The Affair

by J. L. Berg

  A small smile fell on my lips. “It’s this white candy—never mind. Anyway, a lot of her favorite recipes—or our favorites, I guess—she just made from memory and never bothered to write them down. That included the cinnamon rolls she used to mail us and the cookies I loved so much.”

  “She was meticulous about so much. How did she manage to forget something like that?”

  Looking over at the stack of black journals that rested on the coffee table, I tried to put myself in her shoes. “I just don’t think she thought it was important, you know? She didn’t think about what would happen when she was gone because I don’t think she ever regarded herself as important. She just assumed we’d all just go on like normal when she passed.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I don’t know if it’s sad or not. I think it’s just the way she was. Very factual. No time for fuss. Like that box of costume jewelry.” Motioning to the box, I said, “Open it. It’s all costume stuff, if I remember correctly. Just plastic and plaster. Nothing of value. She was never overly sentimental.”

  He pulled back the top and his eyes went wide. “This is not jewelry.”

  As my body bent forward to catch a glimpse of what he was looking at, I felt a wave of confusion.

  Or was that the dizziness again?

  “Are those more journals?” I asked and watched as he pulled one out.

  “Yeah,” he said, admiring the delicately etched leather. Beautiful flowers created a border all along the edge; the color was faded some, but the details were still so beautiful and elaborate. “But these are different.”

  He handed me one, and I ran my fingers over the fine leather cover, almost too nervous to crack it open.

  Whose words would I find inside?

  My grandfather’s? Or maybe some distant relative from a bygone era…

  Finally bending the cover back, I gasped as the familiar handwriting appeared in front of me.

  “It’s hers,” I said, wide-eyed. “It’s my nana’s.”

  To my darling daughters,

  There are some paths in your life you’re never meant to take.

  But yet, somehow, by some twist of fate, you find yourself wandering down that long, forbidden road anyway. That’s how this all began—with good intentions. I never sought this out. Never planned it. But sometimes, things don’t go the way you want them to.

  And isn’t that what makes life grand?

  Even late in life, it has a way of surprising you.

  Tricking you into believing in silly old things like love again.

  Are there things I regret?

  Things I wish I could take back?

  Of course.

  But loving him isn’t one of them.

  I know you might think differently when you read these words, but they’re part of me now. Part of the legacy I leave in these leather-bound books.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love is a messy sort of thing. There’s no one clear-cut path, and perhaps I took the wrong one.

  But I chose.

  And this is the story.

  —Mom

  I’d read the words more than once, but they still hadn’t sunk in.

  “Did your grandma have an affair?” Sawyer asked after also reading the letter that had been folded up and tucked into the leather journal we’d uncovered.

  “I-I don’t know,” I managed to say, still staring down at the letter. “I’ve typed so many of my nana’s words. So many journal entries. After a while, I thought I was getting to know her, you know?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”

  “But this?” I said, holding up the letter. “It’s like I’m reading someone else’s words. It’s weird.”

  Sawyer pulled out one of the other journals, his hands running along the detailed leather spine. “It’s definitely different. If the handwriting wasn’t identical, I would have sworn these belonged to someone else.”

  There was a long pause, my mind reeling with questions until Sawyer asked the one I’d kept coming back to in my head.

  “Are you going to tell your mom about them? Your aunt?”

  I swallowed hard, biting my bottom lip. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what’s inside.”

  “This letter was meant for them,” he reminded me.

  “Yeah, but my mom has already been through enough with my dad’s death,” I argued. “I don’t know if she can take this right now.”

  “In my life, I’ve found that withholding the truth is never a good thing—even if it’s well-intentioned.”

  I knew he was right, but I just couldn’t stomach the idea of having to deliver another bombshell to my mom.

  There was a reason she’d locked all that stuff from her mom in the guest bedroom. I’d always assumed it was just a classic case of avoidance, but maybe it was something more.

  Did she know?

  “I’m going to go take another nap. I don’t think that Advil did the trick,” I announced, no longer in the mood for talking.

  I folded the note back into the journal and set it on the coffee table before rising from my spot on the sofa. I could see Sawyer’s eyes follow my every move.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve got it,” I assured him.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked, and I knew this was him giving me an out.

  Just like that, I could send him on his way, and when I returned to the store, it would be back to the cordial employer/employee status we’d established over the last two weeks.

  “No,” I answered, surprising even me. “Stay.”

  “Okay.”

  As I made my way to the stairs, his voice stopped me. “Do you mind if I do some dictation?”

  A smile spread across my face. “No,” I answered. “Just don’t—”

  “I won’t touch the leather ones,” he promised.

  I continued my way up to my room, the sound of him moving about downstairs a welcome comfort to my ears. As I made myself ready, pulling off my fuzzy pink robe and lifting the sheets on my bed, the sound of his deep voice carried through the hallway, giving me a sense of peace and tranquility I hadn’t felt in ages.

