“My grandfather’s still alive, and he’s doing great. Grandmother died six years ago. Her heart.”
Matt and I talked and talked—about work, summers on the Vineyard, college, our twenties, thirties, successes, disappointments. He had spent his twenties living all over the world: Positano, Madrid, London, New York. He’d gotten into New York University Law School when he was twenty-eight, moved back to the Vineyard two years ago. Loved it. It felt so good to talk to him again; it was such a nice trip down memory lane.
After dinner Matt followed me home in his Jag. He was just being thoughtful. We both got out in the driveway and talked some more under a beautiful full moon. I was really enjoying myself.
He started to laugh. “Remember our first date?” Actually, I did. There had been a wicked thunderstorm and it knocked out the electricity in my house. I had to get dressed in the dark. By mistake, I picked up a can of Lysol instead of hair spray. I smelled of disinfectant all night.
Matt grimaced and asked, “Do you remember the first time I got my nerve up to kiss you? Probably not. I was scared.”
That surprised me a little. “I couldn’t tell. As I remember it, you were always pretty confident.”
“My lips were shaking, my teeth hitting together. I had the biggest crush on you. I wasn’t the only one.”
I laughed. This was silly, but it sure was fun. In a way, seeing Matt again was a fantasy come true. “I don’t believe any of this, but I love hearing it.”
“Suzanne, could I kiss you?” he asked in a gentle voice.
Now I was shaking a little. I was out of practice at this. “That would be okay. That would be good, actually.”
Matt leaned over and, in the sweetest way, kissed me. A kiss, just one. But it was really something after all these years.
Dear Nicky,
Bizarre! That’s the only word I can use to describe life sometimes. Just freaking bizarre.
Remember the housepainter I told you about? Well, he was over here the morning after my date with Matt, giving the joint a face-life. I know this because he left me a bouquet of the most beautiful wildflowers.
There they were—pinks, reds, yellows, blues, and purples, sitting pretty in a mason jar by the front door.
Very sweet, very nice, and unexpectedly touching.
At first I thought they were from Matt, but damn it, they weren’t.
There was also a note. Dear Suzanne, The lights are still out in your kitchen, but I hope these will brighten your day some. Maybe we can get together sometime and do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to, wherever you want to. He signed himself Picasso—more readily known as your housepainter.
I was blown away. Until the night before, I hadn’t had a date since I left Boston; I hadn’t wanted to date since Michael Bernstein left me.
Anyway, I heard the painter–maintenance man hammering something somewhere, and I went outside. There he was, perched like a gull on the steep slanted roof.
“Picasso,” I yelled, “thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. What a nice present. A nice thought.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. They just reminded me of you, and I couldn’t resist.”
“Well, you guessed right; they’re all my favorites.”
“What do you think, Suzanne? Maybe we could grab a bite sometime, go for a ride, catch a movie, play Scrabble. Did I leave anything out?”
I smiled in spite of myself.
“It’s kind of a crazy time for me right now, with patients and all. I just have to make that a priority for the time being. But it was really nice of you to ask.”
He took the rejection in stride. He smiled down at me. But then he ran his hand through his hair and said, “I understand. Of course you realize if you don’t go out with me just once, I’ll have no choice but to raise your rates.”
I called back to him, “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. It’s absolutely despicable, a totally unfair business practice. But what can you do? It’s the way of the world.”
I laughed, and told him I’d take that under serious consideration. “Hey, by the way, what do I owe you for the extra work you’ve already done over the garage?” I asked.
“That? That’s nothing . . . nothing at all. No charge.”
I shrugged, smiled, waved. What he’d said was nice to hear—maybe because it wasn’t the way of the world.
“Hey, thanks, Picasso.”
“Hey, no problem, Suzanne.”
And he resumed his task of putting a roof over my head.
Dear Nicholas,
I am watching over you as I write this, and you are absolutely gorgeous.
