As Good as It Got (24 page)

Ann threw up her arms to the sky. Great. Terrific. Fantab-ulous. She should start a new career as an advice columnist.

No, a therapist. No, an international diplomat.

Cheri, the kayak-turned-archery instructor, called the As Good As It Got

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class to order; the eight women lined up two deep in front of four padded targets, white with colorful circles, mounted on wooden frames. Bows and feather-tipped arrows were handed to the first in line, while Ann indulged a few sick thoughts about the wisdom of arming desperate women.

Good thing she was two lines away from Cindy.

After several minutes of instruction and practice with the bows, the women first in line were told to ready their arrows, aim, and fire at will. Ann’s arrow hit the target with a satisfying
thunk
in the white outer ring. Not exactly a bull’s-eye, but she did hit it. In the line to her left, Martha’s arrow had nearly made the center circle. Cindy’s missed the target altogether, and she stood staring in heartbreaking disbelief. Ann felt her second pang. Cindy couldn’t seem to catch a break. No matter what she did. No matter how hard she tried.

Was that how Paul had felt? That the forces of the universe were lined up against him? If he’d only told her . . . If he’d only asked for help.

But he hadn’t. Cindy had tried, and Ann had squashed her. Nice.

She fitted another arrow to her bow, readied, aimed, fired at will.
Thunk
. Another one out by the rim. Martha’s second shot extended firmly from the bull’s-eye. Cindy’s stuck straight out of the ground like a croquet stake, six yards past the target.

“Change up.” At Instructor Cheri’s command, the women in front moved to the end of the line to give the next group a turn. Ann sneaked over and poked Martha’s squishy upper arm. “Let me guess. You were an Olympic archery champion several years in a row.”

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Martha turned her unnaturally peaceful eyes on Ann.

“I relax and center my body, then I imagine that I am the arrow.”

The next line of archers shot. A sudden breeze lifted Ann’s bangs. Martha didn’t blink.

Uh . . . was she kidding? She looked completely serious.

“Really. Thanks.” Ann walked back to her line and waited again. When her next turn came, she only shot marginally better. Martha again sank the bull’s-eye, nearly dead center this time. Cindy missed.

Ann fitted her next arrow to the string, adrenaline rising.

She’d gotten where she was in life—sorry, make that where she
used
to be in life—by being a competitive bitch. Two weeks ago, she never would even think of this, but if becoming the arrow would get her ahead, then damn it, she’d become the arrow. She pulled the string back by her right ear, made sure she centered her body, relaxed all but the muscles she needed, aimed, and imagined herself as the arrow, straight and strong, heading for the dead center of the bull’s-eye.
She was the arrow. She would hit the target
. An extraordinary sense of calm enveloped her, the raucous cries of sea gulls faded.
She was the arrow
. Ann let herself fly.

Thunk
. Not a bull’s-eye, but nearly. She gaped at Martha, who grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. Paul would have made terrible fun of her. So much fun that she never would have been able to become the arrow. She never even would have tried. She might never have hit the bull’s-eye and been able to indulge this rush of triumph.

Paul would have kept her from hitting the target.

A chill passed over her. She was only barely aware that she still stood there clutching the bow, and it was no longer her As Good As It Got

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turn. Paul’s sarcasm made him so admirable and proud and smart and omniscient, or so she used to think. Now he just seemed sad and bitter and isolated and afraid.

Change had happened up here in the clean Maine air, a rebirth, a gradual process that began with the horror that was “I Am Woman,” proceeded through an afternoon with a compelling lobsterman’s assistant, and then on to her very first time becoming an arrow.

Gentle throat clearing reminded her to hand the bow to the brunette behind her. In the middle of the exchange, a commotion broke out two lines over. Someone shrieking. Ann joined the gawking crowd and saw Cindy, refusing to give up her place in line, clutching the bow and arrow, shouting.

“I want to hit the target.
I want to hit the damn target!

”

Tears ran down her face and she sobbed in that grimacing horrible way that every woman on the field understood all too well. Cheri approached her, took her arm, but Cindy shook her off, yanked the bow to her shoulder and let off an arrow that went wild to the right. “I can’t do it! I can’t do
anything.
”

She yanked up another arrow from the quiver beside her, made a wrenching guttural sound, pointed the bow up to the sky and shot off another one.

