A Widow Redefined (9 page)

Saturday night, before bed, I thumbed through Sabrina’s John Waterhouse book again. I wondered what feelings these pieces evoked. As I turned the pages, I got a sense of them. Romantic, mysterious, and tragic. I closed the book and looked at the art in my room. They were Tyler’s drawings. Islands, bugs, pieces of fruit. He sure was coming along as an artist. It gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. I let that feeling usher me into a deep sleep.

When I arrived at Sabrina’s on Sunday, she answered the door herself, and was dressed down, like a normal person. Maybe she’d realized how nutty she looked in the chiffon gown.

I pulled her book out of my bag and handed it to her. “Thanks,” I said. “I really enjoyed it.”

She took it from me and reached for my coat and bag. I looked around and wondered where Henry was. Maybe it was his day off. Surely servants got a day off. Then I realized I was being politically incorrect and made a mental note to switch the phrase to hired help.

“Follow me,” Sabrina said, interrupting my inner dialogue. “I have a surprise for you.”

She turned and I began walking behind her, down the hallway. I hesitated for a split second when I realized we were alone. I don’t know why, but I got a little frightened.

We arrived in her bedroom, where I glimpsed a bouquet of yellow daffodils sitting in a vase on the dresser.

A familiar ping gripped my gut. A reminder to stay alert, to remember why I was here.

Sabrina reached into her closet and pulled out a hanging bag. “This is for you,” she said.

I reached out and took the bag from her. When I unzipped it and revealed its contents I saw two brand new designer outfits.

“I thought you might enjoy these,” she said. “I know you work in an office, and I think these pieces will be just right.”

“Thank you,” I replied, finally getting words to form in my mouth, “but I can’t accept these. They’re too expensive.”

“No they’re not,” she said, waving them off like it was no big deal. “They’re samples left over from the show.”

I’m smart enough to know (from watching Sex and the City) that runway samples were a size two. These were a six—my size. How the hell did she know my size? Something about this felt terribly wrong.

“What do you think?” she asked.

My first thought was “you’re giving me a present because you’re guilty about something, and you’re trying to make up for it.” My second thought was maybe rich people just did stuff like this; maybe it was normal, like giving half your sandwich to a co-worker who forgot to pack lunch. I’d have to decide on a correct answer to continue this charade, so I broke down and gave in to the truth. An embarrassingly selfish truth.

“I love them,” I replied. “I was just thinking I needed to get out there and buy some new clothes.”

We smiled at each other, then I took another glance at the daffodils sitting on Sabrina’s dresser. When my gaze returned to her, she wore a poker face.

“Would you like to eat lunch first or go swimming?”

The thought of eating and then putting on my suit didn’t appeal to me. “Let’s swim first.”

I followed Sabrina back into the foyer, where she reached for my bag and showed me to the guest bathroom. Once inside, I changed and surveyed myself in the mirror.

I was still average. None of the workouts had made a visible difference.

Oh well, I thought, then slipped on my flip-flops, put my hair in a ponytail and stuffed my clothes back in the bag.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, Sabrina wasn’t there, so I hovered in the hallway, mentally squashing my desire to meander about and snoop. Part of me feared Henry would show up— out of nowhere—with a Coke or Sprite in tow.

“Looks like we’re all set then,” I heard Sabrina say.

I turned and was stunned by what I saw. There she was in a black one-piece swimsuit with plunging neckline. Her long, dark hair was pulled up and wrapped in a salon-worthy twist. I looked down. She wore black kitten heels, too.

A wave of depression hit me as I realized I could never compete with her. She was a Chanel ad; I was a soccer mom.

“Yep,” I said. “All set.”

We walked to the indoor pool area, kicked off our shoes and got in. The water was perfect, room temperature.

“This is refreshing,” I said. “And a lot quieter than the pool I usually go to.”

“Which pool is that?” she asked.

“There’s an indoor pool at the health club, which I’ve been to only a few times, and there’s the outdoor community pool I take Tyler to in summer.”

“That sounds like fun,” she said. “I’d love to have a child to go places and do things with.”

Now we were getting somewhere, getting into her brain.

“It’s fun, but it can be exhausting,” I admitted. “When there’s two of you to share the parenting, it’s easier.”

