive success. My sons are home for the holiday, my house oozes good cheer, and my closest friends are nibbling canapés and drinking wine and enjoying one another’s company. Everything goes without a hitch until Anna and Beth, Lizzie’s granddaughter, get into a tussle over Claudia’s card.
“I saw it first!” Beth stamps her foot.
“Mine,” Anna counters. “Those are my squirrels!”
I solve the problem by making two photocopies and giving one to each child.
“That friend of yours has talent,” Beth’s father says. “Lizzie tells me you have more of her pictures. May I see them?”
“Sure. I’ll bring them when we come for dinner tomorrow.” This might prove interesting. Joel Barlow, Lizzie’s son-in-law, is a rep for a greeting card company.
* * *
The first Sunday in March, I take a critical look at my bedroom. Peeling paint, cracked walls, stains on the ceiling. Are those worm holes in the door? No, that’s where I hung a dartboard years ago.
Four days till Colin gets here. I’ll have to work fast.
I scrub baseboards, wash windows, and haul out my painting supplies. I’m sponging on the second layer of glaze when Lizzie shows up with a bag of bagels, looking irritable and bored. Fergus, back from six weeks in Florida, has badgered her into letting him stay at the house until the weather gets warmer. He is, she claims, driving her potty.
“Don’t have time to talk,” I say. “And take those bloody bagels away”—my ladder wobbles—“I’m on a diet.”
“Well, hello to you, too.” Lizzie makes room for herself on the bed. It’s covered with old sheets and the Sunday paper. The cat is snoring, somewhere, underneath it all. “What are you doing, besides making a mess?”
Cream paint and green glaze stream down my arm. “This is the Sistine Chapel. Can’t you tell?”
“Why are you tarting up your bedroom,” Lizzie says, patting a lump that is probably Zachary, “if you’re planning to avoid sex?”
The ladder wobbles again. “Where did you get that dumb idea?”
“From you.”
“I never implied—”
“You’ve been running scared ever since that log showed up,” Lizzie says. “Here. Have a bagel.”
“I’m too nervous to eat.”
“Then how about some coffee?” Lizzie stands. “Come on, Jill. Take a break. I promise not to annoy you for longer than five minutes.”
We abandon my masterpiece and go downstairs. I plug in the kettle for tea and tell Lizzie to help herself to the coffee I made earlier and didn’t drink.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m terrified.”
“Why?”
“Suppose I fall in love with him, really fall in love, but all he’s after is a good time. What then?”
Lizzie grins. “Isn’t flying three-thousand miles for a piece of ass taking things a bit too far? If that’s what he wants, why can’t he find it closer to home?”
“Keep reminding me of that.” I squeeze my teabag and add milk.
“No sugar?’
“I told you. I’m on a diet.”
“You’re a perfect size ten.”
“Not if you keep feeding me junk.”
“Get any smaller,” Lizzie says, “and I’ll cancel our friendship.”
I pick onion bits off a bagel. “I’m scared of being let down.”
“Getting involved with a married man carries a huge risk.”
Colin isn’t married.
“You have to ask why he’s coming over,” she goes on. “Does he want to recapture his past? Make a new future? Tie up loose ends?”
“Add another feather to his cap?”
Lizzie shoots me a guarded look. “Whatever his reasons, accept them or reject them. Remember, the choice is yours.”
“That’s the trouble,” I say. “I make terrible choices.”
Lizzie sighs. “Richard.”
“Yeah.”
“Whatever did you see in him?”
The tea is bitter and I change my mind about the sugar. “He offered an escape, freedom. But when I lost—” There’s no need to continue. Lizzie knows all about the baby.
“So why didn’t you divorce him and go back to England? I mean, what the hell was holding you here?”
“Fear,” I say. “I was in a strange country with no friends, no money, and nowhere to go. I burned bridges when I left England.”
“All of them?”
“Sophie was furious I got married first and told her afterward. I didn’t tell her about the baby, either. We lost touch for a while. She moved. So did I. It’s Claudia who kept track of me.” I pause. “We joke about it now, but Sophie still chides me for not asking her for help.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Guilt. Pride, maybe. A stubborn case of ‘I’ve made my own bed and now I’d bloody well better lie in it’ sort of thing.”
“Stiff upper
lip?”
“Something like that.”
