by C B Cox
“This latest book deal is just the beginning. I mean it. You’re on an upward trajectory.” Martha places slender fingers on the cover of my manuscript. “Just as soon as you get your head together and rewrite this dog shit.” She raises her latte. Makes to chink a toast. I’m in no position to disagree. I chink back. Paint on my best game face.
Promise to write my best novel within three months.
“I’ve every confidence in you, my pretty little rug-rat. What’s the plan?” She settles her glasses on the end of her nose, fixes me with those killer green eyes.
“Tern Lodge,” I blurt.
Where did that come from?
“I’m listening.” Martha sits back, pushes her glasses along her nose and crosses her arms over her chest.
“The rented condo is claustrophobic and soulless. I’m lonely. It does nothing for my creativity. And, I haven’t had a vacation since the Bahamas, two years ago.” My head fills with dreamy memories of sandy beaches, azure lagoons and champagne filled nights. I shake my head to break the spell. “I need space to breathe, Martha. Fresh air in my lungs. A new environment will help me get my mojo back, I’m sure. Exorcise the freaking spirit of Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison.”
Martha nods. “That’s my girl. It’s a fabulous idea.” She visibly relaxes. Rummaging in her purse, she extracts a tube of lipstick and a vanity mirror. “Maine in summer is stunning. Not everyone is lucky enough to own an island. You must go. It’s your house,” she says, emphasizing ‘your’ with ‘O’ shaped lips. She checks the time. “Sorry, babe, I gotta dash.” She waves at the waitress for the check. “Very important meeting with A.J. at eleven-thirty.”
She pushes the manuscript towards me. Air-kisses my cheeks. ‘Important Martha,’ rises up and exits stage left.
Chapter Four
Stunned and bemused, I sit for what feels like an eternity and try hard to process what’s just happened. I muse upon the commitments I’ve entered into. Has Martha abandoned me to wallow in my hopelessness? To flounder, alone on an island, bereft of ideas and plummet into an abyss of depression? Or has she thrown me a lifeline? Forced me to give myself a kick up the butt? Given me hope?
I’m sure of one thing.
Coffee. I need coffee. Lots of it. And soon. I can’t think straight.
I dig deep into my oversized purse. I can’t find what I’m looking for. Irked, I drag out the contents and scatter them across the tabletop and my rejected manuscript. There’s a tortoiseshell hair-grip; a moleskin notebook; a Montblanc pen – a gift from Charles; car keys; lip-gloss; wallet, and cell phone. I collect the wallet, step over to the counter and order a double espresso and a chocolate chip muffin. My predicament calls for an injection of caffeine and a sugar rush. After paying, I pick up a handful of napkins, paper tubes of sugar and wooden stirring sticks and slalom back to the table.
In under two minutes, a twenty-something waitress in a green apron arrives table side with my caffeine and sugar fix. I try hard not to gawp at her nose ring. We begin a farcical game of checkers. Finding space amongst the paraphernalia proves difficult. For a short while, the waitress maintains her ‘the customer is always right’ smile, until, tiring of the game, she places the coffee cup unceremoniously atop the manuscript. I fear her customer service training has yet to cover ‘dealing with ditzy blondes whose life is on spin-cycle.’
To the sound of my pathetic apology, she turns on a sneakered heel and flounces off. I click my tongue against my front teeth.
The customer is always right. Right?
I exhale a long breath. Twist my unruly bangs behind my ears. Fidget in my seat and cross my right leg over my left. My right thigh crashes against the underside of the table and causes chaos.
It happens in slow motion. The cup wobbles, tilts and spills steaming hot coffee over the manuscript, obliterating the front fly sheet. The title ‘Betrayal’ smudges and instantly becomes illegible. A blot of sludgy liquid – my caffeine fix – absorbs into the paper. I beg the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I scan the room. No one’s noticed. No one cares enough. I’m still invisible.
I’m also in denial.
