Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) (16 page)

“Do you want the ironing board out?”

Did he have to ask? And why now? “Do you need me to iron something for you?”

“Just a shirt.”

“What about your pants?”

“I think they’re okay.”

“Gimme. I might as well do them while I’ve got it out.”

He didn’t resist, knowing it was futile. She did his things first, her hair wrapped in a towel, while he sat at the kitchen counter in his boxers. For years she’d wondered out loud why he couldn’t just learn to iron, a mild complaint he’d come to agree with from sheer repetition yet never acted upon. He accepted that he was a burden on her. These moments of domestic helplessness were his penance and tribute.

“Thank you,” he said, taking his pants.

“You’re welcome.”

He ceded the bathroom to her, using the mirror in the entryway to tie his tie, a bright scarlet befitting the occasion. The suit was his best, last worn to a job interview that hadn’t panned out, and he worried it might be unlucky. Too late.

She was still in her bathrobe, curling her hair, and he turned on the Olympics—the pairs figure skating, which she enjoyed.

“That’s great,” she said when he announced it, “but I can only do five things at once.”

He couldn’t sit down for fear of wrinkling his suit, and circled the room, stopping at the window and looking out over the American Falls and the city beyond, red lights blinking atop electrical towers marching off into darkness. Emma was getting married. The fact should have given him some extra perspective on what they were doing there, yet the connection eluded him. They’d have to tell her the truth, an eventuality he didn’t dare contemplate. So much of being a parent was protecting one’s
children from one’s own mistakes. That was the greatest failure, he thought. It shocked him now, but when he was with Wendy, he didn’t care, he’d been willing to sacrifice everything.

The Russians’ music was lush and brooding, dark strings and spooky woodwinds building to a crescendo, then a quiet passage, their skates scraping the ice as they set up for a jump. It seemed unfair that one slip could undo a lifetime of dedication, but there it was, the late takeoff and rotation, the awkward sprawl as the crowd gasped, and then, up again, the trouper’s smile as she resumed the routine. They showed it in slow motion, the girl’s painted face, so composed, opening in shock as she landed hard on her hip, an arm outflung. He needed a drink, and looked in to see if Marion wanted anything.

“I’m coming,” she said, leaning over the sink to draw on eyeliner. He’d had to convince her to buy a new dress for tonight. The one she chose showed off her arms and shoulders, two of her best features.

“No rush. I like the dress.”

“You just like the cleavage.”

“I like the straps and the way the waist goes in.”

“Stop. This isn’t
Project Runway
.”

“And the cleavage.” He couldn’t deny he’d peeked.

“It’s old cleavage.”

“It’s always new to me.”

“Now I know you’re lying. What are you having?”

“Vodka. They’ve got the Citron.”

“I’ll take a white wine, I don’t care what kind. Can you grab my jewelry out of the safe?”

He delivered her glass to her, then opened the closet and punched in the combination. The velvet box sat right beside her jewelry bag, and though he felt slighted, he left it there rather than press the issue.

She needed help with her freshwater pearls, a task he was happy to perform. She stood with her head bowed while he battled the tiny clasp, squinting like a surgeon. For his reward, he kissed her neck—warm and smelling of her moisturizer.

“Okay,” she said, ducking away. “I’m trying to get dressed here.”

She spritzed both sides of her throat with perfume, down her cleavage, and finally one wrist, rubbing it against the other as she headed for the bedroom.

“You have to stop following me,” she said, and he retreated to the sitting room with his drink, swirling the ice cubes and watching the Falls. He thought of ordering champagne for later but didn’t want to jinx things.

The Canadians were leading, and he wondered if it was rigged, since the games were in Vancouver.

She came in with a lace shawl over her shoulders and stopped as if posing for him. “Well?”

“You look great.”

“No.” She pointed to the floor. She was wearing two different shoes. “Which one?”

He’d faced this question hundreds of times and seldom got it right. The key was to be honest rather than try to outguess her. At least then when he was wrong he’d have his integrity.

