Bellamy's Redemption

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  “I want you to know,” he said, “that I think you’re really a great girl.”

  I swallowed. “And you’re a great guy,” I said. I couldn’t believe how serious this was all getting. I looked around me at the mountains and trees whizzing by, and at Bellamy’s tan, manicured hand comfortably resting on the leather steering wheel. I wasn’t sure about the manicures. Was that a coat of shiny clear polish on them, or had they been buffed to a reflective state? Hopefully that would stop once we were married. I’m sure it was just a part of him being on the show.

  “Yep,” he continued, “I really see you meshing with my family.”

  “Super,” I said, noticing the pattern of the fancy wooden dashboard. The car was so expensive that I didn’t even know what kind of car it was. Something foreign and really obscure. What did his parents do, anyway? Why were they so rich?

  “Can you see yourself being part of my family?” he asked.

  I found myself nodding emphatically. “Sure! It’s great here!”

  “Awesome,” he said, running his right hand up and down my thigh. “Oh, they’re back on our tail,” he said, catching a glimpse of his parents’ SUV in the rearview mirror. He slowed down and turned down the radio. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “You’ll love this restaurant. Every time I’m home we come here. We’ve been coming here since I was a little kid. It’s great.”

  “Do your brother and sister live near here?”

  “Dwight and Sherifaye live about thirty minutes away. I’m not sure if you already caught onto this, but Sherifaye is pregnant.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said.

  “Uh huh,” said Bellamy, without a huge amount of enthusiasm. I was getting the impression that he and his family weren’t crazy about her. “My sister goes to college in California. She’s quite a bit younger than my brother and I.”

  My brother and me, I thought. “Where did you go to college?” I asked. Oh no. I’d seen myself do this before. I was going to pick apart everything about him and talk myself right out of this. Prove me wrong, Bellamy, I mean Dirk.

  “I started at the Arizona Rock Climbing Academy. That place was insane. They aren’t in business anymore. Then I took some business classes online for a while. Now I run my own rock climbing studio near Phoenix. Have you ever been to Arizona?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re going to love it there. It’s so beautiful. Do you like the desert?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been to the desert. But I’m sure I would love it.”

  “You will. You definitely will. Well, here we are,” he said, turning into the parking lot of a place that looked like a giant lodge. His dad pulled in right alongside us, and the carload of cameramen and crew took the spot beside them. Everyone piled out

  “It looks like rain, honey,” said Bellamy’s mom to his dad.

  “Why don’t you put the top up, son,” his dad suggested, nodding at the convertible.

  “I don’t think it’s going to rain,” said Bellamy.

  “Just to be safe, why don’t you put it up?” said his mom. “You and Emma wouldn’t want to ride back on wet seats, would you?”

  “It’s not going to rain,” said Bellamy. He licked his thumb and held it up to the wind. “No, I can tell it’s not going to.”

  “I can feel the rain coming,” said his mother, wrapping her sweater tighter around her.

  “Emma’s starving. Let’s go inside,” said Bellamy.

  “I’m fine. I can wait,” I said.

  “Larry…” said Bellamy’s mom, rolling her eyes at his dad.

  “You kids go ahead,” said his dad. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No dad. You don’t need to,” said Bellamy. He gave the keys to Irene. “Here you go, miss. Would you mind putting the top up? Thanks. Okay, let’s go inside.”

  We all headed inside, cameramen in tow. The hostess had clearly been warned that we were coming. She greeted us like we were royalty and gave us a huge table overlooking mountains… and the parking lot. We all sat down and arranged our napkins on our laps as Irene crawled around in the convertible down below us, pushing buttons. We watched the windshield wipers take off, and then the headlights flashed on and off a few times. Bellamy’s family politely ignored her. A waiter came around delivering glasses of water with floating bits of cucumbers in them, as the clouds rolled in, all settling like thick gray cotton directly above the convertible. I couldn’t help myself; I identified with the help so strongly that it might as well have been me out there.