It’s clear now – more than ever – Charles’s infidelity has affected me more than I’ve dared to admit. I’ve allowed him to take away, not only my self-respect but also my joie de vivre. I’ve become a victim. Allowed myself to believe that, somehow, our marriage breakdown was my fault. Charles considers himself the winner.
“You won’t win, you, son-of-a-bitch,” I say out loud to no one in particular.
I grab my purse and refill it with my stuff. Shove the sodden manuscript deep inside. I rise up. The metal chair legs screech on the polished concrete. A fellow caffeine addict looks up to see who would dare disturb his inner sanctum. My jaw sets firm. I fix the poor guy with a steely stare.
Say something. Go on … I dare you.
I bolt for the door with a newfound feeling of determination burning in my gut. I’m invigorated. I’ve made Martha happy. Promised her a manuscript that we can both be proud of. Given myself a goal to deliver against. I’m relieved to have her off my back, though a little apprehensive about taking off to the coast, alone. The bottom line is: I’m a city girl. How will I cope?
Get a grip. It’ll do you good.
Charles bought Tern Island for me as a wedding gift, almost ten years ago. I ought to get over myself and use it. It’s a beautiful place. It’s wrong to keep Bella cooped up in a poky condo. She’s used to a garden and big skies. Bella loves walks on the beach and fresh, salty air. As do I.
Onwards and upwards, Hope Madison.
Chapter Five
JUNE 4TH
I’ve been putting off making this phone call for days. I’m wearing a hole in the carpet, pacing around the condo. To make matters worse, I have the mother and father of all headaches. Tom Thumb – high on an energy drink – smashes a mallet against the inside of my skull. I stand staring out of the window at the car lot across the street. Steadying my breathing, I select the number. My hands tremble.
At first, Charles is unreceptive. He snaps as I explain my plans.
Grow a pair, woman. Why does he do this to me?
He must sense my anxiety. I hear him sit. Hear the rustle of papers being rearranged. Imagine him sinking into the plush, high back tan leather recliner. Tom Thumb goes into overdrive. I press my index finger against my temple and wait for the lecture to start. I hear a long sigh, and then he takes me totally by surprise. He does a hundred and eighty degree turn and concedes that I ought to be at the lodge and not ‘stuck in some third-rate rental, like some kind of recluse.’ Those are his words, not mine.
Well thanks a million, Charlie Boy. Appreciated.
I never call him, Charlie. His mistress calls him that.
Whose fault is it that I live in a third-rate condo? I think. I dare not say it out loud.
Instead, I grow a pair, say, “I’ve a deadline to meet, Charles. I don’t want you to call, text, e-mail, or contact me in any way. Communicate via my attorney. With a fair wind, the divorce papers will be ready for signing in a couple of weeks: the end of the month at the latest.”
I imagine the anger welling up inside him like a geyser ready to blow. “We all have deadlines, Hope. You do know that deadlines are not a privilege solely reserved for writers…” He can’t hide the contempt in his voice.
I kill the call. Close my eyes. Seethe in silence.
Rage hisses through my ears. The room sways. My vision blurs. I’ve stopped breathing. I draw a long breath. Steady myself against the counter. Breathe away the fury. Oxygen reaches my brain, and the fog clears. I see my husband for what he is. Scream at the empty room like a woman possessed. “I hope your mistress bleeds your balls and your bank balance dry.” My lips curl into a sneer. It’s not an attractive look. “You two-faced, jumped-up, loser.”
Calm down. I tell myself.
I massage the tension in my neck. Close my eyes. Take deep breaths. I inhale through my nose, e
xhale out through my mouth. My heart rate steadies to a rhythm that calms the pounding in my head. I’m not accustomed to such feelings. This is not who I am. I absorb things. Respond with maturity. I’ve had my fill of high drama and maxed out emotions since I separated from Charles. I remind myself how far I’ve come. I check off my achievements in my head.
Martha has my back, but she can be a bitch when she has a bee in her bonnet. Still, I’ve given her a firm commitment. I’ve told Charles about my plans to take an extended stay on Tern Island. Promised my publisher, the first of three novels, within three months. Given notice to my landlord.