Sometimes I look at you and just can’t believe you’re mine. You have your father’s chin, but you definitely have my smile.
There’s a little toy that hangs over your crib and when you pull on it, it plays “Whistle a Happy Tune.” This makes you laugh immediately. I think Daddy and I love to hear that song as much as you do.
Sometimes at night, if I’m driving home late or taking a walk, I’ll hear that little melody in my head, and I’ll feel such longing for you.
Right now, I just want to pick you up out of your sleep and hold you as close as I can.
The other thing that always makes you laugh is “One Potato, Two Potato.” I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the sound of it, the silly lyrical bounce of the words. Maybe it’s the part of you that’s Irish. All I know is, the word potato can send you into fits and wiggles of happiness.
Sometimes I can’t imagine your being any other age than the one you are this second. But I think all mothers tend to hold their children frozen in time, or maybe pressed like flowers, forever perfect, forever eternal. Sometimes when I rock you, I feel as if I were holding a little bit of heaven in my arms. I have a sense that there are protective angels all around you, all around us.
I believe in angels now. Just looking at you, sweet baby boy, I would have to.
I’m thinking about how much I loved you when you were in mommy’s tummy. I loved you the moment we met. Seeing you for the first time, you looked right at Daddy and me. The look in your eyes said “Hey, I’m here, hi!”
You were incredibly alert, checking everything out. Finally, Daddy and I could see you after nine months of imagining what you would be like. I took your head and pulled it gently to my chest. You were six pounds three ounces of sheer happiness.
After I held you, Daddy held you next. He couldn’t believe how a baby, just minutes old, could be looking back at him.
Matt’s little boy.
Our beautiful little Nicholas.
KATIE
MATT’S LITTLE boy.
Our beautiful little Nicholas.
Katie Wilkinson put down the diary, signed, and took a deep breath. Her throat felt raw and sore. She ran her fingers through Guinevere’s soft gray fur, and the cat purred gently. She blew her nose into a tissue. She hadn’t been ready for this. She definitely hadn’t been ready for Suzanne.
Or Nicholas.
And especially not Nicholas, Suzanne, and Matt.
“This is so crazy and so bad, Guiny,” she said to the cat. “I’ve gotten myself into such a mess. God, what a disaster.”
Katie got up and wandered around her apartment. She had always been so proud of it. She had done much of the work herself, and liked nothing better than to throw on a T-shirt, cutoffs, and work boots, then build and hang her own cabinets and bookcases. Her place was filled with authentic antique pine, old hook rugs, small watercolors like the one of the Pisgah Bridge, just south of Asheboro.
Her grandmother’s jelly cabinet was in her study, and the interior planks still held the aroma of homemade molasses and jellies. Several vellum-paged, hand-sewn board books were displayed in the jelly cabinet. Katie had made them herself. She’d learned bookbinding at the Penland School of Crafts in North Carolina.
There was a phrase she loved, and also lived by— Hands to work, hearts to God.
She had so many ques
tions right now, but no one to answer them. No, that wasn’t completely true, was it? She had the diary.
Suzanne.
She liked her. Damn it, she liked Suzanne. She hadn’t wanted to—but there it was. Under different circumstances they might have been friends. She had friends like Suzanne in New York and back home in North Carolina. Laurie, Robin, Susan, Gilda, Lynn— lots of really good friends.
Suzanne had been gutsy and brave to get out of Boston and move to Martha’s Vineyard. She had chased her dream to be the kind of doctor, the kind of woman, she needed to be. She had learned from her near-fatal heart attack: she’d learned to treasure every moment as a gift.
And what about Matt? What had Katie meant to him? Was she just another woman in a doomed affair? God, she felt as if she should be wearing the Scarlet Letter. Suddenly, she was ashamed. Her father used to ask her a question all the time when she was growing up: “Are you right with God, Katie?” She wasn’t sure now. She didn’t know if she was right with anyone. She had never felt that way before, and she didn’t like it.
