Cape May (21 page)

“Please, Brian. Let me…” she couldn’t finish. She walked into the kitchen and began preparations for her chicken salad. She was thinking about Michael but forced herself to stop. She couldn’t think about him. Not yet, anyway. That was a luxury she might allow herself later.

CHAPTER 18

In the following weeks, Joanna began her separation from New York. She (happily) quit her job. In reality, she could’ve continued working, but she hated it and wanted to sever ties as early as possible. Besides, every time the phone rang at work she hoped it was Michael, and was destroyed when it wasn’t. She signed documents with her lawyers, with the realtors, with the banks, and made frequent trips to Cape May, some of which weren’t absolutely necessary. Anything to keep moving, to keep afloat, to not give her mind time to remember. Brian seemed relieved. Even though Joanna wasn’t back one-hundred percent, she was moving forward with their life together.

Nights were especially hard for her, sleeping in the same bed with someone who felt like a stranger. He’d made a few physical overtures—cuddling in bed, hugging her from behind while she washed dishes—and she wasn’t receptive to his touch. He didn’t push, for which she was grateful, and he just seemed happy to have her home.

One afternoon, lazing in their apartment, she said, “Don’t you want to come to Cape May and see the inside of the house you’re going to be living in?”

“You say you’ve done your research, and you say the house is fine, so I’m sure you think it’s fine. I’ll give up my semi-view of the trees of Central Park for a real view of the ocean. That should be nice.”

“It’s a great view.”

“I do admit I am leery about getting rid of this apartment, after all these years. But I’ll just have to satisfy myself with more space, walks on the beach, and sex with you in an antique bed.”

“What about my idea, you know, about you holding on to the apartment,” she said. “If Cape May ends up boring you, you could use this apartment as an office or weekend retreat. Or if things with the inn don’t work out we could move back.”

“It’s not a bad idea. But don’t you need the money from the sale of my apartment for your B&B?”

Joanna ignored Brian’s highly specific use of pronouns
and said, “We can swing it. It’ll take most of my inheritance, but we can have a rental income from subletting at some
point. If we need more, there’s always our friendly loan- sharking bank.”

A week later, they had a quiet dinner during which both of them read. Brian volunteered to clean up the kitchen and living room before they settled in for the evening with some TV, and Joanna went into the bedroom to put on her pajamas. Reaching into her bedside table for some lip balm, the first thing her hand touched was the lighthouse keychain that she and Michael picked out at the arcade in Cape May. All her careful shoring up over the past weeks collapsed. She burst into tears, rocking herself and sobbing into her pillow so that Brian wouldn’t hear her. She stopped crying long enough to shout to Brian in the kitchen, “I’m taking a quick shower.” She stumbled into the bathroom, climbed into a hot shower and cried. When she couldn’t cry any more, she dried off, put on her pajamas, and joined Brian in the living room.

If he noticed how washed out and quiet she was on the couch next to him, he didn’t say anything. They drank wine and watched a movie. That became their nightly routine when they were both home.

Hours passed. Days passed. Weeks passed.

Now she was spending too much time at home, and wished she
hadn’t
quit her job so early in the moving process. There were constant delays. The previous owners’ representative took weeks choosing and removing the pieces of furniture they wanted shipped to them. One of the items in question was a huge sideboard that had been anchored to the wall. When it was removed part of the wall came with it. Joanna’s lawyers wanted the owners to pay for the repair. The owners blamed the workers who removed the piece; the workers blamed the owners for doing a bad installation in the first place. The owners said a previous owner had installed the sideboard and that it wasn’t their fault. It took weeks, into almost a month’s worth of faxes and phone calls back and forth for it all to be worked out.

With no job to go to and still not at ease spending time with Brian in the apartment, exercise became an escape, an excuse to get out of the house. She walked for hours around the city and spent a lot of time in Central Park. She tried not to look at passersby, afraid she’d see Michael. If she saw someone his height or with his hair color, or someone a distance away wearing a blue baseball cap or sunglasses, her heart pounded. She switched from walking in Central Park to taking yoga classes, going two or three times a week.

