Skipping a Beat (19 page)

“It was an accident, though,” I pointed out.

“But we should have taken care of him,” Michael repeated, using his fingertips to rub circles in his temples, something he did to ease the pressure when he had a bad headache. “The truck’s brakes failed. It was a fluke, but we were the ones who abandoned him. It was
our
truck. He was just trying to make a living. He was a hard worker; I checked his files. I wanted to see what happened. When Dale called the other day, he made it sound like the kid was just after a quick buck. But I called the doctor who treated the guy, and he’s going to need help for the rest of his life. He won’t be able to live alone, ever. He might forget he turned on a stove burner or something. What kind of life is he going to have, Julia?”

I was quiet for a moment. “Can’t you do something?” I asked. “It’s not too late, is it?”

“I’m going to try,” Michael said.

I thought for a moment of Dale’s clammy hand on my arm in the hospital, and the way his eyes always followed Michael at the events we’d attended together.

“Why would Dale spin it that way?” I wondered. “Why wouldn’t he tell you the truth?”

Michael exhaled a short burst of breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Dale hates me, Julia.”

I blinked in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

Michael looked at me wryly. “Honesty, right? Dale’s jealous as hell. He wanted what I had. He wanted my money, my life. I
liked
his jealousy, Julia. I fed off it. I knew how greedy and cunning he could be. But I could control him, so he never worried me.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now I can’t control him anymore,” Michael said simply. “And I have no idea what he’s going to do. But I’m not going to waste time thinking about Dale. I need to figure out how to help this kid.”

For some reason, I thought of Becky Hendrickson. I remembered Michael reading aloud one of her battered, beloved Nancy Drew books while she watched him with eyes that seemed too old for her face. I tried to reconcile that image with one of Michael agreeing to pay off—to
cheat
—a twenty-four-year-old man who had nothing but the shell of a life before him.

“You need to make this right,” I told him.

Michael nodded. “I don’t know how, but I swear to you I will.”

Twenty-five

“HOW’S SEATTLE?” I CRADLED the phone between my neck and ear as I lay down on a couch, settling in for a long talk. Isabelle had been gone for only twenty-four hours, but I’d never missed her more. “And how’s Beth?”

“Gorgeous. Both of them,” Isabelle said, and I could hear joy ringing through her voice like a bell. “She met me at the airport. God, she’s so self-possessed and mature for sixteen! She just walked right up to me at the baggage claim and smiled and said, ‘Hi, I’m Beth.’ Like us meeting was the most natural thing in the world.”

“What was she like? Does she look like you? What did you talk about?”

“Slow down, Katie Couric.” Isabelle laughed, and I knew then that everything had turned out fine. “She’s tall and slender and thoughtful, and yes, she looks a little like me. But mostly she looks like herself. She seems so at home in her skin. I wasn’t that way as a teenager, not at all, even though God knows I tried to fake it. But I did it with cigarettes and low-cut shirts. Beth’s confidence comes from her eyes. She looks right at you when you talk to her.”

“What did you say to her? Was it easy to talk?”

“So easy! She had all these questions about why I put her up for adoption and what my life was like back then. She’s a thinker, Julia. Her dad says she loves crossword puzzles and Sudoku and games like Scrabble. I’m a puzzle for her, too, in a way. I can see her digesting everything I say and fitting it into what she knows about me.”

“She sounds great,” I said. “Did you spend any time with her parents?”

“Yes, after she picked me up, she took me back to her house for a while. She lives in a real house, you know? It’s small and homey, and there are books everywhere and knitted blankets on the backs of the couches. They all have funny mugs to drink coffee; Beth gives her dad a silly one every Christmas. This year’s says, ‘Sleep is a symptom of caffeine deprivation,’ and they told me everyone tries to grab it first in the morning. It’s kind of a running joke, to see who can get it first. Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Isabelle hadn’t had any of those silly little moments that strengthened the fabric of a family when she was growing up, I realized. She’d had maids and nannies and then, practically the day she hit thirteen, a set of Gucci luggage and a plane ticket to a boarding school.

