The Choice Not Taken (15 page)

She was everywhere.

In the placement of décor, selection of furniture, rugs upon the floor, and towels in the bathroom-I knew they held her imprint. Although they were apart, these constant connections reminded me how intertwined all those years had made them.

And they’d never really be separated
, I understood. At least not with kids involved.

“Let’s go!” Philip happily called from the wraparound deck.

We gingerly trekked along the sloping pebble-stone trail linking his home to the pier. Passing benches encircling the fire-pit, I fought through a mass of mosquitoes and got bit more than a dozen times in less than half a minute.

There was no time to scratch my tingling skin since Philip already began untying the boat. Coming up behind him, I became excited–and ashamed–to realize I admired his physique.

His body didn’t reflect coming years of middle age. Instead, decades of competitive sports and endless summers swimming in this very water kept him muscular. Even his tanned skin denied anything out of the ordinary here in this lakeside environment. The only signs of his true age may well have been distinguished wrinkles around his eyes and graying temples.

Philip leaned over, pulling the boat toward the pier and holding it steady so I could get aboard. As he moved, the beautiful golden skin stretched against his taut biceps, making my entire body shiver in the heat.

Unaware of my adoration, he effortlessly hopped across the fiberglass edge and quickly checked gas and oil gauges before turning over the motor. Despite being late afternoon, the sun burned hot with the promise of more hours in the day. And since I’d only been on the boat a few times, I took a few minutes getting comfortable with its choppy movement.

Philip leisurely waved to the few passing boaters, and though we weren’t trying to hide anything, I blushed. Surely they knew I wasn’t his wife, and I could only imagine the gossip which might occur over
those
dinner tables tonight.

It just doesn’t seem fair
! I thought.
Why couldn’t we have met at a another time–when he was free from a spouse or children
?

Steering down one of the waterways branching from the main lake, he eventually pulled up onto a long stretch of sandbar. These pseudo-islands were a popular attraction, and on any given weekend they’d be overrun with picnickers and swimmers. The patches of sand dotting the water often shifted with a changing flow of the river. Yet some like this one were so large, they appeared more permanent.

Philip hoisted the small anchor and after insuring it was indeed stable, he extended his hand, helping me from the boat.

“Wanna take a dip?” he asked, excitedly, and I shook my head.

“You go ahead, though. I’ll set up dinner,” I offered.

After wading through shallow water and placing the picnic basket and cooler in dry sand, he stripped off his shirt and dove in the shimmering lake. I laid our meal on a tablecloth, and then watched him.

There wouldn’t be any rush to eat. Despite his hectic pace in business, Philip was never in a hurry with me. And when he finally did leave the water, he playfully smiled and shook himself much like a wet dog, splashing me with icy drops.

“Stop it!” I howled. Now shivering, I grabbed a sweatshirt while he opened a bottle of wine.

For the rest of the evening, we nibbled on food and downed glasses of chilled chardonnay. With the sun setting, Philip built a small bonfire from fallen branches found beneath a patch of trees growing along the far edge. The flames swayed amidst a light breeze, mesmerizing me with their choreographed dance. And when offered more wine, I drowsily agreed.

Snuggling closer, we silently watched the fire until it dwindled to a mound of glowing ash.

“Ready to go?” he asked, and I nodded fuzzy agreement. The sun and wine made me tired, and I now dreaded my drive home.

We walked our things through chilly water and climbed the flip-down ladder attached to the rear of the boat. Philip revved the engine, taking care to keep the motor high and free from murky sand and shallow depths. And after expertly backing out, he jokingly waved goodbye to our little island as it faded against a glow of boat lights and became engulfed into the blackness of the lake.

We barely covered a short distance before the motor sputtered and then stopped altogether.

“What the hell?” Philip cursed, flipping the boat key to restart it.

Silence.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, veiling my panic. It was too dark, and I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“The motor won’t turn over,” he calmly explained while reconnecting a new tank of gas to the line. He tried again.

Silence.

“Damn!” he yelled, standing in the middle of the boat, scanning the shoreline. There were no houses on this protected stretch of marshy wetland as Philip so proudly pointed out to me earlier in the day.

“What are we gonna do?” I asked.

He stood quietly for another minute, debating our options. After digging into the side storage pocket, he produced a set of oars.

“Here you go!” he cheerfully handed me one.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. But there’s no need to worry because we’re only taking the boat back to the sandbar.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Just paddle, Courtney,” he happily instructed, and I had little choice but to do as he said.

Lacking any coordination or strength necessary to properly drag my oar through the black water and effectively make the boat move, my attempts soon had Philip in near hysterics. Every time we tried to get in synch and as one, his fluid movement got crossed-out by my own jerky one.

Instead of aiming toward the sandbar, we went in a circle.

“Okay, okay,” Philip gasped between fits of laughter, holding his stomach. “Why don’t you just pull it gently along the top layer to help keep it steady?”

So for the rest of the way, he’d paddle at one side to get us ahead and then do the same on the other. And though I felt terrible watching him do all the work, I soon became more riveted by the strong movement of his back muscles against the wispy gleam of moonlight. By the time we came safely upon the sandy island, he’d hardly broken a sweat.

Hopping out, he proceeded to pull the boat far upon the sand and toss the anchor from the back.

“Better safe than sorry. The water down these passages shifts drastically during the night; it could drift miles away,” he explained while grabbing things from within the boat and creating a neat pile.

