Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (19 page)

It was coming to an end. That was clear. It was not something he wanted or desired, but he felt powerless to change what was inevitable. He squinted against the smoke and reminded himself that he had known it all at the outset. It did no good to pretend otherwise. She had not misled him nor had she pretended to be anything but what she was: a devoted wife. He understood how difficult these couple days had been for Margaret. She was not prissy or prudish—quite the contrary—but she had a genuine decency and he knew she felt troubled going against her innate sense of fairness. Ultimately, it was not even about Thomas any longer. She answered to something deeper, something foundational in her nature, and she could not escape those moral considerations. It reminded him of a Shakespearean tragedy, a character born with a fatal flaw, except in Margaret's instance it was not a flaw but an unassailable strength. But the strength was the wounding flaw, and vice versa, and he let the thought go as he blew a large circle of smoke into the air and watched it drift and settle away from the building.

But time would tell. He did not mean to be cunning, nor to plan too well, but he was willing to wait to see what would happen. He loved her, he realized. He understood it with a brutal simplicity, with a pure, painful comprehension. He wondered if most men didn't reach toward love faster than they truly understood it. Yet it was here now. He loved Margaret and wanted her for his own. He did not delude himself that he couldn't live without her. That was the damnable thing: people could always live without one another. The movies pretended otherwise, but it simply wasn't so. Life moved on and one went with it. It might have been easier, frankly, if it had been some crazy affair. He might have let that go and moved on without too much pain, but with Margaret it was different. He knew he had discovered something solid and honest and he knew unquestionably that he could live beside her for the rest of his life. He did not have to think twice about that, and as he rolled his cigar ash gently on the edge of the table, letting the white flakes fall to the stone floor, he saw what a wonder it was to know without doubt that he had met the woman he had searched for all his life. No, that made it sound too grand, he decided. But she was the one. That was as simple as he could frame it in his mind, and he took a tiny whiff of smoke into his lungs and coughed gently, the smoke mixing with the scent of flowers and the rich earth and the mossy sky above.

What now, he thought. Did they wake up tomorrow and say good-bye? One final night in bed together? He knew he wouldn't—he couldn't, was more accurate—pursue her in Maine unless she permitted it and he doubted she would. It would make things too hard, and so they would go apart when everything he understood about the world told them to stay together. He could take on Gordon, it would be an honor, and they could come with him overseas, and they would live together as they had these past days and life would be simple and beautiful. That could be done and the only thing standing in the way of it was not Thomas but Margaret.

He blew another cloud of smoke, a thin, hot stream that rubbed his lip as it left his mouth, and a moment later she appeared on the terrace with their drinks. She smiled, obviously pleased. She swung her leg over his and reached back and put one drink down on the small table. She sat on his lap, facing him. She gave him a small sip of scotch and took a small sip herself, then kissed him deeply.

“Oh, Charlie,” she whispered, her body and breath close, “I'm so happy right now.”

“I am, too.”

“I like you out here and I like coming out to you. And I like that you have a cigar now and then . . . not many, for your health, I mean, but I like it. My father smoked a cigar once in a great while and I always knew he was happy when he did it just as I knew you were happy out here.”

He kissed her again. He started to pull back, but she tucked closer to him and kissed him hard. She put her lips next to his ear.

“I had been sleepwalking when I met you, Charlie. I had. I know I've told you some of this already, but it's true. You woke me up. You're my Prince Charming.”

“I get to keep you, then, and to live happily ever after.”

She kissed his neck, his cheek, his lips. The cigar smoke licked across the side of the chair and drifted across the lawn.

“People go to sleep all the time and don't even know it,” she said. “That's what you taught me.”

“You weren't asleep, really, Margaret. You have your son and the farm work and your husband. You had too much to do to be asleep.”

“I love the farm, it's true. But deep down I was numb in a way I didn't realize. I had given up on having small joys like these. Not all the way, not completely, but I had given a big shrug to everything. But I see now it was wrong to do that. You have to keep trying, don't you? That's the whole game, to keep trying. I see that with you.”