  I half listened while they ordered some wine with blackberry, peppery notes. I nodded along to a few chirpy anecdotes from our waiter, who seemed to know them all very well and who was clearly hoping to get some airtime. As he went on to describe the vegan wild rice and cranberry loaf that was the chef’s specialty, and Bellamy’s family beamed at me, giving the impression they’d arranged it all on my behalf, Irene was fishing through the glove box, retrieving a leather portfolio that contained the car’s instruction manual. She was thumbing through it, thumbing through it, thumbing through it again. Her misery was palpable and utterly distracting. She was a pathetic, nervous flipbook that wouldn’t stop flipping. I turned away from the window as much as I could, but her panic still dominated my peripheral vision.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll take the rice loaf,” I told the man.

  “It’s wild rice and lentils. And cranberries, of course.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “I’d like the Moroccan flank steak with onion pancakes and chive crepes,” said Bellamy.

  “You always get that,” said his sister.

  “If it ain’t broke...” said Bellamy. He draped his arm over my shoulder, and I remembered the note in my pocket. I needed to get away so I could read it.

  “Emma, tell us about your family. What do your parents do?” asked Bellamy’s mother.

  “They’re both retired now, but my dad had his own bookbinding and restoration business and my mom taught home economics. What’s funny is that my mom is the worst cook. I mean, she knows she is so it’s okay that I’m telling you this, and she doesn’t enjoy sewing, or anything like that. I’m not sure how she ended up teaching home economics.”

  Everyone looked uncomfortable. Did they think I was being mean? Disloyal? Critical?

  “Actually, I take that back. She makes excellent gravy. And isn’t gravy the hardest thing to make?” The story was true-ish. It was all I could come up with under pressure. Once when I still ate meat, when I was very young, she’d made mushroom gravy from some powder and it had been fine. She’d served it over some very bad meatloaf. It was one of her last attempts at cooking. Come to think of it, I recall her saying once in a confessional way that her home economics class was mainly about making salad dressings and watching movies.

  “Oh, is gravy difficult to make?” asked Bellamy’s mother. She looked bored and confused.

  “I guess.”

  “Bookbinding is unusual,” said Bellamy’s brother. He said it encouragingly, as though unusual might mean special. At the same time, the car alarm went off down below us. Irene pointed the key fob at the car, pressing buttons with aggressive desperation. A different waiter politely lowered the blinds so we wouldn’t have to watch Irene’s misery. It did nothing to drown out the noise, of course.

  “Dwight,” said Bellamy’s mother, trying to speak over the din, “Why would you say that? I think it’s useful.”

  “I didn’t say unuseful, I said unusual,” said Dwight.

  “Oh. Unusual, yes.” She nodded. The car alarm stopped and there was a stretch of awkward silence.

  I thought about telling them how people from all over the world came to my dad when they needed their rare old books fixed up, and how he painstakingly would repair smalls tears and recondition leather covers, adding many years of life to family bibles or other treasured books that had been passed down for generations, but I sensed that no one would care, or w
orse, it might confuse them. “So that’s their story,” I added to wrap it up. “They live in Florida now.”

  “Oh, you’re from Florida?” asked Bellamy’s father.

  “I’m from Chicago. My parents retired to Florida.” I was realizing that Bellamy had not exactly prepped them on me. It couldn’t be a good sign.

  “And you’re an only child?” asked Bellamy’s mother.

  “No, I’m the youngest of six.”

  “Six children,” said Kate. She and Larry exchanged a look.

  “Yep, that’s right,” I said. Bellamy gave me a little pat of encouragement. I realized everyone was looking at me, waiting for some kind of additional response. What could I say? Dumb things came to mind like, “They liked babies! Making ‘em, anyway!” but I kept my mouth shut.

  There seemed to be some kind of unspoken message traveling around the table that I wasn’t quite picking up on. A loud thunderclap sounded ominously and I took another sip of water.