Five seconds later, five yards away, a gull fell to the ground like a meteor, with Cindy’s arrow sticking out of its belly.

Thud
. The bird struggled briefly then lay still, a growing spot of blood staining its white feathers.

Cindy lowered her bow, put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.

Oh no. I can’t believe it. Look what I did. Oh no. Look what I did.”

Oh God. A few women in the crowd began to sniffle.

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Ann felt her own panic growing. That would do it. That was enough to do it. “Cindy—”

Cindy burst into more of those horrible raw tears and bolted, dodging the scattered women like a professional running back. Instinct drove Ann to lunge for the tackle. When Cindy collided with her, she wrapped her arms around the shaking body and hung grimly on, rocking her, trying to stem the rising pressure inside herself.

“Don’t do this, Cindy. Don’t give up. You’re never out of hope. You’re never out of people who love you. You’re never

. . . fully dressed without a smile, I don’t know, just don’t do this.” She went on talking, soothing, encouraging, until she realized she was holding Cindy but talking to Paul.

Paul was gone. He couldn’t hear her. But at least she’d tried.

A giggle mixed in with Cindy’s sobs. “I’m not . . . myself.”

“None of us is the same. And we may never be again. But it doesn’t mean we’re nothing. It doesn’t mean were not worth it. We’re never going to be that. I promise. You get through the pain and go on. You don’t give up.”

“No.” Cindy raised her teary blotchy puffy face up to Ann as if she were witnessing a miracle appearance of the Virgin.

“You don’t. Thank you. Thank you, Ann.”

“You’re welcome.”

She smiled, and Cindy smiled back, and despite Ann’s utmost sincerity in everything she said and felt, she’d reached the absolute limit of sentimentality and psychobabble that she could stand. Happily, New Age Betsy, expert in all things gooey, arrived and she and Cheri led Cindy away, each holding an unresisting arm.

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On the archery field, the bird lay still. Women wept. In spite of the scene being perfect material for a surreal Monty Python sketch, a ball of tears rise in Ann’s throat too. Camp Kinsonu did not feel like a joke anymore.

“Hi, ladies.” Patrick strode into the clearing, the backup cavalry. Ann’s heart swelled at the sight of him, strong, in charge, steady. “Change of plans. Meet in front of the lodge, Cheri will take you on a hike to get everybody calmed down, then we’ll convene back in the lodge for tea and conversation about what happened, or anything else you need to talk about.”

Ann had started to move with the rest of the still-sniffling crowd when Patrick pulled her apart and examined her face with concern.

“Hey there, Annie.” He spoke gently. “Are you okay?”

Despite strict instructions to the contrary, a dry sob wracked her. She cleared her throat angrily. “God, look at me. Miserable over a bird I never met and a woman I don’t even know.”

“You’re grieving for Paul. It’s supposed to happen.” He stroked his thumb down her cheek, leaving her skin faintly tingling. “I’ll get a shovel, then you come with me. We’ll take the gull into the woods for a decent burial. Okay?”

After her nod, he strode off among the women heading for the lodge, tall and purposeful and reassuring.

Grieving for Paul. He knew. Probably they all knew, from her first day of bad attitude. Grieving his loss, yes, but also grieving how she’d wanted him and their marriage to be different. Did anything in life turn out as expected? Was there ever a time in a woman’s life when she could feel truly and 214 Isabel

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justifiably fulfilled, apart from others’ expectations of her?

Patrick came back into view holding a shovel and a cloth bag.

“Come on.” He took her hand and they trudged over the mown grass to where the poor gull lay. Ann had to look away while Patrick took out the arrow, making herself concentrate on the edges of the clearing, identifying goldenrod, purple asters, and white Queen Anne’s lace. Grisly job done, the bird in the sack, Patrick led and she followed into the woods, passing bright mushrooms, Indian pipes, and mossy logs instead of gravestones—a funeral procession like something out of an art film. He strode confidently, cradling the dead bird, stepping over logs, ducking under branches, finally stopping in a beautiful clearing, ringed with spruce and birch, carpeted with varying shades and shapes of moss, some like sponge, some like tiny pale Christmas trees. A red plastic hummingbird feeder hung off the branch of one tree, otherwise the place felt untouched by humans.