The one on the left was dressy, crushed velvet with a high
heel, elaborate straps and a needle-nosed toe. She loved them but they killed her feet. The one on the right was plain, but much more comfortable.

“The right,” he said.

“You really like that one better?”

“I do.”

“You’re so boring.”

“You’ve got a blister, and the restaurant’s at the end of the mall.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, but when she returned from the bedroom she was in her stocking feet, the fancier pair dangling from one hand. “When else am I going to wear them? I’m just going to have to suffer.”

“You said it, not me.”

“How long do we have? I’m not putting them on till I absolutely have to.”

“Five minutes. Before we get going, I’d like to get a picture of us.”

“You haven’t taken enough pictures today.” She thought it was typical of him, wanting to commemorate their adventure. He’d already chosen where he wanted her to stand. She could see it being used against her in the future, but couldn’t refuse him.

“You don’t have to put your shoes on.”

“I do if I don’t want to look like a dwarf next to you.”

They were too narrow, and crushed her toes, her bunions flaring with every step.

“Ow ow ow,” she said, hobbling over and leaning against his shoulder.

“Are you going to make it?”

“I’m going to have to.”

“This’ll take five seconds,” he promised.

He programmed the camera, set it on the counter and dashed back, draping his arm around her waist.

They waited, holding their poses. She felt her smile weakening, turning thin and insipid, and was just putting on another when the flash blinded her.

“Let me check it real quick,” he said, and left her standing there.

“Well?”

He nodded, impressed. “It’s a really nice picture.”

“Can I sit down now?”

He came over to the sofa and showed her.

“Wow,” she said, because he was right. Her smile was genuine, and the dress flattered her. The flash and her makeup subtracted a decade, and for once her hair did what it was supposed to do. He was handsome and trim in his suit, his shoulders back, the gray at his temples giving him the air of a judge or ambassador. They might be broke and unhappy but even she had to admit they made a good-looking couple.

Odds of a couple fighting on Valentine’s Day:
        
1 in 5

    The mall was long and busy with window shoppers, and several times they had to stop to let her feet rest, making them late, and then when they finally arrived, they discovered there must have been some miscommunication, because the restaurant had given away their window table. She could see him struggling with the injustice of it. He had the printout from home in his jacket and unfolded it like a deed. The maître d’ apologized, nodding and calling him sir, but there was nothing he could do.

The room was curved and stepped like an amphitheater facing the Falls. A server ushered them through the other diners and sat them in the very center of the second tier, where they had a perfect view.

“Well that sucked,” he said.

“This is nice.”

“Why did I even bother asking then? It makes no sense.”

“I’m sure they didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I don’t care if it was on purpose or not, it’s not right.”

“If you’re that upset about it, we can leave.”

“No,” he muttered.

“Then stop bitching.”

“I’m just saying it’s not right.”

“It’s not helping—that’s what I’m saying.”

“Move forward.”

“Exactly.”

“Suck it up.”

As if prearranged, a different server brought a bottle of champagne, presenting the label for inspection.

“We didn’t order that.”

“Compliments of the house, with our apologies.”

“Well, that’s very nice. Thank you.”

“Just what we need,” she said, but it was true. After the first glass, the problem with the table was forgotten. While she was glad to have it behind them, it also bothered her how easily they could be bought off.

The room was dark to highlight the view. They strained to read the menu by the lone votive burning between them, tilting the pages sideways. She had to admit, he knew her tastes. It was her kind of place, the dishes rich and finicky. The black truffle beet salad appealed to her, and the scallop sashimi, and the pork cheek, and the lobster risotto with Pernod and fennel. She scrutinized the prices, knowing they couldn’t afford it.

“Emma’s getting married,” he said.

“I still have to call Celia. I wonder if she’s told Jeremy.”

“I’m sure she has. What are you thinking of getting?”

“The risotto’s speaking to me.”

“I looked at that. I’m leaning toward the scallops.”