* * *
I make up my bed with fresh sheets, hang my newly washed muslin curtains, and buff the floor till the old wooden boards glow. My closet doors won’t close, so I toss out clothes that no longer fit, sort through my shoes, and discover a box of candles I’d forgotten about. Citrus and sandalwood. I arrange them on my dresser beside a jar of dried hydrangeas and tuck a book of matches behind them.
How long has it been since I feathered my nest for a man? When’s the last time I slept with one? Suppose he doesn’t want to sleep with me. Who am I kidding? Colin’s not coming all this way for tea and crumpets. He’s expecting sex.
Oh, God! What if he wants a blow job?
Do I remember how to give one?
By Thursday morning, I’m a train wreck and Lizzie adds to my stress by calling with news of bad weather in Boston. Shit. Why didn’t I tell Colin to fly into Hartford instead?
“They’re forecasting two feet, maybe more,” she says. “And don’t forget about bringing Colin to dinner on Saturday. I’ve invited Harriet, Beatrice, and Anna. He may as well meet everyone in one fell swoop.”
* * *
Heavy wet snow starts to fall at the Rhode Island border and by the time I reach the outskirts of Boston, it’s six inches deep. Ploughs are struggling to keep up with the mess and traffic is snarled on both sides of the Southeast Expressway. I pull into the airport at three. Colin’s flight hasn’t arrived so I join the crowd waiting for news at the British Airways information desk. All incoming flights are delayed while airport crews clear the runways and I’m told Colin’s plane has been diverted. Nobody knows when it’s going to reach Boston.
So I wait.
Three hours go by. I ask questions. No one has any answers. The storm eases up and other flights land, but not Colin’s. My anxiety boils over and by eight o’clock I’m convinced that his plane will be the one to make grisly headlines on the front page of tomorrow’s Boston Globe.
Finally, it lands. But when everyone in the world emerges from Customs and Immigration except Colin, my relief turns into doubt. He’s missed the plane—or worse—he’s changed his mind about coming over. Around me, couples hug, kids shriek, and families converge. Cabin attendants and a flight crew walk by with tired eyes and tight-lipped smiles, dragging black overnight bags behind them like booty.
More flights arrive. More people come streaming through the door and suddenly, he’s here, hugging me. Solid and warm and best of all, safe.
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks.
I can’t stop smiling.
“I thought we’d never land,” Colin says, still holding me. “We were circling for hours, and when we did get down we still had to wait for a gate.” He drops his bag on the ground and stretches. “Those seats were designed for midgets.”
He’s taller than I remember. “Have you any more luggage?” It’s an effort to make myself sound normal.
“No. This is it. I travel light.” He picks up his bag and slings it over one shoulder. “Where to now?”
“Home,” I tell him. “I’m taking you home.”
Chapter 16
Sands Point
March 2011
Colin makes a valiant effort at conversation but falls asleep in the middle of Rhode Island and doesn’t wake up till I pull into my driveway. I take one look at his face and decide that my anxiety and his exhaustion will make terrible bedfellows, so I guide him into the boys’ old room. “Would you like some tea? Something to eat?”
Colin dumps his bag on the bed and sits down beside it. “No, thanks. I just need some sleep.”
I tell him where to find the bathroom and wish him good night. His face, when I leave, is a combination of relief and disappointment and I take comfort from the fact that he looks about as mixed up as I feel.
* * *
For once, I’m up early, and I collide with Colin in the hall at seven the next morning. Barefoot and wearing jeans, he’s naked from the waist up. His hair is tousled and I want to run my fingers through it. He doesn’t look much different from the lanky teenager who once helped me across a plank.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.
“Not bad.”
“Are you ready for a walk on the beach?”
He smiles. “Can we eat first?”
I run downstairs and fire up a pot of coffee, then boil water for tea. I’ve no idea what he prefers. I’m toasting English muffins and slicing cantaloupe when he comes into the kitchen.
“Coffee—black—no sugar,” he says. “And one of those muffins. I’m starving.”
Zachary wanders in as we’re finishing breakfast. He rubs against Colin’s legs and jumps in his lap.
“Damn!” Colin lurches to his feet. His chair crashes over.
My cat skitters across the tile floor and fetches up with a thoroughly ungraceful thump against the fridge. A magnet lets loose. One of Anna’s drawings flutters down and lands beside him.
