All You Could Ask For: A Novel (17 page)

So tonight Scott came home to a surprise. I’m sure he expected the usual birthday treatment, which is a house decorated with homemade signs and a cake baked and frosted by the loving hands of his children. He has never complained about any of that; in fact, I recall last year after a lovely birthday dinner, just the four of us, he raised his glass of wine and said: “What more could a man possibly ask for?”

Even the kids, then seven years old, understood how nice that was. To me it was like music, because I feel the same way. So many women I know want so many things, they spend more time and energy thinking of what they do not have than enjoying what they do. I try not to be that way. I have a good man who loves me, I have beautiful, healthy children, what more could a woman possibly ask for?

So I know that Scott would have been perfectly satisfied to come home to the usual warmth and clutter of his twins and their mom, but tonight was going to be different. Tonight he was coming home to his wife, not his kids’ mother. On the table where he leaves his briefcase, I left a note, written in fiery red ink on white-and-pink stationery. It said to open the bottle of champagne he would find on ice in the dining room, then to take off his tie and his shoes and come upstairs. It said he did not need to lock the door.

I first heard him when he turned the knob and came in the bedroom. The bottle was under his arm, the glasses between his fingers, and the note between his teeth. He didn’t see me. He could have, if he was looking the right way, but he was not, he was looking toward the bed. I was on the chaise. When the designer who helped me put together the bedroom described the chaise, she said it was meant for having sex on. I laughed when she said that but she was serious. That was seven years ago, and tonight I would find out if she was right.

Scott’s eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dim lighting yet. I could see him squinting, reaching out with his free hand to find the bureau, to keep from banging his knee.

“Brooke?” His voice was uncertain. I took a deep breath, let it out.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” I said.

Scott spun sharply, the glass flutes clinking between his fingers. He still couldn’t see so well. He stepped toward me carefully.

“Can’t you see me?” I asked breathily.

“I can’t.”

I snapped on the lamp behind me.

“How’s this?”

I was stretched out as long as I can go on the chaise, my right leg crossed over my left, my hair falling down my back, curled for him the way he likes. I was wearing a satin robe, cinched high enough that you couldn’t see what was beneath it. I had one hand resting gently on my stomach and the other on top of the end table beside the chaise. Under my hand was the pink velvet box. Inside the box were the pictures.

“Would you like champagne?” he asked. His voice was deep but I could tell he had to work to get it that way.

“I’d love some,” I said.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me, standing right over me. He put the bottle down on the table, right beside the velvet box. Then he knelt beside the chaise so his face was equal to mine. His eyes said everything. They said he loved me and wanted me. They said no man could ever want more than he had right now.

I smiled. “Happy fortieth birthday,” I said, and clinked my glass against his.

We both drank a little. The champagne was light and sweet and fresh.

“I have a very special gift for you,” I said.

I don’t know if he heard me or not, I’m not even sure if I got all the words out, because then he was kissing me so hard I couldn’t move. He pressed his lips against mine and my head went back into the soft chaise and I was pinned. I could feel him shaking, I could feel his heartbeat. He pulled away quickly and downed the rest of his champagne in one bubbly gulp, then he placed the glass on the floor.

“I need you . . .  right . . .  now,” he said.

My hand was still on the velvet box. I had envisioned giving him the pictures first. But it didn’t much matter if that waited until afterward. The pictures were meant to make him excited, and I’m not sure how much more excited he could possibly have been.

I lay back and felt him land on top of me. It felt good, even if some of it didn’t. He was breathing hard, right into my ear, I could feel the heat of his breath, the wet of his tongue.

“Kiss me,” I said.

And he did.

After, when I had caught my breath and he was still searching for his, I put my hand back on the velvet box.

“So, it’s time for me to give you your present,” I said.

“That was the best present I could ever have asked for,” Scott said, still panting a little.

“But it isn’t all you’re getting.”

He put his hand on my tummy, very tenderly, and looked right into my eyes.

“Actually, Brooke, I was thinking about that today. I think I know the one thing I really,
really
want for my fortieth birthday.”

I smiled and waited for some extreme, perverted sexual suggestion; Scott likes to joke around that way. But then he told me what it was he wanted, and I saw in his eyes he wasn’t kidding. And I put my hand on top of his and squeezed it hard as the tears started pouring down my face.

SAMANTHA

I WONDER IF IT happens this way for everybody.

