The Men I Didn't Marry (13 page)

Slung over his shoulder is a well-padded blue nylon bag. He reaches inside and pulls out a long-lensed camera. It must be a brand-new toy, because he flips through an instruction booklet, then holding the Nikon SLR in front of him, he snaps a few shots. Checking the digital images he’s taken, he makes some setting adjustments and starts snapping again. In rapid succession, he captures the romping children, the fruit man, and the basket weaver, then turns around to snap the waiter, the couple at the next table, and then, apparently, me.

The camera seems to stay focused on me for a little too long. Then the photographer slowly lowers the lens and stares at me full-on.

“Goddamn,” he says exuberantly. “Hallie Lawrence. I know that’s you.”

He takes half a second to put the lens cap on his expensive camera, then rushes over, captures me in a bear hug, and scoops me up from my seat. He starts to swing me around, but embarrassed, I flail my legs and accidentally smack his knee with my foot.

He puts me down and gives a grin. “That’s the Hallie I remember,” he says, shaking out the leg. As a reminder of what he means, he wiggles his thumb at me. “Years of physical therapy, but it’s almost perfect.”

“I’ve been worrying about that thumb for years,” I say. I laugh and shake my head. “Kevin, I can’t believe it’s you. What a coincidence.”

“Yeah, yeah, of all the gin joints in all the world.” He flashes a wide smile and I blush, remembering the night he took me to the drive-in when they were showing
Casablanca
. We didn’t see much of the movie, but we always said it was our favorite.

He traces an affectionate finger across my cheek. “My mom told me you’d called—and I was hoping you’d track me down.”

“I’m just here on a vacation. A long weekend,” I say lamely.

Kevin nods. “You’re looking great. Mom also said you’re separated. Sorry to hear it. Well, not really. How about having dinner with me tonight? I know a great romantic spot.”

I swallow. Isn’t this a little fast? Don’t we catch up on old times and have coffee first before “romantic” enters the equation? On the other hand, Kevin never held back. I’m not here for long and playing hard to get won’t work.

Still, I stall for time. “Yes, I’m separated. How about you?”

“Didn’t my mother tell you that, too? I haven’t settled down, as she puts it.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Dozens of them. But no one at the moment. At least nobody who matters.”

I don’t ask what would make somebody matter. All he’s asking for right now is dinner.

“I’d love to see you tonight,” I say, wondering if I’ll be pulling out the pink mules after all.

“Don’t plan on getting home early,” he says with a smile. And then, in case I don’t understand what he has in mind, he unexpectedly grabs me and suddenly we’re locked in a close embrace that’s nothing like I remembered. Kevin’s arms feel strong around me and his once abrupt boyish kisses are seasoned with a manly tenderness. I think I should pull back from the kiss, but for some reason I don’t.

Kevin steps back first. “Do you mind meeting me at the restaurant? I have a photo shoot tonight.” He checks his watch, which is either an underwater Breitling or a good imitation. “In fact I should get over there now. But I’ll be done by nine. Take a cab from your hotel and tell the driver the Top of the Hill. Everybody knows it.”

He puts his arms around my waist and kisses me once more. My heart flutters just like it did in high school as we promise to meet later. I’m floating as I walk back to my cottage, and not from the double rum. I repeat to myself twelve times the name of the restaurant where I’m supposed to meet Kevin. That Marc Jacobs dress is going to see daylight after all. Or moonlight. I imagine us sitting at a table for two, stars twinkling above as a gentle breeze flutters through my hair. We’ll say sweet things to each other. I’m going on a date, a real date—and why not? Kevin did give me an awfully nice kiss.

I walk up the steps to my cottage and feel myself bubbling over with girlish anticipation. On my sunny balcony, I perch on the edge of a chaise lounge, but I’m much too keyed up to sit. I stand and spin myself around, like an ingenue on a Broadway stage.

Tonight, tonight, won’t be just any night!

Good thing that my balcony is hidden away behind some trees so nobody has to witness my performance. That’s the advantage of being alone. I can be as giddy as I want.

Tonight, tonight, I’ll see my love tonight.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. He’s not really my love. But hey, you never know.

I segue into “I Feel Pretty,” and twirl my arms overhead like some deranged dancer. Geez, no wonder I didn’t get into the high school musical. But today I’m getting the chance to do high school all over again.

Oh, so pretty!
I sing loudly enough—and off-key enough—that I flush a couple of birds out of the bushes.