He took a deep breath and reached around her to put the cigar away. She started to get up, perhaps thinking she was too heavy on his legs, but he gathered her closer. She reached over and put the glass on the table and curled into him. He smelled the earth and watched the sun sink through the trees.

Chapter Twenty-three

F
rom the shower, Margaret peeked out to watch Charlie shave. He stood in the foggy bathroom, his chin poked forward, his hand dragging a razor over his cheek. How quickly, she thought, they had become intimate. They could share a bathroom, sleep beside each other, navigate a trip. They had made love every day, discovering new, pleasurable things, each of them growing bolder with practice. Margaret realized again that she had missed living with a man. It seemed a peculiar yearning to her, living as she did with two men, but that was different. She liked the thumps and heavy footsteps a man made; she liked the cigar and the scotch and the firm way Charlie handled the doorman. She liked his strength, his force, his steadiness. It felt as if she were a slightly tippy canoe that now had an outrigger.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, his eyes crinkling a little to see her through the fog.

“You, Charlie. Is it strange that this feels so easy?”

“Yes, a little bit.”

“I can't believe how it is between us.”

“Should we have a fight? An experimental fight just to sample the waters?”

“I can't imagine fighting with you right now.”

“Give it time. Now, why don't you pull back the shower curtain and let me see you naked?”

“You're a horrible man.”

But he turned and stepped across the tub. She ducked back into the stream of water, squealing a little as she went. A second later he had stepped out of his boxer shorts and climbed in with her. A little shaving cream ran off his cheek. He kissed her. His lips still tasted of cigar and scotch.

“You're beautiful,” he said, still holding her in his arms.

“You have to say that. We're in the shower.”

“I'm going to buy you a really big steak or a lamb chop or something that requires a bib.”

“I'm starving.”

“Then we'll go for an evening walk like proper ladies and gentlemen.”

“I'd love to go for a walk. All right, you finish here and let me dress,” she said. “I'm showered out.”

She kissed him again and stepped out of the tub. Steam covered the bathroom. She wrapped her hair in a towel, wrapped a larger towel over her body, then walked outside. The change in temperature between the two rooms made her slightly light-headed. She lifted her small suitcase onto the bed and tried to think of something new to wear. But the cupboard was bare, she admitted, and Charlie would have to be satisfied with a variation on the same old outfits.

Before she could decide what to wear, her cell phone rang. It took her a moment to find it among the jumble of clothes and odds and ends scattered around the room. She glanced at the incoming number—Blake—and almost let it ring unanswered. But then she thought about Gordon, and she thought about Blake herself, and she flipped it open and said, “Hello?”

Nothing came back to her except the strangled breath of a sob.

“Blake?” Margaret asked, stopping everything to listen. “Blake, what is it?”

But Blake couldn't speak. Behind her, Margaret heard Charlie turn off the shower. Margaret took a step outside and snatched her scotch glass off the table.

“What is it, honey?” Margaret asked. “What's wrong?”

“Donny,” Blake said, but Margaret could tell there was more.

“What about Donny? He isn't hurt, is he?”

“No,” Blake answered, her breath stuttering and punching holes in the next thing she said. “He wants a divorce.”

“Oh, Blake, I'm so sorry.”

“He said,” Blake said, and Margaret pictured her friend squaring her shoulders, slowly getting control of herself, “that he doesn't have any feelings for me. None. He said we were just roommates.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Blake.”

“He said he wants to be free to pursue other options. Those were his words. ‘Other options.'”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in the car in the driveway. I didn't want to talk around Phillip.”

“And where is Donny?”

“He left.”

“For good?”

“I don't know. He took a bag and drove off.”

“Do you think he's seeing someone?”

“That was the first thing that came to mind. Donny's too lazy to fend for himself without a woman. Do you know what I mean? He's not going to live in a motel and go to a Laundromat and do all of that. He needs a woman. He wouldn't have the guts to leave unless he had another situation lined up.”