  And as I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of many things.

  I dreamed of my nana and her leather journals, of Sawyer and his soft, lilting voice.

  And I dreamed of love—the messy kind that sent you down long, forbidden pathways.

  Chapter Seven

  In all the sordid fantasies I’d had that began with Sawyer entering my room, none of them included me being struck down by the flu or him waltzing in with a tray of soup.

  “More chicken noodle?” I asked, peeking my head out from the covers.

  “You know it,” he answered. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little better actually, but don’t think that makes me forget that you’re intruding. I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my bedroom.”

  Setting the tray on my dresser, he took a look around. “I don’t believe I asked,” he countered.

  I watched as he stuck his hands in his pockets and sort of wandered around for a moment, checking out the room in his normal curious fashion. His eyes fixated on certain things, my trophies from the high school debate club that were now pushed back on my bookshelf to make room for more age-appropriate things like self-help books and skin care products. A mishmash of old and new—that was the disaster that he’d walked into.

  “Why haven’t you moved into the master?” he finally asked.

  The question sort of threw me a little, but I should have been used to this by now. Sawyer wasn’t exactly shy when it came to his pointed questions.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s my parents’ room. It would be weird, I guess.”

  He shook his head. “It used to be your parents’ room,” he corrected me. “But it’s not anymore.”

  I swallowed, my throat scratchy, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the
flu or a by-product of this sensitive subject matter that was causing it. “Why are you always so eager to move on?”

  “Why are you so hell-bent on not?” he countered with a raised eyebrow.

  I abruptly sat up, moving a couple pillows behind me so I could lean against them. I must have been doing the task with a little extra force because when I finished, I noticed Sawyer staring.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said, dejected. “Can I get your tray? You must be hungry, right?”

  Folding my arms across my chest, I pursed my lips before answering, “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

  He did as he’d said, pulling the tray from the dresser and placing in on my lap. He set up the little feet, so it was nice and sturdy on the bed, just like my mom used to do.

  As I began to stir my soup, he spoke up, “It’s not that I don’t understand you’re dealing with a loss and that the house represents that,” he said, his eyes staring down at the floor. “But I guess I feel like if you sit here in a mausoleum of sorts, you’ll never be able to move on with a life of your own.”

  Still messing with my soup, I answered, “So, you think if I clean it out and make it my own, I’ll suddenly have a new lease on life and what? I’ll find a new man and finally get over the old one?”

  His eyes met mine. They were bright and full of an intensity I hadn’t seen before. “You’re not over the old one?”

  “No.” I shook my head, letting out a sigh. “Yes, of course I am. That’s not what I meant. I am. I’m just—I’m sorry. I’m getting angry over nothing. I know you mean well, and you’re right. I do need to clean out the place, but it’s hard, you know? The idea that this house could look different… feel different. When I walk in, I can still remember each and every Christmas morning in that living room. What happens when I change it?”

  “You’ll still remember,” he said. “It’s just a room, Elle. But your memories will always be there.”

  “My grandpa’s weren’t,” I argued, remembering that dream from the other night. The one with the door I couldn’t enter and the hallway that smelled of rubbing alcohol and despair. “He lost all his memories in the end.”

  “So, write them down. Do what your nana did.”

  “She just recorded the weather patterns and facts about her garden,” I argued.

  Giving me a firm look, he tilted his head to the side. “We both know that’s not true. The words in that letter we read spoke of a woman who’d recorded much more than facts.”

  It was a sobering thought.

  “What if I don’t like the woman who’s in that journal?”

  He smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But what if you do? You’ll never know unless you open it.”

  “You’re right. I should stop being such a baby about it. Just rip it off.”

  “What?” he asked, a levity to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “You know, like a Band-Aid. If you pick at it, it hurts ten times worse, but if you just rip the sucker off, it’s far less painful.”

  “That’s so not true.” He laughed. “Have you ever tried that? Ripping the Band-Aid hurts just as much but maybe for a tiny bit less time.”

  “That’s not what my mom told me, growing up.”

  He just smiled.

  “Okay, whatever. The saying still works in this situation. Can you take this tray?”

  “But you haven’t even touched your soup!” He pointed at the full bowl, clearly not impressed with my progress, which was next to nothing.

  But a girl could only take so much canned soup, and I really was feeling better. It was time to move on to bigger and better things. Wasn’t that what he was always telling me?

  “I actually could go for a pizza. Would you mind going out and getting us one? From that new place? Extra cheese and pepperoni?”

  He laughed, touching my forehead with the back of his hand. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about feeling better.”

  I held my breath, wondering if he was going to kiss me again, but sadly, the only action my forehead was getting today was the gentle caress of his fingertips.

  Damn.

