Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (5 page)

Did I mention that the Bone kids are all girls? Ages one through four! I’ve always been bad with names, so I keep them organized
by calling them by their ages. “Is Two sleeping?” “Is that Four outside on the swings?” “I think this will fit Three.”

The Bones all giggle when I do this, and they think it’s so silly, they’ve inducted Gus as honorary number five. Lord, if
anyone ever over-heard my system, they’d never come to see Dr. Bedford.

But they do come, Nicky, and I heal, and I am healing myself.

Now listen to what happens next. I had another date with Matt. I was invited to a party at his house.

My little man,

The house outside Vineyard Haven was beautiful, tasteful, impressive, and very expensive. I couldn’t help but be impressed.
As I looked around, the men and the women, even the children, arranged themselves into one demographic group: successful.
It was Matt’s world. It was as if the whole Upper East and West Sides of Manhattan, some smatterings of TriBeCa, and all of
SoHo had been transplanted to the Vineyard. Partygoers were spread across the decks, the stone walkways, and the various gorgeously
furnished rooms that opened to endless views of the sea.

The house was definitely not
me,
but I could still appreciate its beauty, even the love that had gone into making it what it was.

Matt took my arm and introduced me to his friends. Still, I felt out of place. I don’t know exactly why. I had attended more
than my share of events like this in Boston. Ribbon cuttings for new hospital wings, large and small cocktail soirees, the
endless invitations to whatever was news-worthy in Boston.

But I really felt uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to tell Matt, to spoil the night for him. My recent stint on Martha’s Vineyard
had been more down-home. Growing vegetables, hanging shutters, waterproofing porch floors.

At one crazy point, I actually looked down to see if I’d gotten all the white paint off my hands before I came.

You know what it was like, Nick?
Sometimes when we hang together, and it’s just the two of us, I’ll talk Nicky-talk with you. That’s the special language
of made-up words; strange, funny noises; and other indecipherable codes and signals that only the two of us understand.

Then an adult will come to the door—or we’ll have to go out to the market for something—and I swear I
forget
how to talk like an adult.

That’s how I felt at this party. I’d spent too much time in work boots and paint-stained over-alls; I was out of sync. And
I liked the new rhythm I was creating for myself. Easy, simple, uncomplicated.

As I floated through a pleasant-enough haze of witty small talk and clinking crystal glasses, a little voice,
a child’s voice,
broke through to me.

A small boy came running up, crying. He was probably three or four. I didn’t see a parent or a nanny anywhere.

“What happened?” I bent down and asked. “Are you okay, big guy?”

“I fell,” he sobbed. “Look!” And when I looked down, sure enough, his knee had a nasty scrape. There was even a little blood.

“How’d he
know
you were a doctor, Suzanne?” Matt asked.

“Children know these things,” I said. “I’ll take him inside and clean his knee. This white dress is meant to be chic, but
maybe it looked like a doctor’s lab coat to him.”

I put my hand out, and the little boy reached up and took it. He told me that his name was Jack Brandon. He was the son of
George and Lillian Brandon, who were at the party. He explained, in a very grown-up way, how his nanny was sick and his parents
had to bring him.

As he and I emerged from the screened back door, a concerned woman came up to me.

“What happened to my son?” she asked, and actually seemed put out.

“Jack took a little fall. We were just going to find a Band-Aid,” Matt said.

“It’s not serious,” I said. “Just a scratch. I’m Suzanne, by the way, Suzanne Bedford.”

Jack’s mother acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. When she tried to take Jack’s hand, he turned unexpectedly and hugged
my legs.

I could tell that the mother was annoyed. She turned to a friend, and I heard her say, “What the hell does she know? It’s
not like she’s a doctor.” Nick—listen, watch closely now, this next part is magic. There is such a thing
. Believe me.

One night after a very long day at my office, the intrepid country doctor decided to grab a bite to eat on her way home.

I was just too tired to deal with making something, or even deciding what to make. No, Harry’s Hamburger would do me just
fine. A burger and fries seemed perfect to end my day. I needed a little guilty pleasure.

I guess it was a little past eight when I strolled inside. I didn’t notice him at first. He was sitting by the window, eating
his dinner and reading a book.