“Jerk,” she whispered. “You creep. Not you, Guinevere. I’m talking about Matt! Damn him!”
Why didn’t he just tell her the truth? Had he been cheating on his perfect wife? Why hadn’t he wanted to talk about Suzanne? Or Nicholas?
How could she have allowed Matt to seal off his past from her? She hadn’t pushed as much as she could have. Why? Because it wasn’t her style to be pushy. Because she didn’t like being pushed herself. She certainly didn’t like confrontations.
But the most compelling reason had been the look in Matt’s eyes whenever they started to talk about his past. There was such sadness—but also intimations of anger. And Matt had sworn to her that he was no longer married.
Katie kept remembering the horrible night Matt left her. She was still trying to make sense of it. Had she been a fool to trust someone she thought she loved?
On the night of July 18, she had prepared a special dinner. She was a good cook, though she seldom had the time to do this kind of elaborate affair. She’d set the wrought-iron table on her small terrace with her beautiful Royal Crown Derby china and her grand- mother’s silver. She’d bought a dozen roses, a mixture of red and white. She had Toni Braxton, Anita Baker, Whitney, and Eric Clapton on the CD player.
When Matt arrived, she had the best, the most wonderful surprise waiting for him. It was really great: the first copy of the book of poems he’d written, which she had edited at the publishing house where she worked. It had been a labor of love. She also gave him the news that the printing was 11,500 copies—very large for a collection of poems. “You’re on your way. Don’t forget your friends when you get to the top,” she’d said.
Less than an hour later, Katie found herself in tears, shaking all over, and feeling as if she were living a horrible nightmare that couldn’t possibly be real. Matt had barely come in the door when she knew something was wrong. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the tone of his voice. Matt had finally told her, “Katie, I have to break this off. I can’t see you again. I won’t be coming to New York anymore. I know how awful that sounds, how unexpected. I’m sorry. I had to tell you in person. That’s why I came here tonight.”
No, he had no idea how awful it sounded, or was. Her heart was broken. It still was broken. She had trusted him. She’d left herself completely open to hurt. She’d never done that before.
And she had wanted to talk to him that night— she’d had important things to tell him.
Katie just never got the chance.
After he left her apartment, she opened a drawer in the antique dresser near the door leading to the terrace.
There was another present for Matt hidden inside. A special present.
Katie held it in her hand, and she began to shake again. Her lips quivered, then her teeth started to chatter. She couldn’t help herself, couldn’t make it stop. She pulled away the wrapping paper and ribbon, and then she opened the small oblong box.
Oh, God!
Katie started to cry as she peered inside. The tears streamed from her eyes. The hurt she felt almost wasn’t bearable.
She’d had something so important and so wonderful to share with Matt that night.
Inside the box was a beautiful silver baby rattle. She was pregnant.
THE DIARY
Nicholas:
This is the rhythm of my life, and it is as regular and comforting as the Atlantic tides I see from the house. It is so natural, and good, and right. I know in my heart that this is where I am supposed to be.
I get up at six and take Gus for a long romp down past the Rowe farm. It opens to a field of ponies, which Gus regards with a certain laissez-faire. I think he believes they’re giant golden retrievers. We eventually come out to a stretch of beach rimmed with eight- and ten-foot-high dunes and waving sea grass. Sometimes I wave back. I can be such a kook that it’s embarrassing.
The route is somewhat varied, but usually we end up cutting through Mike Straw’s property that has a lane of noble oaks. If it’s hot or raining, the old trees act as a canopy. Gun seems to like this time of the day almost as much as I do.
What I especially like about the walks is the peaceful, easy feeling I have inside. I think a lot of it is due to the fact that I’ve taken back my life, reclaimed myself.
Remember the five balls, Nicky—always remember the five balls.
That is my exact thought as I start down the long road that leads home.