For me, it has always been like this: any time I am feeling my best, strongest, and healthiest, I am also at my most emotional. And maybe never more than right then, strolling that beach for the last time. I was so strong I was practically bursting with energy. For the past six weeks, I had eaten and drunk only the best fuel (except for three glasses of wine with Eduardo), slept nine hours a night, practiced yoga breathing during long walks on the pristine beach, listened to the waves crashing and the children laughing in the surf. Now, for two days, I had been at rest, conserving all my strength for tomorrow, permitting myself nothing more strenuous than this final walk on the sand. I would compete tomorrow and then go back to my life, the one I had before Robert. Back to New York, back to working, to traveling. Back to men, too, I suppose. I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to handle that part of it. My guess was that it would handle itself. I didn’t plan to be looking for anyone, but I did expect someone to find me. It might take months, or years, or less than a week. However that works out would be fine for me. I was a wiser, stronger woman than I’d been before. I was a different person. I looked forward to seeing how this person fared in the world, like a character in a movie that I’m rooting for. That is what I was, I figured. A character. And I was rooting for me.

So, if I was as strong as I had ever been, physically and mentally, why couldn’t I seem to keep from crying? Every sound, every wave, every gull, every breath made me sentimental. I was nostalgic for this part of my life already, even though it wasn’t over. But once you know how something is going to turn out, I suppose it
is
over, in a way, and I knew how this would turn out. I would compete tomorrow, and it would be wonderful; I hadn’t any doubt of that. Then I would go back to the world and begin anew. And even if I did someday come back to this place, I would never come back to this time. This time rescued me. It nourished me, brought me back to myself and beyond, made me better than I have ever been, and once I leave, it will be gone forever. In a way, I wanted so badly to stay, to remain here for the rest of my life, but I knew I couldn’t, because this wasn’t my life. All of this had been preparation, though I didn’t yet know for what. But I was sure it would be for something, and I was also sure that when it happened I would know what it was.

I walked to the end of the beach and back, more than three miles on the sand, and when I returned I found Eduardo waiting for me. He was wearing a white jacket and using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The breeze had picked up in the afternoon and it blew his hair away from his face. He was always so tidy it was jarring to see him in the wind.

“You look very casual,” I said to him, “you ought to try it more often.”

“I do not spend much time on the beach,” he said. “But for your last day, I gladly make an exception.” He sounded sad. You’d have to know him well to hear it in his voice, but I could hear it. “Have you got everything you need?”

“Anything with carbs, I’m eating it. I had pancakes this morning; I think my system almost went into shock. I have so much energy, if this race doesn’t start soon I’m going to jump out of my skin.”

“I asked Chef to prepare a special dinner for you tonight,” he said. “Fresh pasta, he makes it himself, with a delightful sauce that is just a bit rich with cream and fresh vegetables. It is fabulous. He prepares it for me on my birthday.”

I put my hand on Eduardo’s cheek.

“What time would you like it delivered to your room?” he asked.

“About five,” I said. “I want to try to be in bed at eight. I don’t know if I’ll sleep at all but I’ll try. I’ll be down for breakfast at five.”

“I’ll make certain the kitchen is ready for you.”

My hand was still on his cheek. I took my other and wrapped it around his waist, thrust my face into his shoulder, and let it all go. I cried hard, really hard, and it felt wonderful. Eduardo said nothing at all, just held me gently at the waist.

He left it to me to decide when to stop, so I stayed buried in his jacket, his embrace, his smell, until the tears stopped and then longer than that. It felt so good to be held.

“Thank you so much for everything,” I said, my face still embedded in him. “You have made this all so perfect for me.”

He did not respond, which was unlike him, and so I peeked up into his face and found, to my surprise, that he was crying, too. Softly, not enough that you could hear it, but from as close as I was there wasn’t any question his eyes were welling with tears. I had a feeling if I asked about it he’d have blamed it on the sun, but he’d have been lying. I put my face back into his shoulder and let him hold me. There wasn’t any reason to say anything about it. There wasn’t any reason to say anything at all.

KATHERINE

IF THERE’S ONE THING I pride myself on, it’s my musical street cred.

And by that I mean that I am a straight-up gangsta. Yes, I’m a white girl from Greenwich, and I have no tattoos and I’ve never busted a cap anywhere, but I have gravitated toward hip-hop music since the first time I heard “The Message” by Grandmaster Flash. I know the entire genre well enough that I could host a hip-hop show on an urban radio station. From Grandmaster Flash to Sugarhill Gang to Run-D.M.C. to Public Enemy to N.W.A. to Tupac Shakur to Biggie Smalls to Snoop Dogg to Jay-Z, I have been there, faithfully, through it all. I belittle all other forms of musical expression and I belittle anyone who doesn’t appreciate the beauty, simplicity, ferocity, and authenticity of hip-hop.

So this John Denver thing is really hard for me to explain.

Let me start when Marie and I made our way down the mountain from our hike to Cathedral Lake. Walking through the forests, alongside the streams, the rushing water echoing in my ears, I realized that all my life I have been yearning to be here and didn’t know it. All this time I have known that something was missing and now I knew what it was.

It was this place. I felt as though I was finally home. I said as much to Marie when we reached the bottom. I was leaning against the hood of our car, and I pulled out my water bottle. My back was aching and tightening up and I rubbed it. “I need a massage,” I said.