Another month passed. She kept waiting to return to normal, and at one awful point realized that this was her new normal.

The only thing constant is change.

Although her days and life now revolved around the Tea & Scones, whether she was in New York or Cape May, Brian never asked a single question about the town or the house. He didn’t want to talk about Cape May, and all she was involved in had to do with Cape May. The apartment was very quiet.

Brian was different, occasionally snappy, and she felt it was to be expected. She’d cheated on him, he forgave her. That had to come with a price tag. He’d say, “Frank invited us to dinner. I picked that new Thai place on Amsterdam. You’ll find something.” Or “I’m binge watching
Game of Thrones
this weekend.” It was hardly abusive behavior but
he frequently left her out of the decision process. If he wanted
to go to movies, he picked the movie and the time and she said yes. If he wanted to have friends over, she said yes, and she shopped and cooked dinner and chatted as though things were the same as before.

They watched a lot of documentaries of Brian’s choosing, usually about World War II or sports or politics or crime. Joanna didn’t care much one way or another. One particular night, Brian brought home a movie from the library. An erotic romance. He opened a bottle of wine and poured her a rather large amount. They settled in to watch. The movie took place during World War II. A beautiful French resistance fighter and wounded American soldier could no longer deny their passion. Every kiss and caress made Joanna think of being in Michael’s tiny bedroom, that one time. Before Michael she’d go months without even thinking about sex. Now, her body seemed sex-starved, throbbing and full and aching. The movie wasn’t helping. The foreign film had several fairly graphic sex scenes. They got through the first without incident. The second one was affecting Brian, as evidenced by his erection, visible under his lightweight pajamas. He moved closer, and put his arm around her. A peeping tom would have thought they were nervous teenagers on a first date. With her brain fuzzied by the glass of wine that Brian kept topping off, and her body demanding attention, Joanna figured she might as well let Brian get on with it. They hadn’t had sex since that night in the Manor Rose months ago. They’d hardly kissed since she’d returned to him. He kissed her, she tried to kiss him back, but her body shut down, like a switch had been flipped. His hands wandered and her body shrank from his touch. She kept backing away until she was inching up the arm of the couch.

“Joanna, come on. It’s been a long time.” His hand stroked her arm. “Honey, try.” He kissed her again and she tried to respond, but froze. He moved away from her. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m tired,” was all she could come up with. There was no way to explain to Brian, to anyone, that it felt like she was cheating on the man she loved.

“You’re always tired.” A pause. “What’s going on?” She shrugged. “Are you still seeing him?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

She shook her head, afraid of saying something hurtful.

He continued, “Was he so much better in bed than me?” When he slurred it, “Wazzhe so muss beddrnbed th’me?” she realized that he’d been drinking too much, too.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Tough. I do.”

Suddenly she felt unpleasantly sober, and it scared her on many levels.

Brian continued, “I’ve been as understanding as possible.”

She just nodded once, blowing her nose and unable to say anything. What was there to say? He was right on all counts.

“I don’t wanna sexless marriage. Do you?” It came out “sezlish” but of course she understood. “I can’t help being boring, same old me.” His voice got louder. “I’m sure it was hot, screwing some stranger you picked up on vacation. Especially after our boring sex life.”

“No…”

He paced in the living room, getting more upset, and seemingly more sober, with each turn. “It’s your fault, too, you know. Our sex life. Your parents really fucked you up. Maybe if you’d’ve done it with me more than four times a year...”

She was shaking her head and started to say something but he interrupted, “And I’m such an idiot. I even gave you the go-ahead. I figured if you fucked him you’d get it out of your system.”

“Please stop.”

“Oh, is that too strong a word for genteel little you? That’s all it was, Joanna. Admit it.”

“It wasn’t about sex, Brian.”