“
Ye
s—I wanted that too. Get it and we’ll share.”

“Remember the place on Captiva that made those scallops—”

“With the plantains. Oh my God that was good. What was the name of the place?”

“Sweet Melissa’s.”

“How do you remember that?”

Of all their trips, it was his favorite, a reminder of how they could be. “That was the night the rental car had a flat and we had to fix it in the dark.”

“I remember.”

The next morning they’d taken the ferry over to Cabbage Key to have a Cheeseburger in Paradise. He was about to recall for her the pod of dolphins that raced alongside the rail, surging ahead to leap the bow wave like teenagers playing chicken, when the server intruded, asking if they’d like something from the bar.

“We’re fine with the champagne, thanks.”

“Will you be having wine with dinner?”

“We will,” Marion volunteered.

“I’ll need a few minutes,” he said, because he hadn’t looked.

The list had the heft of a bestseller. As he leafed through it, following down the columns, the prices grew more and more ridiculous. He was tempted to order their most expensive vintage but wasn’t sure his card could handle it. He chose a high-end Puligny-Montrachet, only to be told they were out of it at the moment, the same for a Meursault. His struggles attracted the sommelier, who pointed out the surprisingly few white Burgundies they had on hand. Art went with his recommendation, a lesser Meursault, more than he’d ever paid for a bottle of wine, yet somehow a letdown.

“That was difficult,” she said.

“Nothing’s easy today.” It was a slip, which he quickly covered, saying the champagne was very good, hoping she didn’t notice the non sequitur.

She did, but let it pass, agreeing with him, content to sip and watch the Falls and the couples around them, each, like themselves, in their own small circle of light. Several of the women had roses, and she wished she’d thought to bring hers. She was more comfortable with the rose as the badge of their love, being both natural and ephemeral, than the ring, which seemed binding and permanent, a claim on her. She could leave the rose behind and still recall its beauty fondly. She’d apply the same philosophy to tonight, taking in its pleasures, knowing they were fleeting. When was the next time she’d eat at a place like this?

They did their best not to fill up on bread, though the focaccia was delicious, still warm, with a hint of rosemary. Before their appetizers arrived, they drained the champagne and started on the white. She wondered if he should be drinking so much, but didn’t want to ruin the mood by casting ahead. Instead, she matched him glass for glass, and found it made conversation easier. When there was a lag, the Falls provided a reliable diversion. The nightly light show had begun, the colors changing, lurid purples and sulfurous yellows tinting the mist. The food was brilliant. When they switched plates, they each said the other’s was better. If it were a first date, she would have said it was a great success.

After their dishes had been cleared, as they were examining the spots on the tablecloth to determine who’d spilled more, a
smattering of applause from above caught their attention—another proposal. They joined the tail end, clapping politely for the lucky couple.

“They’re everywhere,” she said.

“They certainly are.” He didn’t say that was exactly what he’d been planning to do, or ask what she thought he was doing last night. Nothing could be less romantic than that discussion, or more fraught, and they were having a nice time. Likewise, he set aside the apology he was going to offer for having to resort to the divorce. None of it was as important as being here, sharing this occasion with her, and, emboldened by the wine and his own sentimentality, he reached across the table and took her hand.

“You know I love you.”

“I know,” she said, then looked up, because the server had returned.

They broke, sat back to let him comb the crumbs from the table with a straightedge.

Were they interested in dessert?

“It won’t hurt to look.” From her smirk he knew he’d read her correctly.

“I’d like some coffee,” she said, prompting a back-and-forth about how she wanted it, and did he want some as well, and by the time the server left them alone again, the moment had gone cold.

“You were saying,” she said, and reached out her hand for him to take.

“I was saying I love you.”

“And you know I love you. Whatever happens.”

This last phrase was so important for her to communicate to him that she never suspected he might misinterpret it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” they toasted, and, believing at heart they’d been heard and understood, they were both happy.

Odds of the Cleveland Indians winning the World Series:
        
1 in 25,000