“She’d just gotten her license and it was one of the first times she’d ever driven alone, when she came to pick me up at the airport. I love it that I’ll always be a part of that memory for her. And have I ever told you I’ve got a theory that you can see people’s personalities in the way they drive?”

I covered a laugh with a cough: Isabelle was a maniac behind the wheel. She drove with her left leg hitched up on the seat and one arm dangling out the open window. Once she’d clipped a hedge as she rounded a corner and we carried a leafy branch with us for the next few miles, sticking out of the side of the car like a flag.

“Oh, go to hell, I know what you’re thinking! Anyway, Beth lets people into her lane when they flash their turn signals but she isn’t a pushover. This guy cut her off on the highway, and she really laid on the horn. Anyway, the parents … well, I could tell they were nervous. The mom—Diane—offered me coffee about four times, once right when I was in the middle of taking a sip of some she’d just made me. I don’t blame them, though. I mean, we’d only met once sixteen years earlier and I was a teenager then. How were they supposed to know I wasn’t completely loony?

“It said so much about them, that they wanted Beth to meet me even though they didn’t know what I might bring into their lives,” Isabelle said. “They put her first, Julia.”

“So did you,” I reminded Isabelle.

“Don’t be nice to me or I’ll start crying,” she said. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately. First it was in relief that Beth’s turned out okay—better than okay, she’s incredible—and now it’s because I feel so lucky. I get to have a tiny little piece of her life. I get to love her, too.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay?” I asked. There was a tiny quaver in my voice; I hoped Isabelle hadn’t heard it. I’d had another nightmare last night. Michael and I were in the car together, and he suddenly stood up and went through the windshield—he didn’t break the glass, he just sort of
melted
through it—and then he walked away from me. I’d tried to go after him, but the car doors were locked, and no matter how many times I pushed the button to release them, they wouldn’t budge. Michael kept walking while I pounded on the window, and even though I could hear him whistling a cheerful tune, he didn’t hear my screams. I’d woken up gasping for breath, and I hadn’t been able to go back to sleep for hours.

“I’m not sure. Probably another few days,” Isabelle was saying. “I’m at the hotel now, but I’m going to see Beth for dinner tonight. How are things there? Has Michael won you back yet?”

I turned her question over in my mind, trying to think about how to answer it. How could I explain that Michael and I were treating each other as carefully and politely as seatmates on a cross-country train ride? That sometimes I worried I’d fall back in love with him, and other times I was certain I’d leave him even if I did?

“Things are pretty much the same,” I finally said. “I’ll fill you in when you get back. Tell me more about Beth.”

“It’s funny, we’re all trying to be so sensitive to each other’s feelings. I asked the parents if I could take Beth out for dinner and they fell all over themselves saying yes. Then I was worried they secretly wanted to come, too, so I kept assuring them they were welcome. They were like, ‘Do you want us to come? Because we can, if you want. But if you’d prefer to go alone …’ Finally Beth just started laughing and took charge. She said she’d go to dinner with me alone this time. Julia, she said
this
time. Like there might be a next time.”

“Why shouldn’t there be one?” I asked. “If you and Beth both want to see each other again …”

“But then when her mom left the room to clear away the dishes, Beth said it would be good for us to talk alone. I sensed there was something … worrying her. She was trying to be casual, but get this—she started chewing her thumbnail.”

“Her right thumbnail?” I asked.

I could hear the smile in Isabelle’s voice. “Just like me, when I’m upset.”

“So you’ll help her, whatever it is,” I said. “And then you’ll take both of you out for a manicure.”

Isabelle was quiet for a moment.

“Now that I’ve seen her … Julia, I can’t bear to lose her. If she’s coming to me for help, I can’t mess it up.”

“You won’t,” I told her. “You’re doing everything perfectly. You’re available for Beth, and you’re being considerate of her parents and their feelings. Why wouldn’t they want you in their lives, Isabelle? All of them?”

She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was small. “I guess I’m not used to that. To family. Mine was so messed up that I don’t know how a real family works. Maybe I think I don’t deserve to be welcomed into one.”

“You do,” I said. “You do deserve it.”

I hadn’t ever really thanked Isabelle for everything she’d done for me, not just these past few weeks, but long before then, too. So I said it to her now, using different words: “You’re my family, Isabelle. You have been for a long time.”