  “Sure,” he answered. “Do you mind if I run an errand while I’m out? Also, keep in mind that I’ll have to take your car.”

  Giving a little shrug as he pulled off the tray, I answered, “Not at all, and that’s fine. I’m going to shower and dive into those trashy journals my nana wrote, so take your time.”

  “Roger that.”

  Neither of us touched on the simple fact that if I was indeed feeling better, there was no reason he actually needed to stick around. There were at least two other places in the area that delivered pizza, and I was perfectly capable of giving myself Advil at regular intervals.

  All he needed was a ride back to the store to pick up his truck, and this whole thing could be over with.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, his eyes briefly meeting mine at the door.

  “Good,” I answered.

  There are some paths in your life you’re never meant to take.

  But yet, somehow, by some twist of fate, you find yourself wandering down that long, forbidden road anyway.

  My grandmother’s words came back to me at that moment as I watched him walk away.

  Is this the path I was never supposed to take, Nana?

  Friday, March 14, 2008

  Much of what I write now is from memory. These events have come and gone, but I know if I don’t record them, I might never have the time, and I don’t want to die with regrets weighing on these old shoulders of mine.

  I remember my mother telling me when she felt herself growing close to the end. She began doing practical things, like updating her will and power of attorney. But there were other things too. She wrote letters to the grandchildren and gave items to the church. It was almost as if she were preparing for a long journey.

  I guess, in some ways, it’s similar. I’ve only ever been on one real vacation. It was my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and George wanted to do something nice with the small bonus the factory had given him. I’d never been far away from home, not even for my honeymoon, and I had such a sense of dread that I’d forget something. Now that I feel my own time coming to a close, I feel that same deep dread. There are certain things I want to accomplish—letters I want to write, contributions I need to make, and lastly, this journal.

  I could simply let these memories go with me, knowing they would disappear and none would be the wiser to my indiscretions. But after everything I’ve been though, like watching the man I married slowly fade away, I know now that memories, even the ones that make us uncomfortable, must be remembered.

  I never meant for any of this to happen.

  I never meant to have an affair.

  I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was going to go out and become an adulteress. One simply doesn’t do that—at least, not at my age.

  My visits with William started out as a way to help make his life easier. He was recovering from hip surgery, and I was happy to deliver groceries and such to his house during that time.

  We’d never been very close, him and me. The damage to William and George’s relationship had been done long before I came around, and I wasn’t one to stick my nose in where it didn’t belong. They were brothers in name only.

  William lived on the outskirts of town during most of our marriage, keeping to himself, while we raised our children and lived our lives. It wasn’t until George went into the nursing home that William moved off his farm to retire.

  And I guess that’s where our story begins.

  I barely noticed the sound of the door opening as Sawyer made his way back into the house.

  “Hello?” he announced, his voice carrying into the living room. “I’m home!”

  I knew his words were supposed to be taken in jest, and in response, I was supposed to laugh, but the journal entry I’d just read was still ricocheting around in my head like fi
reflies trapped in a mason jar. Thoughts and questions everywhere.

  I looked up to find him staring at me, his arms full of grocery bags.

  “You have that look,” he said.

  “What look?”

  “I haven’t quite nailed it down yet,” he confessed. “I’m still working on deciphering it. But I see it on you a lot.” His hand rose, the paper bags came too, and he pointed to my forehead. “You get these lines in your forehead like you’re deep in thought, so obviously, you’re mulling something over. And you have this sort of half-frown thing going on, but when you’re really deep in it, you’ll bite your bottom lip.”

  My brow raised, I couldn’t tell if I was creeped out by how much he seemed to watch me when I wasn’t looking or a little stunned he knew me so well.

  “Anyway,” he said, moving on, “you’ve read some of the new journal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  Clearly, my answer wasn’t sufficient.

  “It’s—I …” The fireflies were at it again. Too many thoughts. Not enough words.

  “Okay, yeah … that totally makes sense with the face.” He laughed. “I’m going to go put these groceries away. Come help me and take a breather? Then, maybe you can make sense of whatever is going on in that head of yours.”

  I didn’t bother answering or asking why he’d picked up groceries for me. I just set the journal aside and followed him into the kitchen.

  At first, I found it odd, how at ease he was, as he quickly began unloading the bags, but then I remembered he’d been here nearly twenty-four hours, playing nursemaid while I was sweating out the flu. He seemed to know where mostly everything went, and if he didn’t, he figured it out. He didn’t ask for help, and I stood there rather helpless as he filled my kitchen with foreign items like fresh fruit and all-purpose flour.

  Since my mom had moved out, I’d been living like a frat boy coming off a bender. Greasy food, coffee, and whatever would fit in microwave.

  “Well, I have good news, and I have bad news,” he said as he folded up a paper bag. “What do you want first?”