I feel pretty and witty and bright!

Now I’m singing so loudly that the birds have made a snap decision to fly north—even though it’s the dead of winter up there.

“You
are
pretty,” says someone from inside my cottage. And then there’s a barrage of giggles.

“Witty and reasonably bright,” says another voice, this one deep and male.

“Adam?” I ask incredulously.

“SURPRISE!” say my two darling children, bursting through the door onto the balcony. I stare at them in disbelief. To paraphrase Kevin—not to mention Humphrey Bogart—of all the islands in all the world, how’d they end up on this one?

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a tone that comes out more like an accusation than a welcome. I can’t believe they caught me
in
flagrante
—singing songs from
West Side Story
on my east-facing balcony.

“We wanted to surprise you!” says Emily, throwing her arms around me.

“We couldn’t stand the idea of your being all alone on Thanksgiving,” adds Adam. “Dad said he understood and he bought us the plane tickets.”

“How thoughtful of him,” I say, still trying to recover from the arrival of my unannounced guests.

“Real thoughtful,” grumbles Emily. “He and Ashlee took us to the airport and then got on a flight to Vail themselves.”

“And you guys . . .” I pause.

“We’re here for the whole long weekend!” says Emily exuberantly.

“We’re here for you, Mom,” says Adam, plopping an arm around my shoulders. “We’re not going to leave your side for a moment.”

Ah, yes, what mother wouldn’t want to be me right now? Two loving, thoughtful, wonderful children who truly care about their mom. And now I have just what I’d wanted a few hours ago—Adam and Emily here with me. Filling my heart and the other bedroom.

And obviously filling my dinner hour.

“What do you feel like doing, Mom?” Adam asks. “A walk on the beach? A swim? Collecting shells?”

Actually what I feel like is giving myself a pedicure, making sure my legs are shaved, and putting on my sexy dress to meet Kevin. But “Mommy has a date” is not the conversation I’m going to have with Adam and Emily. They’re here to be with me, and I’m not going to be with anybody else. It’s dreadful enough that Bill’s flaunting his love life. Mom at least has to remain maternal (which means sexless) in their eyes. Bad as it is for me to imagine Emily with a guy, it would be a lot worse for her to imagine the same about me.

“Let’s go to the beach,” I tell the kids. “I just have to do one quick thing. I’ll meet you.”

I hear their sandals scrape against the wooden steps as they clatter down to the beach, whooping their delight to be outside, racing to the waves, just like when they were little.

Once they’re out of view, I open the top drawer next to my bed and find a local phone book. Much more helpful than the usual Gideon Bible. Kevin’s home number is listed, and when I dial it, I get his voice mail.
“Kevin here. Actually not here. Leave only good news.”
Beep. Since my message doesn’t qualify as good news, I hang up. Then I quickly dial again, but I seem to have missed my window, because this time the message is followed by an electronic voice informing me: “Mailbox full.” How did it know what I was going to say? Kevin is clearly serious about filtering out things he doesn’t want to hear.

Now what? I can’t just not show up, and I’m definitely not showing up with kids in tow. I call the restaurant and tell the owner to let Kevin know that I won’t be able to join him.

“You’re blowing off Kevin Talbert?” he asks indignantly. “Kevin’s a good guy. What’s your problem?”

It’s a small island, and the locals clearly stick up for each other. Maybe just as well I had to cancel. If the restaurant owner didn’t like my looks, it probably would have been a short evening, anyway. Worse than having to pass muster with the evil Jeanette.

“Please explain something came up. I’m so sorry,” I say unctuously.

“Fine,” he says curtly.

“Make sure he knows I’m really sorry.”

“Do you want to make another date with him?” he asks, suddenly turning into Kevin’s social secretary.

Would I ever. But by the time the kids leave, I’m leaving, too.

“Tell him I’ll call him,” I say.

“I’ll tell him you’re blowing him off,” he says, hanging up.

I stare at the phone, annoyed. Now I remember what’s so wonderful about dating. Nothing. Everything you do is wrong. I’ll try to fix this later, but for the moment, I’m better off sticking to what I do well, which is being a mom.

I go out to the beach, which is deserted except for a woman lounging on a blanket with a small baby. Her ample cleavage spills out of an inadequate bikini top. Given those breasts, I try to decide if she’s the baby’s mother, the nanny, or the wet nurse.

