Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (7 page)

“I love this room. Can I look around?” I asked.

“I love it, too. Of course you can look.”

I was totally surprised by the cover page on top of a stack of pages. It read, Songs of a Housepainter, Poems by Matthew Harrison.

Matt was a poet? He hadn't told me about it. He really didn't like to talk about himself, did he? What other secrets did he have?

“Okay, yes,” he admitted quietly. “I do some scribbling. That's all it is. I've had the bug since I was sixteen, and I've been trying to work it out since I left Brown. I majored in English and Housepainting. Just kidding. You ever write, Suzanne?”

“No, not really,” I said. “But I've been thinking about starting a diary.”

In the south of France there is supposedly a special time known as the Night of the Falling Stars. On this night, everything is just so. Perfect and magical. According to the French, the stars seem to pour out of the sky, like cream from a pitcher.

It was like that for us; there were so many stars, I could imagine I was up in heaven.

Matt said, “Let's take a walk down to the beach. Okay? I have an idea.”

“I've noticed that you have a lot of ideas.”

“Maybe it's the poet in me.”

He grabbed an old blanket, his CD player, and a bottle of champagne. We walked on a winding path through high sea grass, finally finding a patch of sand to spread the blanket.

Matt popped open the champagne, and it sparkled and blinked in the midnight air. Then he pushed PLAY and the strains of Debussy whirled up into the starry night sky.

Matt and I danced again, and we were in another time and place. Around and around we went, in sync with the rhythm of the sea, turning up fountains of sand, leaving improbable footprint patterns in our wake. I let my fingers play on his back, his neck. I let my hands comb through his hair.

“I didn't know you could waltz,” I said.

He laughed. “I didn't know, either.”

It was late when we made our way back up from the beach, but I wasn't tired. If anything, I was more awake than ever. I was still dancing, flying, singing inside. I hadn't expected any of this to happen. Not now, maybe not ever. It seemed a thousand years from my heart attack in the Public Garden in Boston.

Nicky, I felt so lucky--so blessed.

Matt gently took my hand and led me up the stairs to his room. I wanted to go with him, but still I was afraid. I hadn't done this in a while.

Neither of us spoke, but suddenly my mouth opened wide. He had converted the top floor to one big, beautiful space, complete with skylights that seemed to absorb the evening sky. I loved what he had done to the room. He turned on the CD player in the bedroom.

Sarah Vaughan. Perfect.

Matt told me that he could count falling stars from his bed. “One night I counted sixteen. A personal record.”

He came to me, slowly and deliberately, drawing me toward him like a magnet. I could feel the buttons in the back of my blouse coming undone. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. His fingers traveled down to the base of my spine, playing so very gently. He slipped off my blouse, and I watched it float to the floor, milkweed in a breeze.

I stood so close to him, felt so close to Matt, barely breathing, feeling light, dizzy, magical, and very special.

He slipped his hands down onto my hips. Matt then leaned me back, gently laid me on his bed. I watched him in the moon shadows. I found him to be beautiful. How had this happened? Why was I suddenly so lucky?

He stretched over me like a quilt on a cold night. That's all I will say of it, all I will write.

Dear Nicky,

I hope when you grow up that everything you want comes your way, but especially love. When it's true, when it's right, love can give you the kind of joy that you can't get from any other experience. I have been in love; I am in love, so I speak from experience. I have also lived long periods without love in my life, and there is no way to describe the difference between the two.

We is always so much better than I.

Please don't listen to anyone who tells you otherwise. And don't ever become a cynic, Nicky. Anything but that!

I look at your little hands and feet. I count your toes over and over, moving them gently as if they were beads on an abacus. I kiss your belly till you laugh. You are so innocent. Stay that way when it comes to love.

Just look at you. How is it that I got so lucky? I got the perfect one. Your nose and mouth are just right. Your eyes and your smile are your very best features. Already I see your personality blossoming. It's in your eyes. What are you thinking about right now? The mobile over your head? Your music box? Daddy says you're probably thinking about girls and tools and flashy cars. He jokes that your favorite things are flashy cars, pretty girls, and birthday cake. “He's a real boy, Suzanne.”

That's true, and it's probably a good thing. But do you know what you like the best? Teddy bears. You're so gentle and sweet with your little bears.

Daddy and I laugh about all the good things that wait for you. But what we want most for you is love and that it will always surround you. It is a gift. If I can, I will try to teach you how to receive such a gift. Because to be without love is to be without grace, what matters most in life.

We is so much better than I.

If you need proof, just look at us.

“It's Matt. Hi. Hello? Anybody home? Suzanne? You here?”

The banging at my kitchen door was persistent and annoying, like an unexpected visit from an out-of-town relative. I went to the door, opened it, and then stopped, my mouth open in a little circle of surprise.

It was Matt, all right, but not Matt Harrison.

My visitor was Matt Wolfe.

Behind him in my driveway, I could see his glistening green Jag convertible.

Where had he been? He still hadn't returned any of my calls.

“Hi,” he said. “God, you look good, Suzanne. You look great, actually.” He leaned in and I let him give me a kiss on the cheek.

I had no reason to feel guilty--but I did, anyway. “Matt. How are you? I just made some sun tea. Come on in.”

And he did, finding a comfy, sunny place in the kitchen, leaning into what looked like a catch-up mode. We definitely had some catching up to do, didn't we?

“I've been out of town for most of the month, Suzanne. I kept meaning to call, but I was in the middle of a legal fiasco. Unfortunately, it was in Thailand.”