Twenty-six

“GIVE ME A HINT,” I said. “You know I hate surprises.”

“You do?” Michael’s brow creased.

“No,” I admitted. “C’mon.”

“I’m taking you to a lavender farm so we can sniff it all day long.” Luckily Michael spoke again before I could harm him bodily. “Kidding, kidding. It’s something I hope you’ll like. That’s all I’m going to say.”

I settled into the backseat of the taxi again, and we drove in silence for another few minutes, then I spotted the signs for Dulles airport. Michael leaned forward and whispered something to our cabdriver, then handed him a few folded bills. The taxi pulled up to United Airlines, and Michael said, “Close your eyes.”

“Michael,”
I complained.

“Please?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. I heard the sound of fabric sliding across the seat and the door opening, and then, a moment later, the metallic bang of the trunk slamming shut. I squinted through one eye and saw Michael talking to someone standing on the curb.

“Okay. You can look now. I don’t want you to expect too much,” he said, reaching his hand to help me out of the cab. I hesitated, then let him. “I didn’t book a fancy hotel. We’re flying coach. And it’s only for three days. I’m doing it the way I should’ve years ago. I just … I really wanted you to have this, Julia.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

But he wouldn’t say another word—not through the crowded security line, or when he bought us each a big bottle of water and a fruit and cheese plate at a kiosk, or even when we got in line to board the plane.

“Don’t look,” he said, handing me my ticket as we waited. “Can you not tell her where we’re going?” he pleaded to the gate agent. “It’s a surprise.”

She smiled and tore apart my ticket, handing me the smaller end. “Enjoy your trip.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’d settled into our seats, then I felt the plane gather force and soar into the sky. After a few moments, the female captain’s voice filled the cabin, telling us about the clear air ahead and expected arrival time.

“It looks like smooth flying all the way to Paris,” she concluded.

I turned to Michael. He was smiling.

“We’re going to Paris?” I spun around and looked out the window, half-expecting to see the Eiffel Tower already.

Then my head snapped back toward Michael. “But I didn’t pack—” I began.

“I did it for you. I checked our bags at the curb.”

“My office—?”

“Gene knows how to reach you. He told me it would be a slow few days and that you wouldn’t miss anything.”

“I can’t believe you did this,” I said.

“Is it okay?” Michael asked, his brow wrinkling. “I didn’t want to assume too much …”

I slowly nodded, then rested my forehead against the tiny, cold window and watched the landscape below us grow smaller and smaller, until it disappeared beneath a burst of white clouds.

For the next seventy-two hours, I told myself, I wasn’t going to think about my maddening, increasingly complicated marriage, or the decision looming over my head at the end of the month. This wasn’t real life; it didn’t count. I’d dreamed of seeing this city for years, and I wasn’t going to let anything ruin it. I wanted to surrender to Paris.

As soon as our plane landed, we dropped our bags at our small, quaint hotel in the Latin Quarter, then we wandered through the city, eating hazelnut gelato from a little shop that boasted a dozen homemade flavors. The old buildings, in shades of blue and gray stones, were still damp from a recent shower, and looking at them made me feel like I’d tumbled into a watercolor painting. I forgot my jet lag and fatigue as we walked for hours, wandering in and out of shops and stopping on a bridge over the Seine to gaze at the boats passing below.
“Pardonnez-moi,”
a young woman murmured as she brushed by me while I stood at the intersection of three narrow cobblestone streets, and I looked after her as she passed, whispering the words and feeling their grace on my tongue.

As the sun began to set, we bought fresh baguettes from a street vendor who sliced them open and filled them with a delicious white cheese I didn’t recognize. He pressed the concoctions against a hot grill before wrapping them in waxed paper and handing them to us, and we gobbled them down for dinner right then and there.

“Are you getting tired?” Michael asked, handing me a bottle of water.

I hated to admit it. “Just a little.”

“How about we get a bottle of wine and sit down for a while?” he asked. “There’s a shop right here.”

The proprietor spoke perfect English, and he recommended an inexpensive pinot noir. We ended up drinking it on the tiny balcony of our hotel room, where we could still soak in the sights and smells and sounds.