I wander to the other side of some rocks where my children have set up camp. Adam is running along the sand trying to get a colorful kite to fly in the gentle wind and Emily is in the ocean, paddling on a boogie board. Next to their oversize striped Ralph Lauren beach towels are a cooler, two blue sling chairs and a small Weber grill. Damn, my kids are amazing. I wonder how they got all that into their carry-ons.

Chapter TEN

WE SPEND THE NEXT THREE DAYS touring the island by moped, snorkeling around the shallow coral reefs, and horseback riding along the beach. We even take a midnight boat ride to observe the phosphorescent fish that flash bright neon colors when they mate. Under the half-moon, we lean over the side of the boat, and all around us the water is glowing with tumescence. At least the fish are having sex.

On our last day, Adam wants to go scuba diving—something we haven’t done in years.

“I’m not sure I remember how,” I tell him.

“You never forget. It’s like falling off a bike,” he says.

“Falling off a bike I can do,” I say, wondering why everyone always invokes that image. “It’s the riding part I’m not so good at.”

But Adam makes all the arrangements and at seven A.M. we’re standing outside, ready for the van that will take us to the dock. Furtively, I slip back inside the cottage, figuring this might be a good time to reach Kevin. The last dozen times I’ve tried, I got the same “mailbox full” message. You’d think he could have emptied it by now. But again I get no answer and the same message. Damn.

At the dock, we’re fitted out with tanks, wet suits, flippers, masks, regulators, buoyancy-control vests, and a weighted belt to hold us under the water. Eyeing us, the scuba master recommends a seven-pound belt for Adam and twelve pounds for me.

“You mean the other way around,” I say confidently. “Adam’s much bigger. He’ll need more weight than me to stay underwater.”

“But he’s all muscle, which sinks. And you’re . . .” He doesn’t bother to finish because we all know what he’s thinking as he looks at me. Fat floats.

All of the equipment gets loaded onto the well-scrubbed white fiberglass boat and as we go aboard I try to remember what I learned in those scuba certification classes years ago. Let’s see, I’m supposed to stop every ten feet or so to hold my nose and blow—which either clears my ears or makes my head explode. I should keep one eye on the depth dial and another on the meter that shows how much air’s left in the tank, which by my calculation leaves no eyes for the whole point of this expedition—seeing the coral. What I really need is a gadget to tell me whether that fishy over there is a bass or a barracuda. I could use one to identify men, too. I know my star Adam would be a starfish, Eric a shark, and Bill a big old blowfish. But Kevin? If only I knew. And now I probably never will.

The cute blond scuba master, who looks all of about twenty, introduces himself as Nick and comes around to check our tanks and regulators.

“Nervous?” he asks me. My shaking hands must be giving me away, and he knows his job is to calm me down.

“Do you remember the most important rule of scuba diving?” he asks cheerfully.

“Yes,” I say, as it all comes back to me. “Always breathe steadily. Never hold your breath underwater.”

“No! That’s rule number two! The most
important
rule. Wear black. It looks sexy!”

He guffaws, then gives me a congenial slap on the back. Great. I’m risking my life to go a hundred feet underwater, and our leader thinks he’s Conan O’Brien.

Adam and Emily double-check my equipment, and then the scuba master double-checks their double-checking. I’m briefly moved by their concern—but then I realize it’s not just altruism. Nobody wants a good dive cut short because Mom drowned.

We’re ready to head out, and the captain revs the motor. Then, just as we’re pulling away from the dock, there’s a commotion and two men from the scuba shop rush out, waving their arms. After a quick conference on board, the captain swaggers over to us.

“There’s a problem with another boat. We’re going to pick up a couple of divers at Pine Cay.”

“Good, more people,” says Emily, who’s maybe getting a little tired of this vacation that’s all mom all the time. I know just how she feels.

We move slowly through the water, but as soon as we’re past the sign that says “NO WAKE AREA . . . 5 KNOTS” the boat lurches quickly forward over the waves. Adam and Emily stand in the bow, enjoying the salt spraying over their suntanned faces and chatting with Nick, the hunky scuba master. Thank goodness, someone for Emily to talk to. But then I notice said boy draping his arm casually around my daughter’s shoulders. In other words, making a move on her. He’s wearing a skimpy Speedo (black, of course), and my little Emily’s clad in only a tiny Guess bikini. Good thing it’s pink, not black. Maybe Nick won’t think she’s sexy.

Fat chance of that. Actually, slim, curvy, voluptuous chance. Mom needs to intervene.