Suddenly he smiled. “And you know--blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yah. So how have you been? Obviously, you got some sun. You look fantastic.”

“Well, thanks . . . so do you.”

I had to tell him. I even decided to give Matt Wolfe the long version of what had been happening in my life.

He listened, smiling at some parts, fidgeting nervously at others. I could tell his acceptance was somewhat bittersweet. But he kept listening intently, and when I was done, he got off the kitchen stool, put his arms around me, and gave me a hug.

“Suzanne,” he said, “I'm happy for you.”

He smiled bravely. “I knew in my gut I shouldn't have gone away. Now the best thing that could have happened to me has slipped through my fingers again.”

I found myself laughing. I was starting to notice that Matt Wolfe was a little bit of a con man. “Oh, Matt, your flattery is so sweet. Thanks for being a friend. Thanks for being you.”

“Hey, if I'm gonna lose the big prize, I'm going down with a little dignity. But I'm telling you, Suzie, if this guy flinches, or if I sense a crack in the dam, I'm coming back.”

We both laughed, and I walked him out to the Jag. Somehow, I just knew that Matt would be all right. I doubted he'd been all by his lonesome in Thailand. And let's face it, he hadn't called in nearly a month.

I watched Matt get into his car, his pride and joy.

“I actually think you two will get along. In fact, I think the two Matts will like each other a lot,” I called from the porch.

“Oh, great! Now I have to like the guy, too?” he called back.

The last thing I heard him say before he fired the convertible's powerful engine was "He does know how to duel, doesn't he?

“Okay. What's going on? Spill the beans, Suzanne. I want the scoop. I know there's something going on with you,” said my neighbor and friend Melanie Bone. “I feel it in my bones.”

She was right. I hadn't told her how Matt and I were progressing, but she could read my face and maybe even tell by the spring in my step.

We were walking along the beach near our houses, the kids and Gus romping in front of us.

“You're smart,” I told her. “And nosy.”

“I know that already. So tell me what I don't know. Spill.”

I couldn't resist any longer. It had to come out sooner or later. “I'm in love, Mel. This has never happened before. I'm head over heels in love with Matt Harrison. I have no idea what's to become of us!”

She screeched. Then Melanie jumped up and down a few times in the sand. She was so cute, and such a good friend. She screeched again.

“That is so perfect, Suzanne. I knew he was a good painter, but I had no idea about his other talents.”

“Did you know he's a poet? A very good poet.”

“No, you're kidding,” she said.

“A beautiful dancer?”

“That doesn't surprise me. He moves pretty well on rooftops. So, how did this happen? I mean, how did it go from adding a touch of Cape Cod white to your house to this?”

I started to giggle and felt like a schoolgirl. After all, things like this didn't happen to grown women.

“I talked to him one night at the hamburger place.”

Melanie arched an eyebrow. “Okay. You talked to him at the hamburger place?”

“I can talk to Matt about anything, Melanie. I've never had that happen with any man before. He even writes poems the way he talks. It's very down-to-earth and at the same time, sometimes over your head. He's passionate, exciting. He's humble, too. Maybe more than he should be sometimes.”

Melanie suddenly gave me hug. “God, Suzanne, this is it! As IT as it can get. Congratulations, you're gone for good.”

We laughed like a couple of giddy fifteen-year-olds, and headed back with Melanie's kids and Gus. That morning at her house, we talked nonstop about everything from first dates to first pregnancies. Melanie confessed that she was thinking of having a fifth baby, which blew me away. For her it was as easy as organizing a cabinet. She had her life as under control as a grocery shelf lined neatly with canned goods. Orderly, alphabetized, well stocked.

I also fantasized about having kids that morning, Nicholas. I knew I would have a high-risk pregnancy because of my heart condition, but I didn't care. Maybe there was something in me that knew you'd be here one day. A flutter of hope. A deep desire. Or just the sheer inevitability of what love between two people can bring.

You--it brought you.

Bad stuff happens, Nicholas. Sometimes it makes no sense at all. Sometimes it's unfair. Sometimes it just plain sucks.

The red pickup came tearing around the corner, going close to sixty, but the whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion.

Gus was crossing the street, heading toward the beach, where he likes to race the surf and bark at seagulls. Bad timing.

I saw the whole thing. I opened my mouth to stop him, but it was probably already too late.

The pickup swung around the blind curve like a blur. I could almost smell the rubber of the tires as they skidded along the hot tar, then I watched as the left front fender caught Gus.

A second more, and he would have cleared that unforgiving metal.

Five miles an hour slower, and the pickup would have missed him.

Or maybe if Gus had been a couple of years younger, closer to his prime, it wouldn't have happened.

The timing was nightmarish, irrevocable, like a rock falling on the windshield of a passing car.

It was over, done, and Gus lay like a rag discarded by the side of the road. It was so sad. He'd been so defenseless, so carefree just seconds before as he romped toward the water.

“No!” I yelled. The truck had stopped, and two stubble-faced men in their twenties got out. They both wore colorful bandannas on their heads. They stared at what their speeding vehicle had done.

“Gee, I'm sorry, I didn't see him,” the driver stammered, and hitched at his blue jeans as he looked at poor Gus.

I didn't have time to think, to argue, to yell at him. The only thing I needed to do was to get Gus help.

I threw the driver my keys. “Open the back of my Jeep,” I snapped as I gently lifted Gus up into my arms. He was limp and heavy, but still breathing, still Gus.