“Cheers,” Michael said, tapping the water glass he’d swiped from the bathroom against mine.

I thought about what to toast to as I watched a guy roar down the street on a motorcycle, a woman seated behind him with her arms wrapped around his chest, so close together they almost seemed to be one person. I didn’t want to make this trip about our past or our future.

“To Paris,” I finally said.

That night I slept so soundly I couldn’t remember dreaming, and the next morning, we awoke early and hiked to the Arc de Triomphe, then drank steaming bowls of café au lait at a sidewalk bistro as we watched the old city come alive. “The women here are gorgeous, don’t you think?” I said to Michael as I watched a girl stride by our outdoor café, her sheath of shiny auburn hair swinging with each step. Around her neck was a cherry-colored scarf tied in an artfully careless way I knew I’d never be able to replicate.

“Yes,” Michael said. But when I glanced at him to see if he’d noticed the same girl, he was staring at me. I looked down and took the last sip of my milky coffee, feeling both annoyed and pleased.

When we’d finished our basket of croissants, we strolled to the Eiffel Tower, then wandered through the Louvre before succumbing to jet lag and going back to our hotel for a quick nap. We took hot showers and ventured out again an hour later, ravenous from all the walking, and feasted on roasted oysters and niçoise salads. Later that night, as we took the long route back to our hotel, we stumbled upon an old-fashioned merrygo-round, right in the middle of the city.

“Want to take a ride?” Michael asked, and I silently nodded. I’d never been on one before. He bought a handful of tickets, and I wandered among the horses before finally choosing one with pink and purple and silver painted ribbons wound through its mane. I leaned my head back, feeling the breeze as we spun around, and Michael nearly fell off his horse trying to grab the brass ring.

This isn’t real life
, I reminded myself as he stood on his horse’s saddle, elaborately bowing to me while I laughed.
This is just a reprieve from it
.

On our last night, we found a bistro and dipped chunks of bread and crisp vegetables into hot cheese fondues. “This has been nice,” I said to Michael after I’d eaten the final rich, tangy bite. “Thank you.”

“Just nice?” He pretended to clutch at his heart, then motioned to the waiter for another bottle of cabernet. “If we had come here for our belated honeymoon, I would’ve taken you out to a romantic dinner and told you all the things about you I love.”

“Unless you were checking your BlackBerry,” I said, keeping my tone light. I drained my wineglass and nodded my thanks at the waiter who refilled it.

“Touché,” he said. “But sadly true. Here are the things I should’ve told you: I love the way you drink the same cup of coffee all morning long. You take one sip, then put it down and forget about it for an hour. Then you reheat it in the microwave and have another sip. I’ve never seen someone ration a cup of caffeine the way you do.”

“That’s the best you would’ve come up with?” I said lightly. “And they say romance isn’t dead.”

“I’m just getting started,” he said. “I love the way you get into fights with your scale; I heard you call her a bitch one morning.”

“Must’ve been around the holidays,” I said. “She’s always out to get me then.”

“I love the way you barely seem to lift up your feet when you walk, yet you never shuffle. You walking across a room is the most graceful thing I’ve ever seen,” Michael said. “I love the tiny freckles on your nose that come out when you’ve been in the sun; they form an almost perfect triangle. I love the fact that you have laugh lines—don’t worry, they’re so faint I doubt anyone else could see them—but you don’t have even a hint of one frown line.”

I swallowed hard as I looked at him. This was the Michael I’d ached for, the guy who found everything about me endearing. Who made me feel special.

“And I love your generous heart,” he said. “Any other woman would’ve walked away from me long ago.”

A sudden sound made me twist around in my seat: A piano player had just started his set. He was squeezed into a corner of the small restaurant, separated from us by maybe a half dozen tables decorated with red cloths and little votive candles. I was glad he’d started to play; I didn’t want to think about all the reasons why I might leave Michael right now.

“More wine?” Michael lifted up the bottle, and I nodded. And because I wanted to taste champagne in Paris, I had a glass of brut, too.