“It’s like a chapel.” This kind of church she could believe in. Natural and silent, uncompromised by mortal man’s needs and egos.

Patrick laid the bagged bird on the moss and turned to her, his strong lean body close enough that she could smell his woodsy scent. The clearing lost its holiness and found a clandestine intimacy. “Yes. Yes, exactly. I found this nearly a week ago when I was taking a walk. I thought of you immediately.”

“Why me?”

“I’m not sure.” He touched a finger to her chin. “I just sensed that you would love it.”

She stared at him, wondering why the hell that touched As Good As It Got

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her so deeply. And why she wanted to kiss him again so incredibly badly. “You hung the feeder?”

“Yes. I love hummingbirds. Sleek, colorful, agile. They remind me of you.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then just when she was starting to buzz with adrenaline, he turned and picked up the shovel. “Better get the job done.”

He started digging, leaving Ann feeling jilted. She watched the hole grow, glad they could save the bird from being devoured by whatever devoured dead birds around here. Foxes maybe, or—

“What are you going to do when you go back home?”

The question startled her unpleasantly. She didn’t want reality. Not here in these peaceful pine-smelling woods. The last week or so, she’d stopped worrying about the future, not because it was resolved, but because she’d been focused on camp life. “I’ll go home to my parents’ house, get a job, and try to get myself back on my feet, to the point where I can buy a house—”

Her words choked off. Her stomach dropped along with her mood. How long would it take her to save enough to buy a house? What the hell kind of house would she be able to afford around Boston?

Paul had taken a lot more than his own life. He’d taken most of hers, her independence, her retirement, her safe future . . .

“There.” Patrick picked up the bird in his large hands and laid it carefully in the grave. “Rest well, bird. Be at peace.

Come back strong and whole in your next life.”

Ann tossed in a small handful of dirt, and Patrick picked up the shovel again and went to work. Clumps of earth fell around the sack, peppering the burlap with tiny grains.

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Shovel after shovel until the bird was covered, the dirt level with the forest floor, and Patrick had carefully replaced clumps of moss he’d kept intact.

Unless you were looking, and even if you were, it was nearly impossible to tell that anything had just been buried there.

The moss would keep growing, as if nothing had happened.

The woods would remain silent. She and Patrick would walk back to camp, people would forget, the gull would crumble into the earth, and that would be that. His worries were over. Paul’s worries were over. Hers had quadrupled. She was alone, penniless, forty years old and everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish was gone. The moss had been put back over her old life and no trace of it remained.

An upwelling of black rage shocked her. Furious thoughts crowded into her brain, double-shocking her.
How could the
selfish asshole do this to her? After a decade and a half of marriage. After they’d shared so much, built so much together?

He should have stayed around . . . so
she
could kill him.

“Ann.” Gray eyes searched her face. “What is it? Tell me.”

She shook her head, breath coming too hard, feeling like a cartoon character who’d eaten hot sauce, building up a head of steam before she blew flame out her ears.

“It’s Paul, isn’t it? You are finally letting it out.” Patrick was whispering, bent so close she could see the pinpricks of stubble on his jaw. “It’s okay, Ann. All of it. Hate, love, anger

. . . and desire.”

She cupped his head with her hands and brought his mouth to hers almost violently. His response was immediate, and their chemistry, building since that first night when she saw him through the flames, exploded. He backed her up against a tree, and she lifted her leg, to give his thrusting As Good As It Got

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pelvis better access to where she wanted him. She had never been this intensely and painfully and furiously aroused. She wanted to shout at him to fuck her, hard. Now. Only the pristine silence of the woods stopped her.

His hands fumbled with his pants. Hers did the same with hers.
Hurry, hurry, hurry
. Before she stopped to think. Before her rational brain could chime in with what a bad idea this could turn out to be.