There’s no going back. And more importantly, there’s no one to hold me back.
My cell phone vibrates against my palm. I realize I’m staring out of the window at an unfocussed blur of gray. I blink. The block opposite comes into focus.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Madison?”
“Yes. Sorry. This is Hope Madison.”
I listen as the woman on the other end of the line explains the logistical arrangements for the packing, collection and safe delivery of my possessions to the storage facility with automaton-like corporate efficiency.
Life moves on. I have to move with it.
It doesn’t take me long to pack for the trip. Most of my possessions from Staten Island already sit in packing crates in the foyer, ready for collection by the removal company. Rhoda, our housekeeper, sent them over when I moved into the condo. I never got around to unpacking them. There’s a note attached to the crates. It expresses her sadness at my sudden departure. She says she needs the job. Noted her intention to stay loyal to Charles.
Yeah. Whatever. It takes all sorts.
I have closets full of clothes at Tern Lodge. Still, I cram sufficient clothing to last me a couple of months into a large suitcase: several pairs of jeans; lambswool sweaters; favorite T-shirts; shorts; swimsuits, and summer dresses for the sultry summer days to come. To my oversized purse, I add my MacBook, power cables, phone charger and the manuscript requiring major reconstructive surgery. From the desk in the alcove by the window, I collect a four-by-six inch silver photo frame and run the back of my hand over the image of my parents. They’re sat on a bench holding hands in the garden of their New Jersey home. I took it a week or so before my mother passed away. It’s a copy of the photograph I placed in my father’s coffin when he left me to join his soul mate, less than a year later.
A wave of melancholy roils through me. I pull my soft, cookie dough colored cardigan around my neck and give myself a hug. Take comfort from its familiarity.
Bella barks. It’s more of a huffing sound. It breaks the spell. I’m back in the room. Her leash hangs from her jowls. I stroke her ears and chuckle.
“Come on girl, we need your doggy bed and blanket. Let’s go pack the car.”
Bella wags her tail, enthusiastically. All is well in her world. And mine.
It takes several trips to the parking lot, but soon the Explorer is full to the gunnels with my possessions. I take one last look around the condo, collect the key and drag the heavy metal door closed behind me for the final time.
I bound down the stairs and along the hallway. The janitor is waiting for me at the front door. I hand him the key. He says he’ll miss Bella and me. I tell him the removal company will collect my crates in two days time. Ask him to make a note. Stress the importance.
I step out of the gray, nondescript building, vowing never to return.
Chapter Six
I program the Explorer’s GPS to display the fastest route to the Portland area of Maine. A four hundred mile journey lays ahead. I adjust the seat. Check Bella’s harness on the rear seat is secure. Check it again – she means so much to me – check my hair and lip-gloss in the vanity mirror. Check the rearview mirror – three times. I’m procrastinating.
Get a grip.
I’ve never driven the whole route before. Charles always drove. Control was his thing, and I was a willing passenger. He’d drive with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee, or his arm draped nonchalantly over my shoulder. My designated role was to keep us alert with chitchat, feed him and Bella snacks, and point out landmarks en route.
If there were just the two of us, we’d fly to Portland, hire a rental and drive to our ‘love nest’ on Tern Island. Sometimes, we’d take a cab to the marina and hop aboard Charles’s luxurious sailing yacht.
It sounds so freaking romantic, now. It would be insincere of me to say it wasn’t.
I stop dithering as the dashboard clocks flicks over to ten o’clock. Rotate my shoulders, angle my neck left then right, select ‘DRIVE’ and the Explorer rolls out of the lot into the morning sun. Repositioning gold-mirrored Ray-Bans from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose, I feather the accelerator and join the late morning commuters and yummy mummies starting their day.
I smile as I imagine warm sunny days, walks on the beach, swimming in the bay, peaceful evenings on the porch, reading and sipping wine. I’ll re-kindle my love affair with writing. There’ll be neighborly chats with the good folk of the local town, who will soothe my broken heart and restore my faith in humankind.