“Do you have any suspicions?”

“No, not one.”

“Well, we shouldn't jump to conclusions, should we? It's all raw and new. Give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being.”

Margaret saw Charlie step out of the bathroom. For an instant her eyes fell on his leg, the mechanical foot. She covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said,
Blake
. Charlie nodded and started to dress. Margaret sat on a chair near the door to the terrace. Water dripped out of her hair onto her shoulders.

“Is he right there?” Blake said. “I'm sorry. I'll let you go.”

“No, you will not, Blake. Charlie's going to go to the bar and have a nice big scotch and wait for me. Or maybe he'll sit out on the terrace and finish his cigar. And I'm going to talk to you as long as you need me to talk to you.”

“He smokes cigars?” Blake asked, her voice slightly brighter.

“Yes, it turns out he does.”

“I like cigar smoke at ball games.”

“I do, too.”

“I'm sorry to bother you with all this. It just took me by surprise. I mean, I knew we weren't Ozzie and Harriet, but I didn't think we were on the edge of a divorce. I don't know what I thought. Maybe Donny is smarter than I am. Maybe he's more willing to see it clearly.”

“Little by little, Blake. Just take a deep breath. There's nothing you can do right now. He's not going to leave his business.”

“No, he likes that too much. He likes building it. That's one good thing about him.”

“And he's going to continue being a dad to Phillip.”

“Yes, when it's easy for him.”

“Okay.”

“I could kill him right now, you know that? I could. Then in the next instant I think I love him so much it's going to kill me. I'm all turned around.”

“What did he say exactly? How did it happen?”

“He came in early. From work. He didn't look as dirty as he usually does and it's not like him to knock off early at this time of year. This time of year he's going flat-out. Maybe he was trying to get home before Phillip. I figured he had just stopped in for a second on his way out to someplace else. Back in the day he would do that just to say hello. But he sat at the kitchen table and he announced that he needed a change. Simple as that. No big preamble. He said he didn't feel the same way about me. . . .”

Blake broke off and started to cry. Charlie stepped over, leaned down, and kissed the side of Margaret's neck, and she reached with her hand and touched his cheek. He nodded, understanding, then he went outside onto the terrace. Margaret leaned forward and saw him light a match and puff at his cigar. She smiled, but then turned her attention back to Blake.

“So he said he didn't feel the same way,” Margaret prompted Blake.

“He said he was sorry if he hadn't been very attentive—he used some other word; Donny wouldn't use ‘attentive'—but that was the idea of it. Then he said he had given it thought and he didn't feel like we were a couple anymore. That was it. I asked him if he was sure, if it meant he wanted a divorce, and he stopped at that. He said he needed some time to figure things out, then he marched upstairs, packed a bag, and headed through the door. He tried to kiss me good-bye, you know, kind of on the cheek, but I turned away. Big dramatic me.”

“I'm so sorry, honey. I know it's hard right now, but take it easy. Don't jump to any conclusions. Just listen and take it in and hold off on doing anything rash.”

“You know what I was thinking as he left? That no guy has ever broken up with me. I'm not sure if that's accurate, but I think I was always the one to break up with the guy. Donny's a first that way.”

“That's because you're a beautiful, wonderful woman.”

“To everyone but Donny, I guess.”

“Don't get down on yourself, sweetie.”

“I know. Okay, thanks for listening. You go back to your lover boy there. Everything you've said about him, he sounds terrific.”

“He's a good guy. We click so far.”

“I'm happy for you, Margaret. I'm sorry to rain on your sunny day. I didn't know who else to call.”

“Blake, call me anytime you need me. Now, why don't you get out of the house? Maybe take Phillip out to a movie . . . something to take your mind off things.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I love you, Blake. I'm sorry this is happening.”

“Into every life a little rain must fall, right?”

“I guess that's true.”

“Okay, thanks for listening. Say hello to Charlie for me. Tell him I hope to meet him someday.”