“Isn’t it time to put on our wet suits?” I ask, standing up.

“Not until we’re at the dive site. We’ll get too hot,” Nick says.

Too hot is exactly what I’m worried about.

I throw Emily a towel. “You must be chilly. Wrap up,” I suggest. She laughs, and tosses back the towel. “Don’t worry, Mom. Nick’s keeping me quite warm.”

I sit back down and distract myself by looking at the scenery. The clear blue water is dotted with islands so small they look like nothing more than big rocks, which is probably why the guidebook gets to claim sixty islands in the British Virgin Islands. I guess if three hundred square feet and a Murphy bed counts as an apartment in Manhattan, a clump of trees on a boulder should qualify as a tropical paradise.

The waves are choppy, the boat is going faster, and embarrassingly I’m starting to get queasy. I rub my temples. Come on, now, that queasiness is probably only from looking at the sexy bodies standing in the bow, one of whom happens to be my daughter. It’s all in my head, all in my head. I swallow hard. No, it’s also in my stomach. And it feels like whatever’s in my stomach won’t stay there for long.

“Nick,” I call out weakly. “Can you come here? I’m not feeling very well.”

He unwraps his arm from Emily, who rolls her eyes.

“Oh god, Mom. You’ll stop at nothing,” she says, mildly irritated.

“I mean it. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up,” I say as they both come over.

“You don’t have to throw up. Nick and I aren’t doing anything,” Emily says, still sure that I’m faking.

But Nick must have noticed that I’m green around the gills because he immediately gets me a cold pack and holds it behind my neck.

“Find a spot on the horizon and look at it,” he advises. “That sometimes helps.”

I focus on a yellow buoy in the distance. Bad choice. It’s bobbing in the waves, and as my head goes up and down following it, I only feel worse.

“Any other bright ideas?” I ask him.

Adam joins us as the boat starts to slow down. “We’re getting close to the island where we’re picking up those other people,” he says. “You should go for a quick swim. You can’t stay seasick in the water.”

“He’s right,” says Nick, who, let’s face it, would be just as happy to get me off the boat anyway.

Emily hands me a pair of goggles. “Jump, Mom, jump.”

My, how things have changed. Not too long ago, Emily was trying to prevent my suicide.

The captain ties up the boat at the dock to pick up our additional passengers and I slip over the side into the cool water. Almost immediately, I do feel better. I swim away, hoping everyone’s impressed with my strong Australian crawl stroke. I stop to look back, but our new arrivals seem to be struggling to drag a lot of equipment onto the boat, and I figure they’ll be taking some time. After swimming fast for awhile, I start to feel cold and tired, so I head back. All’s well until I get to the ladder at the side of the boat. Trying to climb up, I catch my flipper on a rung and fly backwards. At the flopping sound, everybody gathers at the stern.

“Take off the flippers and give them to me,” Adam says, reaching out a hand.

Now thrashing in the waves, I try to reach my feet but they seem kind of far away. My knee smashes into my chin, but I finally manage to pry one flipper off—and it immediately floats away.

Nick dives in. I think he’s going to help me up the ladder, but instead he goes after the wayward gear.

“Anything lost comes out of my salary,” he explains, swimming away.

I wonder how much he’d be charged if he lost me. Probably less than the price of a life vest.

I swim back to the ladder and taking off the second flipper, give it to Adam, who is standing in the stern. He reaches out to me, strong, stable, and sturdy. But I lose my balance on a slippery rung anyway, and this time hit the water with such a resounding splash that people on a neighboring sloop applaud.

I’m totally mortified, not to mention cold, and I can barely see because my hair has fallen in clumps over my face. The search for the Loch Ness monster could end right here.

Adam practically drags me onto the boat and I collapse in a shivering puddle. I look up at the circle of concerned faces above me—the captain, Nick, Adam, and Emily. And the two newcomers. I must have swallowed too much salt water and turned woozy because one of them looks just like Angelina Jolie. And the other one? Oh my God, it’s Kevin.

“Are you all right?” asks the pretty woman, who I’m now convinced really is Angelina. Anybody could have that dragon tattoo on her arm, but who else would be wearing a UNICEF T-shirt?

“Thanks. I think I’m okay,” I say.

She reaches into her own bag and pulls out a fluffy towel that she wraps around me. “Can I get you some water? Some juice? What will make you feel better?”

I’ve always wanted to meet Brad Pitt, but it might be too soon in our friendship to ask.

