The Men I Didn't Marry (18 page)

Shaken, the driver sits down on the edge of the road and puts his head in his hands. A woman gets out of the car and joins him. Seeing who they are, I’d laugh if I weren’t so upset.

“I’m sorry, Hallie,” says the upset driver, also known as my runaway client Charles Tyler. “I don’t mean to cause so many problems for you.”

“I didn’t mean to cause problems either,” says Emily, still sobbing. “I should have told you what was going on.”

“I should have told you, too,” I tell my daughter, kissing her on the top of the head.

I look from Emily to the newlyweds, expecting them to chime in that they, too, have a few things to tell me. But instead Melina puts a steadying hand on Charles Tyler’s trembling shoulder and gives me a feeble smile.

“So, counselor,” she asks, “are your rates any lower for roadside consultations?”

Chapter THIRTEEN

WITH EMILY, Nick, Charles Tyler, and Melina Marks all crowded into my island escape, real life has come crashing down. Instead of being able to focus on the wonderful, sexy man next to me in bed, my mind races off in a million directions.

“Is the butterfly position not working for you?” Kevin asks solicitously, as he hovers over me that night in bed.

“Not really,” I admit. Candles are twinkling on the nightstand and soft music wafts in from the living room, but for the first time ever, Kevin’s touch isn’t yielding its usual magic.

“No problem.” He leans over to look at the book propped by the bed and flips a page. “This picture looks promising. Let’s see. Starts with you putting your left leg on my right shoulder.”

He kneels on the bed and I dutifully place my leg in the correct location. But I might as well tell Kevin right now that none of the pages of the Kama Sutra are going to bring me any pleasure tonight. In fact, I wouldn’t be able to get any satisfaction even if all four members of the Rolling Stones were joining us in this tantric pose.

But for Kevin’s sake, I might as well try. I close my eyes, lock my jaw, and grit my teeth.

Above me, Kevin laughs. “That’s not exactly the face of a contented woman,” he says.

“No, it’s the face of a confused woman,” I say, pulling back my leg and sitting up.

“Should we try an easier position?” he asks.

I give a little smile. “The sex isn’t what’s confusing me,” I say, though maybe all this delicious sex has been distorting my perspective. Seeing Emily made me realize that I’ve been floating along happily, dreamily, with Kevin, without making any real decisions about what comes next. Part of me knows I can’t stay here forever with this man from my past. But another part of me wonders why I would ever leave when everything in the present is so terrific.

Kevin tenderly pulls a sheet up around me. “You had a tough day,” he says sympathetically.

He’s right. The near-accident and the shock of finding Emily with Nick hit me like a cold bite of sorbet. My brain froze, and my head’s been throbbing ever since.

“I got Mr. Tyler to promise to go back to New York and check in with Arthur. He said he’d meet with me in my office within the week.”

“Will you be there to see him?” asks Kevin, slightly surprised.

I play with the corner of the sheet, tugging at a frayed edge. “I guess I will,” I say quietly.

“Is that what you want, to go back to New York?”

What I want to do is suddenly all mixed up with what I should do and what I have to do. I can’t tell Emily not to run off to an island— and then run off to an island myself. When we went off for a mother-daughter talk late this afternoon, Emily assured me that she’d only come to Virgin Gorda for a three-day getaway with Nick. How could I admit to her that I secretly think about abandoning real life and staying here forever?

“What I’d really like is to be here in bed with you always,” I tell Kevin, my hand resting on his shoulder.

“Good,” says Kevin, flicking through his sex manual. “We’re only on page twelve. And there are plenty more books where this one came from.”

I lie back on his soft pillows. Right after Bill left, the major sign of my depression was that I didn’t want to leave my bed. Now the major sign of my happiness is that I don’t want to leave Kevin’s bed. But I have to. I stretch out next to Kevin and kiss his shoulder.

“I’m thinking I need to go back to New York to take care of some business and spend the Christmas break with the kids,” I say carefully. “But after that, do you want me to come back?” I feel my breath quicken, having put the question on the table. Or at least on the sheets.

“Of course I want you back,” he says.

I roll over to face him, working up the courage to ask the even bigger question. “Do you think you’d ever come to New York? I mean, move there again, to be with me?”

I bite my lip, waiting for his answer. But Kevin doesn’t need much time to think about it.

“I left New York long ago. It was never my scene. For someone smart and ambitious like you maybe it works, but not for me. I got to Virgin Gorda and knew I’d found home. This is a much better place for me to live.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, reflecting on what makes a place feel like home. Then Kevin strokes my hair and tries to ease the tension of the moment. “Besides, how could I go back to New York? I don’t think Angelina is going to want to shoot her movie in the Hudson River.”