“You’re such a liar. Of course it was. You don’t even know him.”

“That’s not true.”

“And you’re full of shit, Jo. It was all about sex. You’re just ashamed to admit it.”

“No!”

“Well you should be ashamed. I thought it was men who couldn’t keep it in their pants. But you think I haven’t wanted to bang half the women in this city?” She didn’t reply. “You wanted to sleep with someone who wasn’t me. You just wanted to get laid.”

“That’s not true! I love him!”

Brian stopped pacing mid-turn. She hated herself the second the words came out. His face went white, and she knew she had just rebroken his heart, this time permanently. She said, “I didn’t mean to throw that at you…”

He yelled, “Just stop! Shut up.” He walked into the bedroom and she said, “Oh, Brian, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” as he slammed the door.

She stood outside the closed door and started shaking. She couldn’t move. She was exactly in the same spot when, a few minutes later, he came out of the bedroom with a backpack. “I’m through,” he said, wiping his cheeks with the cuff of his shirt. “Be out of here by tomorrow at noon. This is
my
apartment.”

And he walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Joanna was still. The tears flowed but she didn’t wipe them or move. When she could move she picked up her phone. “I need you. Brian’s left me. Please come.”

***

Cynthia let herself in with the set of keys she had used twice in two decades: once to feed Archie when the cat sitter bailed out, and once when Brian was away on business and Joanna had food poisoning and couldn’t leave the bathroom to open the front door.

Joanna was curled up on the couch, quiet and still, with a blanket around her legs. Cynthia sat and held her. They didn’t talk for a long time. When Joanna reached for her glass of wine, Cynthia moved it away. “That won’t help anything. And it looks like you’ve had enough. That’s all we need now: you becoming an alcoholic.”

“He left me. And I deserve to be left.”

“What happened?”

“He wanted to, and I couldn’t.”

“I’d guess it was about more than just that.”

“He’s throwing me out. Cynthia, can I stay with you tonight?”

“Yes, of course. Let’s get your stuff.”

Joanna sat like a statue and watched as Cynthia packed two suitcases for her, and filled Archie’s food bowl. Then they left. With Joanna still in her pajamas, they took a cab to Cynthia’s apartment. Within half an hour, Joanna was asleep in her sister’s guest bedroom.

The next morning, Joanna had every sort of hangover —physical, emotional, spiritual. She couldn’t look in the mirror when she brushed her teeth in Cynthia’s elegant aubergine bathroom. The world was unfriendly and Joanna wanted to go back to bed, forever. The smell of coffee and toast helped a little, as she brushed her hair and tried to look presentable before entering Cynthia’s immaculate kitchen.

Cynthia said, scrambling eggs. “How are you?”

“Breathing,” she said, heading towards the coffee machine. “I think that’s as good as it’ll get today.”

“Sit down. The way you’re shaking I’d better pour your coffee.”

Joanna pulled out and sat on the posh chair. “Smells good.”

“I want you alert so we can talk.”

“About nothing important, please.”

“We have to talk about one thing. Do you still want to move to Cape May and buy the Tea & Scones? I called my lawyer this morning. He can try to get you out of the deal if we act quickly, but it’ll cost you.”

“No! I have to buy it, and move. I love the house. That I’m sure of. But I’m not sure about the money…I’m not sure…about…”

“And your love life?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What about Michael?”

“No. It’s over. I’ve hurt him too much. I’ve ruined Brian’s
life, too. I’m toxic.”

“Oh, stop it, Joanna! Things are bad enough. Don’t wallow.”

“Cynthia, I just want to get out of here. I hate me here. And I know enough to know I can’t live the rest of my life
hating myself.”

“You’re sure about moving. You’re not just running away?”

“I’m running
to
something. I’ve got to make a life for myself, somewhere. Yes, I’m one-hundred percent sure about moving. I’ll adjust, rethink. I’ll use the rest of my inheritance, and retirement money, if necessary. If I have to, I’ll get another loan.”