In fact, I was halfway through my burger when I saw him.Picasso, my housepainter.

I’d had very little contact with him since he left me those beautiful wildflowers in the mason jar. Occasionally, I’d hear
him fixing something on the roof as I was leaving for work, or catch him painting the house, but we seldom spoke more than
a few words.

I got up to pay the check. I could have walked out without saying hello because his back was turned toward me, but that seemed
rude, ungracious, and snobby on my part.

I stopped at his table and asked him how he was. He was surprised to see me and asked if I’d join him for a cup of coffee,
dessert, anything. It was his treat.

I gave him a lame excuse, saying I had to get home to Gus, but he was already clearing a spot for me and I just sort of sat
down in his booth by the window. I liked his voice—I hadn’t noticed it before. I liked his eyes, too.

“What are you reading?” I asked, feeling awkward, maybe a little scared, wanting to keep the conversation going.

“Two things . . . Melville”—he held up
Moby-Dick
—“and
Trout Fishing in America.
Just in case I don’t catch the big one, I have a backup.”

I laughed. Picasso was pretty smart, and funny. “
Moby-Dick,
hmmm, is that your summer reading or a guilt hangover because you never finished it in school?”

“Both,” he admitted. “It’s one of those things that you have on your to-do list in life. The book just sits there looking
at you saying, ‘I’m not going away till you read me.’ This is the summer I’m getting all the classics out of the way so I
can finally concentrate on cheap summer thrillers.”

We talked for more than an hour that night, and the time just flew. Suddenly, I noticed how dark it was outside.

I looked back at him. “I have to go. I start work early in the morning.”

“Me, too,” he said, and smiled. “My current boss is an absolute slave driver.”

I laughed. “So I’ve heard.”

I stood up at the table and for some goony reason, I shook his hand.

“Picasso,” I said, “I don’t even know your real name.”

“It’s Matthew,” he said. “Matthew Harrison.”

Your father.

The next time I saw Matt Harrison, he was floating high above the world, up on my roof. He was hammering shingles like a madman,
definitely a good, very conscientious worker. It was a few days after we had talked at Harry’s Hamburger.

“Hey, Picasso!” I yelled, this time feeling more relaxed and even happy to see him. “You want a cold drink or something?”

“Almost done here. I’ll be down in a minute. I’d love something cold.”

Five minutes later he entered the cottage as brown as a burnished copper coin.

“How’s it going up there where the seagulls play?” I asked.

He laughed. “Good and hot! Believe it or not,

I’m almost done with your roof.”

Damn. Just as I was starting to like having him around.

“How’s it going down here?” Matt asked me, sliding into my porch rocker in his cutoff jeans and open denim shirt. The rocker
went back and bumped the trellis.

“Pretty good,” I said. “No tragic headlines in the trenches today, which is always nice to report. Actually, I love my practice.”

Suddenly, behind Matt, the trellis broke away from its hinges and began to tumble toward us. We both leaped up simultaneously.
We managed to press the white wooden frame back into place, our heads covered with rose petals and clematis.

I began laughing as I looked over at my handy-man. He looked like a bridesmaid gone wrong. He immediately responded by saying,
“Oh, and you don’t look like Carmen Miranda yourself?”

Matt got a hammer and nails and resecured the trellis. My only job was to hold it steady.

I felt his strong, very solid leg brush against mine, then I could feel his chest press against my back as he hovered over
me, banging in the last nail.

I shivered.
Had he done that on purpose? What was going on here?

Our eyes met and there was a flash of something bordering on the significant between us. Whatever it was, I liked it.

Impulsively, or maybe instinctively, I asked him if he’d like to stay for dinner. “Nothing fancy. I’ll throw some steaks and
corn on the grill . . . like that.”

He hesitated, and I wondered whether there was someone else. He certainly was good-looking enough. But my insecurity evaporated
when he said, “I’m kind of grubby, Suzanne. Would you mind if I took a shower? I’d love to stay for dinner.”

“There are clean towels under the sink,” I told him.

And so he went to wash up and I went to make dinner. It had a nice feeling to it. Regular, simple, neighborly.