  “Have you two gotten a chance to talk about things like children, and religion, and other big topics that really matter?” asked Kate.

  “Hmm, not really,” said Bellamy.

  “Nope,” I said, shaking my head. I was thinking I’d like to escape to the restroom to read my note, or better yet, I’d like to be sitting on Pete’s couch eating some string cheese. Then I got irritated with myself for thinking of him at a time like this, in the middle of my Meet-the-Fam date. I shouldn’t be thinking of him at all, considering he’d participated in that slutty pillow fight, and probably many other slutty events since I’d been away. I squeezed Bellamy’s hand beneath the table to remind myself what a lucky girl I was.

  “Larry, did you hear it thundering just a moment ago? Please help that girl with the car before it pours on her.”

  “Please excuse me,” said Bellamy’s father. He stood up, tossed his napkin on the chair, and bolted out the door. Bellamy sipped his wine with guiltless oblivion.

  “Emma’s an interior decorator,” said Bellamy. He winked at me, which confused me, and poured himself more wine.

  “So is Kate,” said Sherifaye. “Aren’t you, Kate?”

  “It’s just a hobby,” she said.

  “Oh Mom! You’re so modest,” said Dericka.

  “Yeah,” said Bellamy. “Don’t be so modest. Tell Emma about Interiors Monthly.”

  “It wasn’t that big of a deal,” said Bellamy’s mother. “Our living room was just featured on the cover.”

  “And there was a twelve page spread about the rest of the house,” said Dericka.

  “How lovely for you,” I said. I had thought their house had that rather obvious heavy-beamed lodge with toile wallpaper effect that is so 1997. I considered asking what year they’d been featured, but fortunately our food arrived just then.

  “For the lady of the hour,” said our waiter, placing a crusty little loaf of legumes and berries before me. He smiled down at me with faux innocence, as if his comment was simply ironic and not to be taken literally.

  “This looks so healthy,” I said brightly, “and don’t you look cute in your little suit.”

  As the rest of our meals were deposited, Bellamy’s father, who had returned a few moments earlier from rescuing Irene, decided to stand up and make a toast. He cleared his throat importantly, kicking his chair back away from himself into the path of another table’s waitress. “To Dirk and Emma,” he said with his glass raised, pausing briefly with mild irritation at the sound of her and a tray of food clattering to the floor as she fell over his chair.

  “Dad, he’s Bellamy now,” said Dericka.

  “Er, to Bellamy and Emma,” Larry said, giving it another try.

  “To Bellamy and Emma,” everyone agreed, clinking glasses and taking sips. Bellamy gave me a sweet little kiss on the lips and everyone, even the people at the tables near us, smiled and clapped a little.

  “Congratulations,” whispered the woman at the table nearest us.

  “Thank you,” said Bellamy.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of all this, so I decided to focus on my meal instead of the possibility that I’d gotten engaged without realizing it. I took a few dainty bites of my dinner, smiling and nodding as if it were tasty. In reality, it tasted like greasy, pan-fried breakfast cereal. I also thought I detected a twinge of turkey-ness to it, but I tried to reassure myself that restaurateurs who owned fancy establishments like this place had to be ethical or they wouldn’t have come this far.

  The note was really burning a hole in my pocket. When I’d made my way through nearly half the lentil loaf I excused myself from the table. Cameraman Luca followed along after me, just in case I decided to do something exciting. I found the restrooms in a long, dark hallway near the coat room. Instead of a large ladies’ room with stalls and a large men’s room with stalls, there were individual powder rooms. This seemed luxurious to me, since it meant they wouldn’t be sending some female assistant in to check on how I was doing if it was taking me too long.

  I went into the dim, wallpapered space and firmly locked the door behind me. The floor was made of marble basket-weave tiles. Exactly the kind I’d like in my home one day. Everything was clean and perfect and smelled of bergamot. It made me miss my apartment and other clean, quiet spaces. After I took the opportunity to pee and check my teeth and makeup without a camera crowding me, I sank down on the chair in the corner of the room, grateful it was there. I hated how time spent with Bellamy sometimes made me feel lonelier than being alone. I wasn’t sure how that could be, or how much of it had to do with all the people who were always around us. Maybe it was the in-law effect. Time spent with significant others’ families was usually, to some degree, exhausting.