Bella – my furry traveling companion – retreats from her sentry post on the rear seat. Satisfied that our adventure is about to start, she nuzzles down and exhales a long, doggy sigh.
After an hour, we cross the Connecticut state line. Fine rain kisses the tarmac. The dry wiper blades leave long greasy stripes across the windshield. The road ahead blurs. I dowse the glass with a long spray of pungent screen wash and the road ahead finds focus. Tall trees enclose the road on both sides. The lush emerald of the Pootatuck State Forest glows ethereally in the drizzle caught in the low sun. The road curves left. Forest frames the highway towards the horizon. My mouth is dry. I feel jittery. Suddenly, I’m overcome by an intense feeling of homesickness for the glistening towers of Manhattan. Bella sleeps on.
I ought to get a grip.
When the radio news turns to Trump’s latest spat with the Mexican President, I flick the sound system to Bluetooth. Sheryl Crow reminds me that a change will do me good. A smile sneaks up on me and slackens my lips. I rattle my fingers over the top of the steering wheel in time with the music. I’m not ready to give up my Sheryl Crow obsession just yet.
The Yankee Division Highway is easy going as we pass by Boston. Sunlight dances from the surface of the Cambridge Reservoir. Verdant islands float past. I mentally tick off the states: New York State, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and then, finally, Maine.
On this journey, there are no high-fives. No, ‘four down, two to go, Mrs. M.’ countdowns from Charles, as we cross state lines.
“The traffic gods have blessed us, Bella.”
Don’t jinx it.
The thrum of the tires on the freeway is hypnotic.
My thoughts drift back through time…
Chapter Seven
I first met Charles Madison at a black tie Charity event. It was the height of the global economic crash in 2009. Black Friday flashbacks gripped Manhattan.
My first book – an uplifting story of love in the depths of financial adversity – was fresh to the market. Martha’s career was starting to take off, too. I was her first ‘major’ signing. She made it her business to know the places to be seen. Insisting I ‘break my book-signing virginity,’ she organized a book signing at a charity fundraiser for homeless persons.
I was twenty-five years old, naïve and an incurable romantic.
Martha assured me the signing would be ‘a walk in the park.’ Insisted that the great and the good of Manhattan would hardly notice me. I could always hide behind a pile of books.
“Just smile. Charge them thirty dollars. Sign your name. You’re helping to feed the homeless. They need all the help they can get,” she’d said, as she sidled off to mingle with Manhattan’s elite.
I was doing just that when George Clooney approached the table. He collected a book, smiled and flicke
d it open at the dedications page.
“Would you mind signing it to Charles, with all my love, always.”
No doubt you’ve already guessed: it wasn’t George Clooney.
“Err … yes,” I stuttered, accepting the book.
“I’m Charles. The book, it’s for me,” he said, with a rakish grin and a wink.
“Sorry?”
“You’re stunning,” he said flatly, studying the book cover. “Hope Davis,” he added, licking his lips, devouring my name as if I had written it in melted chocolate.
My heart hammered so hard inside my chest, that I imagined hearing it above the din of the string quartet.
“Sign it. Just like I asked. I’ll pay for it. In fact, since it’s for such a good cause, I’ll go the whole hog… I’ll buy them all.” He dug deep inside a pant pocket, took out a roll of bank notes, stuffed them into the charity box and thrust his right hand at me.
“Would you care to join me for dinner, Ms. Davis? This place is like a mausoleum.”
And that’s how it, we, started. How Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison swept me off my feet. Ours was a whirlwind romance and my first grown up affair. I fell in love unconditionally and far too quickly. My parents adored him. He was perfect.
At thirty-three, Charles was eight years my senior, and like me, an only child. That’s where the similarities ended. My parents were academics with little interest in money and power. Charles was born into a wealthy, influential family and was already a successful businessman in his own right.
A talented yachtsman, he’d been part of the ill-fated 2003 Stars and Stripes team. The yacht sank during the America’s Cup selection challenge. It had devastated him. He decided never to compete again – though he’d never given up sailing.