“There’s always the East River,” I say, rubbing my finger across the sunburn on his nose. We both laugh, but I have his answer, and I have to admit it’s not a surprise. If Kevin and I are going to be together, it’ll be on his turf. A lot of people come to the Caribbean and dream of staying, but Kevin actually did it. Could I?

“Virgin Gorda really is an amazing place,” I say, giving Kevin a kiss. “It’s very seductive. You’re lucky to have found it.”

“And I’m lucky to have found you again.”

Kevin slides on top of me so every part of our bodies is touching and our faces are just inches apart. My favorite position. Who needs fancy gymnastics when those missionaries had it right all along?

“Three weeks,” I whisper as he moves rhythmically against me and horizontal desire takes over. “I’ll be back in three weeks. Four at the most.”

Two days later, my nails are digging into Emily’s arm as our four-seater plane bumps terrifyingly across the sky.

“Calm down, Mom. I can’t concentrate on my book,” says Emily, who’s trying to read
Don Quixote
.

“We can rent
Man of La Mancha
when we get home,” I say, removing my trembling hands from my daughter’s flesh.

Emily laughs. “Right. And instead of taking my English final, I’ll just sing ‘The Impossible Dream’ to my professor. But relax, Mom. This flight’s perfectly safe.”

“Perfect conditions, beautiful day,” agrees the pilot, turning around with what he thinks is a comforting smile. But he’s only about a year older than Emily, and instead of an official uniform, he’s wearing a tank top and Boston Red Sox cap.

“Get your eyes back on the road,” I tell him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, giving a little wink to Emily that says “We understand these old folks, don’t we?”

Emily takes my hand. “I’ll always remember these days on Virgin Gorda,” she tells me dramatically, sounding like an ingenue on
The
Young and the Restless
.

“You had a good time?” I ask, knowing that the secret to talking to your children is the open-ended question.

She nods. “A really, really, really great time. And thanks for being so cool about my being here, Mom.”

“Kevin says Nick’s a nice guy,” I tell her, now that I’ve snatched her safely away from him.

“He is,” she says happily. Then lowering her voice she adds, “You know, Mom, I went to college a virgin.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I’m glad I waited,” she says. “There are a lot of things you do for the first time freshman year. Live with roommates, get a credit card, do your own laundry, have sex.”

Apparently I saved money in a 529 plan all those years so my daughter could go to Yale—and learn to do laundry and have sex.

“Did I remember to tell you to use Tide? The ‘mountain fresh,’ not ‘original’ scent?”

Emily laughs. “It’s okay, Mom. We can talk about this. We’re both adult women now.” There’s a tinge of pride in her voice at her new status.

“So you and Nick . . .”

“Did it,” says Emily. Then she adds theatrically, “You know, you always remember your first time.”

“Yes, you do,” I say smiling. I’m glad she remembers, since it was less than forty-eight hours ago. But twenty years from now, she’ll still remember. And maybe she’ll be like me, wondering what might have been.

“Are you and Nick going to try to keep this relationship going?” I ask gingerly.

“I think it’s kind of unrealistic.” Emily looks out the window, then back at me. “Nick and I do kind of live in different worlds. I mean, we love each other madly and all, but I have a busy semester coming up— five classes.”

“Five classes is a lot,” I agree.

“It kills me, because Nick’s so great.” Emily fishes a slightly used tissue out of her pocket and blows her nose loudly. She hugs herself and crumples forward in her seat, and I rub her back sympathetically. Then she pulls herself together and straightens up. “I have to be sensible,” she says, giving one more blow before putting the tissue away. “These long-distance things never work.”

They don’t? My now-worldly daughter seems pretty confident about the topic that I’ve been mulling—without an answer—for days.

“Anyway,” says Emily, “I spent all the money I saved this summer on the airplane ticket. I wouldn’t be able to come down again for months.”

“I could always buy you a ticket,” I blurt out in the spirit of romance, rather than rational mothering. Then I quickly amend, “That is, if I happened to be on Virgin Gorda anyway, and you wanted to visit me. And see Nick.”

“I’d
looove
to see Nick again,” says Emily, practically swooning. But then she suddenly looks at me aghast. “But wait, why would you be here? Not to visit Kevin again, I hope.”

“Maybe,” I say timidly, as if I’m the daughter now, answering to an all-knowing mother.