That’s when I realized I didn’t have any steak or corn. Fortunately, Matt never knew that I ran over to Melanie’s for food
. . . and that she threw in wine, candles, even half a cherry pie for dessert. She also told me that she adored Matt, that
everyone did, and
good for you.

After dinner the two of us sat talking on the front porch for a long time. The time flew again, and when I looked at my watch,
I saw that it was almost eleven. I couldn’t believe it.

“Tomorrow’s a hospital day for me,” I said. “I have early rounds.”

“I’d like to reciprocate,” Matt said. “Take you to dinner tomorrow? May I, Suzanne?”

I couldn’t take my eyes away from his. Matt’s eyes were this incredibly gentle brown. “Yes, you absolutely may take me to
dinner. I can’t wait,” I said. It just came out.

He laughed. “You don’t have to
wait.
I’m still here, Suzanne.”

“I know, and I like it, but I still can’t wait for tomorrow. Good night, Matt.”

He leaned forward, lightly kissed my lips, and then went home.

As it always has in my life—so far, anyway— tomorrow finally arrived. It came with Gus. Every morning he goes out to the porch
and fetches the
Boston Globe.
What a retriever; what a pal!

Picasso took me around the island in his beat-up Chevy truck that afternoon, and I saw it as I never had before. I felt like
a tourist. Martha’s Vineyard was full of picturesque nooks and crannies and stunning views that continually surprised and
delighted me.

We ended up at the lovely, multicolored Gay Head Cliffs. Matt reminded me that Tashtego in
Moby-Dick
was a native harpooner and a Gay Head Indian. I guess I’d forgotten.

A couple of days later, after he’d finished some work in the house, we went for another ride.

Two days later we went out to Chappaquiddick Island. There was a tiny sign on the beach: PLEASE DON’T DISTURB, NOT EVEN THE
CLAMS OR SCALLOPS. Nice. We didn’t disturb anything.

I know this might sound silly, or worse, but I liked just being in the car with Matt. I looked at him and thought,
Hey, I’m with this guy and he’s very nice. We’re out looking for an adventure.
I hadn’t felt like that in a long time. I missed it.

It was at that very moment Matt turned and asked me what I was thinking about.

“Nothing. Just catching the sights,” I said. I felt as if I’d just been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to.

He persisted. “If I guess right, will you tell me?” “Sure.”

“If I guess right,” he said, and grinned, “then we get to have another date. Maybe even tomorrow night.”

“And if you guess wrong, then we never see each other again. Big stakes riding on this.”

He laughed. “Remember, I’m still painting your house, Suzanne.”

“You wouldn’t screw up the paint job to get even?”

Matt pretended to be offended. “I’m an artist. Picasso.”

He paused before winking at me, and then nailed his guess. “You were thinking about
us.
”

I couldn’t even bluff, though I did blush like crazy. “Maybe I was.”

“Yes!” he shouted, and raised both arms in triumph. “And so?”

“So keep your hands on the steering wheel. And so what else?”

“So what would you like to do tomorrow?”

I started to laugh, and realized I did that a lot around him. “Boy, I have no idea. I was going to give Gus a badly needed
bath, do some food shopping, maybe rent a movie. I was thinking,
The Prince of Tides.
”

“Sounds great, sounds perfect. I loved Pat Conroy’s book, all his stuff. Never got around to the movie. Afraid they’d mess
it up. If you want some company I’d love to tag along.”

I had to admit, it was great fun being with Matt. He was the polar opposite of my former Boston boyfriend, Michael Bernstein,
who never seemed to do anything without a logical reason, never took a day off, probably never turned down a pretty winding
road just because it was there.

Matt couldn’t have been more different. He seemed to take an interest in just about everything on the planet: he was a gardener,
bird-watcher, avid reader, pretty good cook, basketball player, crossword-puzzle champion, and, of course, he was very handy
around the house.

I remember looking down at my watch at one point during our ride. But I wasn’t doing it because I wanted our date to be over;
I was doing it because I wanted it
not
to be over. I felt so damn happy that day. Just taking a ride with him, going absolutely nowhere.