“It must be difficult for you,” she said.

We had stopped swimming and were just standing in the water, talking.

“My mom moved in with us and helps out a lot. Plus, Tyler is like a thirty-year-old man in a child’s body.”

Sabrina let out a laugh. “I remember Justin saying that.”

Her familiarity with Justin was beginning to get on my nerves.

“That’s my husband,” I said, “always the bragger.”

Did I overemphasize the word “my?”

“Yes,” Sabrina quickly added. “He always spoke very highly of both you and your son.”

I decided to take the conversation back to where I wanted it to go. I was here to learn her secrets.

“So you mentioned the outfits you gave me were leftover from a show?”

“Yes,” she said. “We just had a show in Paris. It went well, but I’m actually rather glad to be back home.”

“Why?” I asked, thinking her insane.

“Oh… it’s silly, really, but I had a run-in with my ex-husband.” Her expression grew strained. “He was with his new wife and baby.”

“Wow. That’s awful. How strange that you’d bump into him there.”

“Oh, it’s not strange. He’s originally from France (like my mother) and after the divorce, he moved back home. My mom enjoyed living in the U.S., but he didn’t; he’d always grumble on about everything. Nothing was ever good enough for him.”

I felt sorry for her. I couldn’t imagine being in her shoes. Having made it through a terrible marriage, getting divorced, and then running into the jerk down the road, with his new, French wife, and worse yet, baby. She’d mentioned wanting a child, so I guessed this chance visit was especially painful.

“Looks like you’re the lucky one,” I told her.

“How so?”

“Because you didn’t get stuck with him.”

Something about the comment caused Sabrina to burst into laughter. “I guess you’re right,” she agreed, then began treading water.

“Plus,” I added, “Who wants to be with a guy for whom nothing is ever good enough? It sounds exhausting.”

Sabrina looked at me, her expression a sad mix of “I’ve already lived it and you just wouldn’t understand.”

No, I thought, answering her in my mind, I wouldn’t.

“Justin would’ve told you to not even bother trying, to just be yourself.”

Sabrina gazed off into nowhere for a while, then looked back at me. “We talked about it,” she said, “while he was working on the bathroom, I think.” She paused, no doubt remembering their time together. “He listened patiently while I rambled on and on about our brief courtship, and the roller-coaster marriage with all its nasty little events.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything then, just worked and listened, poor guy.”

I smirked.

“Since I was full of steam, I continued complaining about my ex’s every indiscretion, leaving no hurtful detail untold.”

“You were really that transparent?”

Sabrina grinned. “Well, I hadn’t meant to be. But Justin was patient. After I was done, he got up, wiped his hands with his work towel, and told me he was going to have to charge me extra for therapy.”

She shot me a smile, which was contagious, and I smiled, too.

“How did you respond to that?”

“At first I was stunned, but then I erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Then Justin said, ‘Mission accomplished, made you smile.’”

Was my husband flirting or just being nice?

Sabrina went on, “He told me he was sorry to hear about my bad experience, and that, unfortunately, these stories were becoming more and more common, but that it didn’t have to be that way. Love could be a simple thing.”

I listened with equal measures of curiosity and concern.

“He said he’d met you in high school. You shared a few classes together, went to prom. After graduation, you moved out and got married.”

“Wow,” I groaned, “Could we have been anymore simpleton? We’re positive bores.”

Sabrina gave me a stern look. “You’re not simpletons,” she stated. “It’s how it’s supposed to be… easy.”

Then, without getting her hair wet, she dove forward like a dolphin and began swimming a lap. I began swimming too. As I did, I thought about what she’d just said. How things are supposed to be easy. I wasn’t sure if that’s how it had always been for us, or if we just stuck together more than the average couple. Gliding through the warm water, without either of us speaking for a full ten minutes, I got lost in my memories.

Then Sabrina stopped. “I’m sorry, Amy. I’m a terrible hostess. Are you getting hungry?”

“Sure,” I said. “I could eat.”

Then, with the grace of a ballerina, she climbed out of the pool. I couldn’t help but notice her perfect posture. Maybe she had taken dance lessons or practiced yoga. My posture was horrible, with shoulders curved forward, the unfortunate result of working at a desk for over a decade. I’d have to try harder to sit up straight from now on.