Margaret said good-bye and hung up. Out on the terrace, Charlie talked on his cell phone. Margaret sat for a moment, playing the conversation over in her head. Poor Blake. And poor Donny, too, who yearned for something he probably didn't understand himself. Phillip, of course, would get trapped in the middle and he would carry anger at Donny for leaving. Maybe not, Margaret chided herself. Who knew?

She shook herself and then stood and dressed. Life was strange, she thought as she pulled on jeans and tucked a white blouse into them. Here she was deliberating about what a new man meant in her life, while Blake, married for years, suddenly found herself alone. You could never know what would happen, and she wondered, briefly, if making plans made any sense whatsoever. You only had the present; the past and future were illusory. Thomas had proven that, and so did Charlie's miraculous appearance in her life, and now Donny had brought a dark note to everything, but the point was still the same. We lived in a small spotlight, and beyond the light, in the wings of the stage, people moved scenery and made costume changes, but we could not be aware of them. We had to play our part, as Shakespeare said, and the role was always fresh, always current, never past or future.

“How was Blake?” Charlie asked when she stepped out on the terrace.

“Donny left Blake and she's all broken up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Saying it aloud like that, it sounds clinical. Doesn't it? You need to cheer me up.”

“Let's go to dinner and you can tell me about it.”

“Same old story.”

“The fight for love and glory,” Charlie said, rising.

“Yes, all that. You don't want to leave and drive off in your pickup like Donny, do you?”

“No,” Charlie said, drinking off the last of his scotch and taking her hand. “I don't even have a pickup.”

“Blake thinks he might be seeing someone else.”

“Wouldn't be the first man to do that.”

“I wish I could do something for her. Something nice.”

“It sounds like you're a good friend to her, Margaret.”

“I try to be. She's a good friend to me.”

Charlie closed the door to the terrace and then helped her on with her sweater. She turned in his arms for a moment and put her forehead against his chest. He put his arms around her and she didn't move for a ten count.

* * *

Charlie watched the waitress—a thin, toned young woman who might have been a dancer, given the way she moved—slide a plate of chocolate cheesecake onto the table between them.

“Enjoy,” the waitress said. “I'll be back to freshen your coffee in a minute.”

“I never eat desserts,” Margaret said, grimacing and smiling at once, if that was possible. “You're going to turn me into the circus fat woman.”

“It's supposed to be the best cheesecake in the universe. They're famous for it.”

“Take the other fork,” Margaret said, handing him one. “Ready?”

He cut into the cheesecake and lifted the fork slowly to his mouth, watching her as she did the same. She nodded a little to tell him she was ready, then she put her mouth around the forkful of cake. She closed her eyes almost instantly. He mirrored her movement and in an instant confirmed that the reputation was deserved: the cheesecake was flawless. He let it roost for a moment near the top of his mouth.

“Oh, my,” she said.

“It's ridiculously good.”

“It's exquisite. It's incredibly smooth, isn't it?”

“I'm not sure. I think we need another bite to know for certain.”

“I'm not going to eat for a week when I get home.”

“You can spare the calories.”

“Pretty to think so, Charlie, but I can't. I guess on the farm the cows give me a workout, but I'm being luxuriously lazy on this trip. Except for certain exercise.”

She smiled and let her eyes find his. Charlie smiled in return and took another forkful of cheesecake.

“Okay, we have to try the crust,” she said.

“I love crust. Are you a good baker, Margaret?”

“Not really. Basic stuff. I'm sort of a low-grade Betty Crocker.”

“I bet you're not telling the whole truth.”

He took a bite and watched her match him. The crust was delicious. Graham cracker, he thought, but with a twist of some sort. The chocolate came across as dark and sweet.

“It's marvelous,” she said.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Promise me we'll go for a walk before we go to bed.”

“It's on the schedule.”

“You know, Charlie, home feels so far away.”

“Maybe we've got it all wrong. Maybe this is all about vacation sex.”

She laughed. He liked making her laugh. The waitress came back with coffee and warmed their cups. Charlie asked her for the check and signed it to the room.