“He’s not your type,” says Emily resolutely. “In my heart, I know Nick’s not my type either. They’re both cute, but they’re not our type.”

“And why not?”

“It’s just opposites attracting. Someone told me every man wants a good girl who’ll be bad just for him. And every woman wants a bad boy who’ll be good just for her.” She sighs. “Like it or not, you and I are good girls, Mom. Kevin and Nick are island boys. It’ll never work.”

Never work? Now it’s my turn to look out the window. Emily’s doing exactly what she should, making a man a part—but not all—of her life. As long as she’s going back to school, I can’t even complain that she flew down to be with Nick. Still, it makes me a little wistful that she feels her romance has to be over before it’s really begun.

As for Kevin and me? Emily’s probably right about good girls and bad boys. But maybe Kevin will be good just for me. He certainly has been so far.

When the airport cab pulls up to my house in Chaddick, a small crowd is gathered on the lawn. I’ve been away for a while—how long has this party been going on? I step out of the car, take my luggage from the trunk, and wave to a couple of friends. Amanda, with her four-year-old twins in tow, is passing around hot cider and homemade cookies. I’m touched by this neighborly homecoming, though come to think of it, nobody knew I was coming home.

I notice Rosalie walking around with a basket and picking up pine cones.

“These make beautiful holiday centerpieces,” she says, giving me a little welcome-back kiss on the cheek. “Particularly festive with a touch of gold spray paint.”

“Nice,” I say. The sky is steel gray and the chilly air cuts right through my coat. Not only is it colder than Virgin Gorda, it’s a lot colder than when I left.

I look around at the dozen people milling around on my lawn and try to figure out what’s brought them here. It’s too late for Octoberfest and too early for Boxing Day.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask her.

“Bill,” she says, suddenly swooping down to beat out a passing squirrel for a Grade A acorn. She plops it victoriously into her basket.

We’re celebrating Bill? The horrible thought suddenly crosses my mind that he and Ashlee must be getting married and everyone is here cheering him on. Have I been away so long that the whole town is now on his side? Before I left, I had the sympathy vote all tied up. Now I take an island escape, and Bill becomes the local hero.

But instead of champagne corks popping, I hear the whir of a chain saw. I spin around and see Bill, power tool in hand, playing Paul Bun-yon with a downed branch from a maple tree.

So that’s it—we’re celebrating the triumph of suburban manhood. Nothing attracts a Chaddick crowd more quickly than the primordial struggle of man against nature, especially when man comes equipped with a twenty-four-inch lumberjack special.

I catch sight of Bill now halfway up a ladder that’s leaning precariously against the maple. I stride determinedly over to him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“A branch fell down in the storm last week. Needed to clear it up. And I want to take down this other limb before another big wind does it for us.”

I guess it’s infinitely better that we’re celebrating Bill’s pruning a tree rather than tying the knot. On the other hand, I’ve started to think of this as
my
maple, not his.

“Bill, get down from there,” I call out to him.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’m okay,” he says.

“Don’t call me honey,” I yell back, irritated. “And I’m worried about the tree, not you.”

Our neighbors are watching intently now as Bill yanks the cord and the chain saw whirs menacingly to life. I hear the collective intake of breath from the throng. It’s not that anybody really
wants
Bill to cut off his thumb, but the scene provides the same macabre fascination as an out-of-control truck on I-95. Who knows what will happen?

Bill goes to work, anchoring his boot against a rung of the ladder to brace himself. With two hands, he steadies the vibrating tool in front of him and begins his version of the Chaddick chain saw massacre. Smoke billows from the machine and chips start flying everywhere. A moment later, the bough starts to break.

“Timmm-ber!” call out Amanda’s twins gleefully.

People scurry away as the branch crashes to the ground with a resounding thud. Then there’s a flutter of applause for Bill, the champ.

Disgusted, I turn to go into the house. My feet are freezing. I left Virgin Gorda wearing sandals, and even though I’ve already added a pair of wool socks, my body’s thermostat is not set to be back.

And I’m not set to be back, either. I go into the house, thinking about the warm good-bye I had with Emily at Kennedy Airport when I put her into the van heading back to Yale. I can’t even think about my good-bye with Kevin. He kissed me before I boarded the plane, murmured for me to come back soon, very soon, and tucked a wildflower behind my ear. Unwittingly, I touch it now as I glance at myself in the hallway mirror. I’m tanned, my hair has light streaks from the sun—and my flower has wilted. I bring it into the kitchen and put it into a little china teacup that I fill with water.