  I turned on the faucet to drown out the sound of the note sliding from my pocket and being carefully unfolded. I couldn’t properly enjoy the moment, or my privacy, already concerned that I was taking too long and they were all back at the table discussing whether there was something wrong with me and if maybe Bellamy ought to come find me.

  Just as I got the note unfolded there was a knock on the door. I froze. Had they heard me opening the note? How was that possible? I thought I had been so incredibly sneaky.

  “Emma? It’s Irene. Are you okay in there?”

  “Yes, Irene. Of course. I’m fine.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Using the restroom.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well, I’m right out here if you need anything.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “But if you do, I’m right here.”

  “Honestly, Irene, I’m fine. Go away.”

  “I’ll just wait instead…. I’m right here. Just let me know…”

  I nodded, deciding that she was one tiny notch less awful than a paparazzo. My sympathies towards her regarding the car alarm fiasco were erased. I looked at the note, preparing to read it as fast as I could. I saw that it wouldn’t take me long, since it was only three sentences long:

  Dear Emma,

  I love you. You’re The One. Please flush this when you’re done reading it because it’s against the rules for me to tell you this already.

  Love,

  Bellamy

  My heart kind of stopped for a second. That’s what it felt like, anyhow. I realized I was excited. Maybe even thrilled. Having someone declare his love for you is a pretty huge deal. I had to sit back down for a second. This meant, among other things, that I was the winner of Bellamy’s Redemption. Wow.

  Despite the rules, I didn’t want to flush it. And I didn’t like that he wanted me to flush it. Shouldn’t I keep something the represented such a pivotal moment? I read it again and again. Touched it. Looked at the way he signed his name. Would I have liked it better if he had signed it Dirk? Would that have meant more to me? I wasn’t sure.

  Perhaps I could conceal the note in my shoe. Who would know?

  “Emma?” asked Irene, knocking again. “Are you oka
y? Are you sick? Do you want me to get Bellamy?”

  “No, I’ll be right there.”

  “I’m going to have to come in soon. I’m worried about you.” She rattled the doorknob.

  “Just give me another second,” I said.

  So I did as I was told, saturating the note in water from the tap and then flushing it once it had begun to disintegrate. I could hear Irene just outside the door complaining to Luca, “What is she up to in there? Why is the toilet flushing again?”

  I didn’t care any longer about Irene, though. A poster of a kangaroo that my older sister had in her bedroom when we were kids suddenly came to my mind, seeming very relevant. The kangaroo was on a diving board about to jump, hands poised like a prayer and a big smile on its face. The caption beneath it said A Smile is a Springboard to Happiness. I had never really gotten it, but now I realized that it meant that deciding to be happy was the first step in actually being happy. It was that easy!

  I was done being irritated, done with my bad attitude, done obsessing over Pete, and ready to rejoin my future husband.

  Chapter 30

  “Ready for logrolling?” asked Bellamy.

  “Hmm?” I pushed myself up in bed, realizing it was morning. I’d gone to sleep expecting him to sneak into my room in the night, but here it was, 7:00 a.m., and I was as untouched as when I’d gone to bed.

  “It’s perfect weather,” he said. “I thought for sure it would still be raining, but it’s a beautiful day out there.”

  “Mmm,” I said. I was exhausted. I needed at least four more hours of sleep.

  He gave me a kiss on the top of my head. Something about it reminded me of my mom and made me want to die. I turned away and saw that Luca was standing near the window with a camera pointed right on me, so I buried my face in the pillow. Bellamy began bustling about opening curtains.

  “Let’s let some light in,” he said. When I didn’t respond he asked, “Did you sleep well?”