After getting out of the water, I expected a towel, even a beach towel would’ve sufficed. Instead, Sabrina handed me a fluffy spa robe with matching head wrap. I needed it as I had gotten my hair wet. She only needed a robe. Her updo stayed neatly pinned in place.

“Shall we?” she asked, motioning to leave the area and change.

I followed her through the house to the guest bathroom. I dried off and put my clothes back on, then ran a brush through my hair. I pulled it into a ponytail with a rubber band, which made me look like a high school cheerleader.

I stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary, thinking. I felt so uncomfortable around Sabrina. Maybe it was the odd, formal phrases she used. Maybe it was the situation.

I liked hearing about Justin, though. Hearing him talk about us, about me and Tyler. It made me feel alive again. Oddly enough, I’d also enjoyed hearing the conversations he’d had with Sabrina. His sage advice and off the wall humor… I hadn’t expected that.

I wrung my swimsuit out in the sink and put it in the plastic bag I’d brought. Then I stuffed it in my gym bag and went into the hallway. Sabrina was waiting there.

“All set?”

“Sure,” I replied.

We went into the kitchen and I sat in the offered chair.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Oh no,” she said. “It’s all been taken care of. I made part of it yesterday and part today.”

She took a pot out of the fridge and set it on top the stove. Then she pulled out a tray and added it to the oven. She seemed to know her way around the kitchen pretty well.

“I just bought a new vegetarian cookbook, so I thought I’d try one of the recipes today,” she said.

My God. I was in a recurring nightmare from which there was no escape.

“Sounds good,” I said as politely as I could muster. “We’ve been doing some of that at our house lately, too—Tyler’s idea.”

“Really?” she asked, looking suspicious. “A child’s suggestion?”

“A thirty-year-old man-child… remember?”

“Oh yeah,” she giggled, but this time her familiarity didn’t get on my nerves.

“He’s obsessed with eating healthy and exercising,” I said. “It all began recently, after a birthday party.”

Sabrina stirred the contents of the pot and looked back at me, “Go on.”

“His friend’s mom had heart surgery, and after she recovered the doctor ordered dietary changes and exercise. Tyler took the story very seriously. He’s got us all working out together every night.”

“That’s adorable,” Sabrina said. “But how did the vegetarian come in?”

“Oh, I forgot to say. That was a suggestion from his art instructor. He started talking about it to her, and she lent him, or should I say
us
, some cookbooks.”

Sabrina smiled. “Well you’ll like this then.”

She came over and poured us each a glass of iced tea and added a pre-cut lemon wedge to the side. Then she served butternut squash soup with grilled vegetable sandwiches. She was right. It was delicious.

She was a better cook than me.

“Tyler would like this,” I said.

“It’s heartbreaking to hear of a young child so focused on that sort of thing.”

Her eyes were filled with compassion as she spoke. It caused me to get a little choked up inside.

Damn it! I wasn’t going to cry in front of this woman—my presumed adversary, my unusual friend. I willed the tears back into my eyes and cleared my throat.

“Yeah, well, he’s been through a lot.”

“I’m sure he has,” she said in a soothing tone.

I managed to regain composure and was chewing a bite of my sandwich when Sabrina decided to press a little further.

“Has he had any counseling?” she asked.

“No. Our insurance plan doesn’t cover mental health. He draws now. That’s his therapy.”

I didn’t know if what I said made sense. But I understood how it helped Tyler, how he enjoyed having his creative time alone.

“Art can definitely be a form of therapy, that’s so true.”

She stirred her iced tea, looking inside her glass. “You mentioned he has an instructor?”

“Yeah. My mom and I found someone reasonably-priced and signed him up for lessons. She’s a younger girl, just graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design.”

“That’s a prestigious school. You’re lucky she’s reasonable.”

“I know,” I said. “Once she finds a job, I’m sure she’ll be gone, and art classes will be out of the budget, just like everything else. I’m trying to get out of my gym membership, because I could save some money there, but it’s on a contract. Once that ends, I could probably get back to saving for Tyler’s college…”