I could blame what happened next on the alcohol, or on the fact that Paris acted like Michael’s wingman by setting a ridiculously romantic scene: It was an unseasonably warm night, and we’d thrown open the doors to our hotel room balcony. The long white curtains fluttered in the soft breeze, and the royal blue candles in the big candelabra on the dresser made the room glow with a soft light.

After Michael locked the room door behind us, he looked at me, and even though he didn’t say a word, I felt him asking a question. I’d lost count of how long it had been since we’d last had sex—an occasional fumbling in our darkened bedroom late at night was what passed for our love life these days.

Michael didn’t say a word, he just traced my cheekbones and nose and chin with his fingertips, then he slowly began to unbutton my blouse. And I repeated to myself,
None of this is real
.

I woke up in his arms early the next morning.

“Hey, you,” he whispered into my ear, his voice huskier than usual.

I sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet to my chest, scenes from last night fluttering through my mind: Michael’s fingers gently running over my belly and thighs, his warm lips against my neck, him moving rhythmically inside me while I gripped his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his waist and cried out.

His hands were
still
on me, resting possessively on my stomach, I realized, and I sucked in my breath sharply. I jumped out of bed, taking the sheet with me and leaving Michael naked and exposed.

“What the hell?” I shouted. “You bring me to Paris and get me drunk and have sex with me?”

“Julia, calm down. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Obviously not, Michael. We’re married. It’s not like we were
cheating.”
I flung out the words like weapons. “I had too much to drink. This doesn’t mean I’m in love with you, or—or that I’m going to stay with you!”

“Julia … please, honey … just hang on a second,” he said. By now he’d scrambled off the bed and found his shirt on the floor and was pulling it over his head. I tore around the room, grabbing my jeans and sweater and boots, like we were in a race to get dressed in some bizarre postcoital TV game show.

“Can we just talk for a second?” he asked as I shrugged into my clothes.

But I couldn’t bear to be near him. I snatched up my jacket and purse and slammed the door, leaving him standing in the middle of the room trying to put on his boxers, with one leg ridiculously high up in the air like a flamingo.

My mouth tasted sour and my head was pounding and I knew my hair was a mess; I was like a college kid doing the walk of shame after dollar shooter night at the local bar. I found an open bistro and hurried inside, ordering coffee and bottled water while avoiding eye contact with the waitress. No one would believe I’d just had sex with my husband; I was acting as stressed and jumpy as if I was wearing a scarlet
H
for
Hussy
on my chest. I hurried into the restroom while I was waiting for my beverages and did damage control, wetting a paper towel to rub over my face and slicking on a coat of pink lip gloss and running a brush through the snarls in my hair. My cheeks and eyes were blazing and, I saw as I leaned closer to the mirror, I had a little rash from Michael’s beard stubble rubbing my chin.

I tilted my forehead against the mirror and shut my eyes. I couldn’t believe I’d slept with him. I’d thought I was being so logical as I held Michael at arm’s length, letting him woo me and put his heart on the line while I coolly considered whether to take him back. Now I’d blurred the rules; I’d twisted a new set of kinks into an impossibly knotted situation.

I straightened up and walked back to my table and slowly sipped my beverages while I gathered myself. I knew I’d have to go back to the hotel sometime—our plane would leave later that afternoon—but I needed a few hours alone. I finally paid my bill and rose from my table and wandered outside and found a nearby park. I collapsed onto a wrought-iron bench and wrapped my arms around myself as I watched an old man in a tattered coat throw bread crumbs to a flock of hungry pigeons.

I shouldn’t be so upset, I told myself. Having sex with Michael didn’t change anything; it didn’t mean I had to stay with him. It didn’t give him an edge. I was still in control of my own decision. So why was I blinking back tears?

It was because it was so good.

It wasn’t just a physical release; Michael kissed all my sensitive parts, the ones he knew so well, from the backs of my knees to the insides of my thighs to my eyelids. He told me over and over again how beautiful I was, how much he loved me. I
felt
his love; it was almost a physical presence in the room. And the way he looked at me, with such tenderness in his eyes … it was as if he was seventeen again, and he was discovering me for the first time. Afterward he rubbed my back, and when I curled on my side, too exhausted to stay awake any longer, he fitted his body alongside me and twined his fingers through mine. Just like he used to do, when we first fell in love.