“Jeez, Colin. I’m sorry. Did he scratch you?”
“I’m fine. He just startled me, that’s all.” Colin rescues his chair. “How about that walk?”
“Sure,” I say, bending to pat Zachary, but he’s too quick for me. With his tail fluffed out like a bottle brush, my cat stalks into the hall and disappears. No doubt he’ll spend the rest of the day exacting revenge on my printer.
My garden is bare and bleached, devoid of color except for the stark outline of a storm fence rising like splintered red toothpicks from the wind-scoured sand. Not even my purple and yellow crocus are in bloom. Colin walks across the patio, turns to look at my house, and I watch him take in the old bricks, weathered clapboards, and bare trellises that bend beneath the weight of roses in June.
Does he see what I see? Drooping gutters, peeling paint, and loose shingles.
“This is charming,” he says. “I didn’t expect this.”
We follow the path through the dunes and onto the beach where a leaden sky leaks into a gunmetal Sound. Colin removes his glasses, wipes them on the front of his jacket, and stares with scrunched-up eyes at the water. The wind tugs his hair and he looks like a kid who wants to swim but can’t because the sea is too cold.
Am I going to sleep with him tonight?
He takes my hand, and we walk toward the breakwater and I distract myself from thinking about what’s going to happen later by babbling on about Sands Point, its history, and how it was one of the first permanent settlements in Connecticut.
“Why don’t you show me?” Colin says.
After poking through a couple of antique shops, we stroll across the green and stop to admire the gingerbread-style gazebo where the Lions Club sponsors free concerts in the summer. I tell him about the typo in last year’s flyer that promised wholesome, family-style entertainment hosted by the Loins Club of Sands Point.
Colin laughs and squeezes my arm. I think he’s enjoying himself.
We bypass the gift shops, boarded up for the season, and wander down one of the alleys that connects Bay Street with the harbor where a network of wooden docks creaks against the tide. A lone seagull sits atop a piling.
“This place will be full of cruisers and sailboats in a couple of months,” I say.
We have lunch at the Mexican restaurant.
“I haven’t tried this before,” Colin says.
“You’re kidding.”
“It hasn’t really caught on yet—in England. At least, not where I live.” He scoops salsa onto a corn chip.
“Careful! It’s hot.”
He gasps and reaches for his water.
On our way out of the restaurant we run into Tom Grainger. He smiles at us, but doesn’t stop because his little girl is running ahead.
“Friend of yours?” Colin asks.
“New neighbors. I don’t know them. His wife is much younger—” I stop before putting my foot in any deeper.
Driving home, I point to a small red barn. It has one door, no windows, and it
s sagging roof supports a weathervane that tilts vaguely northeast as if waiting for gravity to finish off what winter storms began years ago. “That’s where the Rotary Club holds its annual shad bake.”
“Shad?”
“Fish,” I explain. “They nail fillets to planks of wood, cover them with spices and bacon, and prop them around a bonfire. Everyone hangs about gossiping and drinking while the fish is cooking.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It is,” I say. “Especially when they throw away the fish and eat the wood.”
Colin gives me an odd look.
“Only kidding,” I say. “It’s a local joke.”
* * *
We cook dinner in a companionable sort of way and sit in front of the fire reminiscing over old pictures in my photograph albums. Colin produces the other half of the log and we burn both pieces. I see images in the flames. Sharing a mug of tea, a spider running up my arm, Colin giving me his shirt.
By ten, he’s almost asleep. He lies back against the couch, puts his arm around my shoulder, and kisses my neck. His mouth finds mine. I melt into him, but he pulls away.
“Perhaps I’d better put myself to bed,” he says. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
Is he waiting for a signal?
The choice is yours, Lizzie said.
“Would you like some company?” I ask.
His face crumples. “I’m so glad you said that.”
“Go on up,” I say, rising above my panic. “I need to—”
He turns and leaves me shaking with fear. Now I’ve gone and done it. There’s no backing out now. I undress in the downstairs bathroom and wrap myself in Anna’s Scooby Doo beach towel.
Great, Jill. Very sexy.
* * *
He’s lying on my bed with the covers drawn up to his waist. The room glows from a dozen scented candles.
“We’re both been waiting a long time for this,” Colin says, holding out his arms.