“Okay, Courtney, hand those to me please,” he instructed, again standing in chilly water. I dutifully gave him the items, and he waded them to dry land. Despite my objections, he carried me to the sandbar. I already had goose bumps, and his arms wrapped around me only served to keep them there.

He quickly made another bonfire before spreading out a blanket and handing me a set of small nylon bags. “Put these on,” he said.

“What are they?”

“It’s an emergency suit. Not too fashionable, but they’ll keep you warm.”

“Wh-what are you going to wear?” I shivered, donning the thin metallic pants and immediately appreciating the inner layer of soft cloth as it warmed my dimpled skin.

“I’ll be fine. I used to live in a teepee remember?” he smiled. But after seeing my creased brow, he continued. “Courtney, I’ll be fine. I have a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt from the boat.”

Coming to me, he enveloped my shaking body in his arms. And I pressed my head against his chest while he massaged my lower back.

“We have blankets–thanks to you, I might add–and the fire. We’ll be fine,” he declared in a soothing tone.

“How long will we have to wait?” I worried.

“I expect someone will come down here right before sun-up. It’s a popular fishing spot.”

“So, we’ll have to sleep here?” I hadn’t spent the night with Philip–anywhere–and the idea of being in this bleak, mysterious place alone with him created an entirely new fear.

“Perhaps,” he answered softly. And as flames bounced tiny streaks of light against our faces, I discovered tormented shadows behind his cool gaze.

“So we wait,” I said bravely.

“So we wait,” he repeated with a shy smile.

Side by side and enveloped in blankets, we stayed close to the fire. My fleece-lined sweatshirt gave enough warmth, so Philip wore the matching space-age top. But after a time, the many layers caused him to over-heat. Shedding the jacket, he moved away from the fire, and the absence of his body left me uncomfortable rather than cold. I pretended an exaggerated shiver, and he immediately returned.

Leaning into him, there rested not only a peace within the embrace but a fundamental conflict as well. For the first time ever, I
wanted
a man to touch me. But not just any man. It had to be Philip.

Yet despite my emerging desire, I couldn’t find the courage to tell–or show–him my needs. And unfortunately, I knew he wouldn’t initiate any such thing. He was well aware of my fears and too gentlemanly to betray them.

Frustrated over my inability to share this with him, I instead cuddled closer, hoping he’d kinetically understand my message. He didn’t. And eventually the terror inside became too much. What if he rejected me? Or even worse...what if he wanted me back?

Unprepared to deal with either of these outcomes, I slowly moved away from him.

“Warm enough?” he whispered in the dark.

“Tired,” I replied.

“Here.” He eagerly made a cozy sleeping area with all of the blankets.

“But you’ll get cold,” I argued.

“I’ll be fine by the fire,” he promised. “And I have the jacket, just in case.”

I reluctantly laid down, and Philip again sat beside me. Of course, I wasn’t tired. I was anything
but
tired.

Resting my head on a makeshift pillow of rolled-up blanket, my vision turned askew as I studied the flames. I patiently watched the wind transform burnt yellow to blazing orange and searing red. It amazed me how something destructive and frightening like fire could create such pristine and absolute beauty. And for a brief moment, the idea of life being so much the same flashed into my hypnotized mind.

For while people weren’t at the mercy of a chilly wind, we were often altered forever by unpredictable fates that blew in and out just as quickly. And yet, even when burned beyond recognition, many of us were able to dig out of the ashes and live again.

I was still digging
, I grimly determined.

I must have fallen asleep, because I re-opened my eyes to find the fire gone and Philip missing. Far in the distance I heard low voices, and despite my body heat, the goose bumps returned. Unmoving, I considered what to do.

Essentially hyperventilating, I crawled on hands and knees–shredding my pants against rocks and other materials embedded in the sand-until I was partially hidden in some trees. The metallic material crudely hissed with every movement, and my overly-perceptive ears imagined whomever was out there scurrying toward me to discover the sound.

The voices-now distinguishable as male-were getting closer, and I unconsciously cowered deeper into the brush. Some critter ran behind my back, and I stifled a scream, biting my tongue so hard, the pungent taste of blood gushed inside my mouth. Rather than spit and create any noise, I unwillingly swallowed it down my dry throat.

Without the fire, I couldn’t see anything and since Philip searched the trees for kindling, I really had no idea how far back this floating island went. I made preparations to get up and run when I heard a man yell.

***

A toddler’s wailing burst through my reverie. And after watching the little girl run around my table and shriek bloody murder minute upon minute, I finally narrowed my eyes in search of the mother.

I guessed her to be the woman, seated at the farthest end of the shop, calmly watching in silence and chatting with a friend. I immediately felt the fury rush from my rapidly beating chest until it finally flushed my cheeks and neck with pink splotches.

As a parent, I well-understood its trials and often empathized with others in the same predicament. Yet, whenever I witnessed someone intentionally ignoring their role to either calm or discipline a child, I became livid.

Alex always chided me for my impatience when it came to lazy parents. But I believed it part of my duty to keep my misbehaving children from creating chaos for others who might be in our space. For in my opinion, it was one thing for the kids to ruin my social experience, but it was entirely unacceptable for them to ruin a complete stranger’s as well.

Disregarding my inner fury, I solemnly sipped coffee. And by the time I finished, the culprits left, with the mother walking beside the friend while the little girl unhappily lagged behind as an apparent afterthought.