“Juice would be good,” I say.

Sure enough, the goodwill amabassador and mother of an ever-burgeoning brood reaches into her case again and pulls out a box of Mott’s fruit punch. She takes the little straw off the side of the box and pokes it through the foil hole on top.

“Here you go,” she says, smiling solicitously at me, a mom in the know. Just a few short years ago Angelina was the brother-kissing wild woman who wore a vial of blood around her neck. What would she have offered me then?

Kevin rubs a hand over Angelina’s back.

“Listen, just a few more minutes and then I want more of what we were doing before. Got me?”

“Got you.” She puckers those Angelina Jolie lips and kisses him on the cheek. “I love everything you were doing.”

Kevin doesn’t bother saying anything, but he gives me an arrogant glance and saunters away. Great. What kind of world are we living in if you stand a guy up for dinner and he throws it in your face by turning up with Angelina Jolie?

The boat putts over to our first dive site, and Angelina slithers into a black wet suit. Kevin puts an arm around her and pulls up the zipper in the back.

“Hard to reach on yourself,” he says.

“No, it’s not. There’s a long string attached to the zipper on every wet suit, for just that reason,” I say, holding it out to demonstrate.

Kevin ignores me completely, which is worse than any nasty comment he might make.

“Angie, are you set? I need you sexy, sexy, sexy underwater,” he says.

“That shouldn’t be hard for her,” says Adam, who’s been staring gape-mouthed at Angelina since she came on board.

I’m stewing as Angelina and Kevin don the rest of their scuba gear. Angelina and Kevin, isn’t that cute? Maybe I can stencil their names in a little heart on the girls’ room wall, just like I did all those years ago: Hallie ♥ Kevin. Kevin, bless him, carved the same on a tree, then got suspended from school for vandalism. And he’s probably been black-balled from the Sierra Club ever since.

Even on my best day, I couldn’t compete with Angelina Jolie, and today we don’t belong in the same ocean, never mind the same boat. While Angelina struts around the boat, the Queen of the Sea, I’m sitting huddled in a corner with goose bumps, matted hair, bruised legs from my falls, and a bruised ego from Kevin’s indifference. Angelina’s tank is already strapped to her back, but she still moves gracefully to her apparently bottomless bag. I’m waiting for her to pull out one of her babies, or at least the remains of Billy Bob Thornton. But instead she finds a small tube that she glides across her famously full and seductive lips.

“What’s that?” asks Emily, who’s been watching almost as intently as Adam. “Lip Plumper? Du Wop Lip Venom? Tabasco sauce? I hear it puffs up your lips just as well as the stuff you buy at Sephora.”

“Just Chapstick.” Angelina proudly traces a finger around her sumptuous lips. “These babies are all natural.”

“Please tell me. I’m dying for lips like yours. You must have one secret to share,” begs Emily. I’m guessing Angelina’s sexy lip secret involves sucking exercises, but I don’t say anything.

Scuba master Nick is now keenly interested, too, though it seems to be my daughter’s lips that he’s staring at. On the one hand, I’m proud that in his eyes, Emily outshines the star. But on the other, I hope he realizes that all Emily sucks is Popsicles.

“I don’t know what’s so good about having a fat lip. I remember when we all wanted to be thin-lipped blondes like Christie Brinkley,” I say.

“Who’s she?” asks Emily.

Who’s Christie Brinkley? How quickly those fifteen minutes fade. “We used to think she was the most dazzling woman in the whole world,” I tell them. But times have changed, and today she’d never make the cover of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. Forget her stunningly slim, straight All-American style. Now you need Angelina lips, Gisele Bündchen curls and curves, and a J.Lo butt.

“A lesson for you,” I say, the voice of mature reason. “Remodel yourself to look like today’s idols, and in a few years you’ll be as out of style as Frye boots.”

“I love Frye boots,” says Emily.

“Me, too,” reports Angelina. “I have five pair.”

I sigh. If the cowboy craze has come back in style, maybe there’s hope for my thin lips. Everything goes in cycles.

But if I thought Kevin’s affection for me would be cycling back, I don’t see it happening any time soon.

“Into the ocean, gorgeous,” Kevin says, strolling over, and I know he’s not talking to me. He coos to Angelina as he adjusts the mask over her eyes and nose and helps her ease into the water. He has an expensive underwater video camera slung around his neck, which isn’t surprising. If you’re spending time scuba diving with Angelina Jolie, you want to be able to prove it.