Just before I turn in to my driveway, I pass the Bone house next door. Melanie Bone was amazingly gracious and generous when I first moved in, supplying me with everything from helpful phone numbers to hammers, nails, paint, use of her phone, and cold, tangy lemonade, depending on the requirement. In fact, that’s how I got my housepainter’s number. Melanie recommended Picasso to me.
She is my age and already has four kids, God love her. I’m always in awe of anybody who can do that. All mothers are amazing. Just keeping extracurricular activities straight is like trying to run Camp Kippewa. Melanie is small, just a little over five feet, with jet black hair, and the loveliest, most welcoming smile.
Did I mention that the Bone kids are all girls? Ages one through four! I’ve always been bad with names, so I keep them organized by calling them by their ages. “Is Two sleeping?” “Is that Four outside on the swings?” “I think this will fit Three.”
The Bones all giggle when I do this, and they think it’s so silly, they’ve inducted Gus as honorary number five. Lord, if anyone ever over-heard my system, they’d never come to see Dr. Bedford.
But they do come, Nicky, and I heal, and I am healing myself.
Now listen to what happens next. I had another date with Matt. I was invited to a party at his house.
My little man,
The house outside Vineyard Haven was beautiful, tasteful, impressive, and very expensive. I couldn’t help but be impressed. As I looked around, the men and the women, even the children, arranged themselves into one demographic group: successful. It was Matt’s world. It was as if the whole Upper East and West Sides of Manhattan, some smatterings of TriBeCa, and all of SoHo had been transplanted to the Vineyard. Partygoers were spread across the decks, the stone walkways, and the various gorgeously furnished rooms that opened to endless views of the sea.
The house was definitely not me, but I could still appreciate its beauty, even the love that had gone into making it what it was.
Matt took my arm and introduced me to his friends. Still, I felt out of place. I don’t know exactly why. I had attended more than my share of events like this in Boston. Ribbon cuttings for new hospital wings, large and small cocktail soirees, the endless invitations to whatever was news-worthy in Boston.
But I really felt uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to tell Matt, to spoil the night for him. My recent stint on Martha’s Vineyard had been more down-home. Growing vegetables, hanging shutters, waterproofing porch floors.
At one crazy point, I actual
ly looked down to see if I’d gotten all the white paint off my hands before I came.
You know what it was like, Nick? Sometimes when we hang together, and it’s just the two of us, I’ll talk Nicky-talk with you. That’s the special language of made-up words; strange, funny noises; and other indecipherable codes and signals that only the two of us understand.
Then an adult will come to the door—or we’ll have to go out to the market for something—and I swear I forget how to talk like an adult.
That’s how I felt at this party. I’d spent too much time in work boots and paint-stained over-alls; I was out of sync. And I liked the new rhythm I was creating for myself. Easy, simple, uncomplicated.
As I floated through a pleasant-enough haze of witty small talk and clinking crystal glasses, a little voice, a child’s voice, broke through to me.
A small boy came running up, crying. He was probably three or four. I didn’t see a parent or a nanny anywhere.
“What happened?” I bent down and asked. “Are you okay, big guy?”
“I fell,” he sobbed. “Look!” And when I looked down, sure enough, his knee had a nasty scrape. There was even a little blood.
“How’d he know you were a doctor, Suzanne?” Matt asked.
“Children know these things,” I said. “I’ll take him inside and clean his knee. This white dress is meant to be chic, but maybe it looked like a doctor’s lab coat to him.”
I put my hand out, and the little boy reached up and took it. He told me that his name was Jack Brandon. He was the son of George and Lillian Brandon, who were at the party. He explained, in a very grown-up way, how his nanny was sick and his parents had to bring him.
As he and I emerged from the screened back door, a concerned woman came up to me.
“What happened to my son?” she asked, and actually seemed put out.
“Jack took a little fall. We were just going to find a Band-Aid,” Matt said.
“It’s not serious,” I said. “Just a scratch. I’m Suzanne, by the way, Suzanne Bedford.”