Good Intentions

by Joy Fielding

  “No,” he answered forcefully. “Too much water under the bridge. How’s that for an original expression?” He tried to laugh. “So, tell me about Gary.”

  Again, Lynn found herself searching the poster-lined walls of the restaurant. “What can I say? He’s intelligent, soft-spoken, gentle. I always assumed he was faithful to me, and I think he had been until he met Suzette. But there are a lot of things about Gary that I obviously don’t know about or understand. I thought he was happy. It wasn’t until he told me he was leaving that I learned otherwise. You can imagine how that made me feel. I mean, aside from the obvious, the abandoned wife and all, I’m a social worker. I’m supposed to be trained to recognize when people are in pain. You’d think that after fourteen years of marriage I might have had some inkling that my husband was unhappy. I always thought,” she continued, aware that she was rambling but too wound up now to stop, “that one of the things he liked about me was my independence, the fact that I had my own career, my own interests, my own life. That I was with him because I wanted to be with him, not because I needed to be with him. But the night he told me he was leaving, and he was standing there with one foot out the door, and I asked him to tell me why, he said that he had met a woman who needed him, really needed him. I said I needed him too, that our children needed him, and he said it wasn’t the same thing, and that it would be better for all of us if he left. I said I didn’t want him to go, and he said I’d be all right, that I always was. I think he really believed—believes—that he’s doing the right thing. I know it was never his intention to hurt me or the kids.”

  “He hurt you anyway.”

  Lynn smiled, throwing her head back and staring at the ceiling fan directly overhead. “You sound like Renee.”

  “Renee?”

  “My lawyer, remember? When I told her about you, she said to be careful, that you might not mean to hurt me, but what difference would it make if you hurt me anyway?”

  “Who else have you discussed me with?”

  Lynn shook her head. “No one.”

  “Not even your father?”

  “Especially not my father. He’s basically a simple man. I don’t think he’s ready for any of this. I don’t think I’m ready for any of this.”

  “How about my father?”

  “What?”

  “Think you’re ready for him?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going to visit him this Saturday. He’s in a place called Halcyon Days.” He chuckled. “An ironic name for a nursing home.”

  “It’s a lovely place,” Lynn told him reassuringly. “The best.”

  “He had a stroke a few years back. It made it hard for him to look after himself. I still feel guilty as hell about having put him there.”

  “Don’t feel guilty. What other choice did you have?”

  “Are you saying I wasn’t in total control of the situation?” he asked, a sly smile curving across his lips.

  The waiter approached the table and cautiously deposited their dinners on the place mats in front of them. “Be careful,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “the plates are hot.”

  “Wine?” Marc asked, still smiling, lifting the bottle from its Plexiglas cooler and filling her glass before she could answer. “So what about Saturday? Gary has the kids, doesn’t he?”

  “Marc, I …”

  “You’d like my father. He’s kind of a crazy old guy. Bought himself a baby-blue Lincoln convertible a couple of weeks ago. Of course, he doesn’t have a driver’s license anymore, so he’s not allowed to drive it, and the damn thing, which cost over thirty-five thousand dollars, just sits there in the parking lot gathering dust. He had a phone put in it too. Bought it outright. None of this renting nonsense for him.”

  “The car just sits there?”

  “Sometimes he lends it to one of the nurses. That is, when he’s not sending them on expensive holidays to Rome or Greece.”

  “Does he have that kind of money?”

  “I guess he did.” Marc Cameron cut into the large piece of the blackened snapper on his plate. “Apparently he’s been storing it away for years, like a squirrel. From what I can understand, he’s got bank accounts in virtually every bank in Florida. I just found out about all this a few weeks ago when one of the banks called me about honoring the check he wrote for the car. They said he didn’t have enough money in his current account but that they could take the money from one of his term deposits. I didn’t know what they were talking about. Anyway, I thought I’d better find out. That’s one of the reasons I’m going to see him this weekend. I’d be grateful for the support, if you’d care to come along.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “I could use your professional guidance.”

  Lynn raised a large piece of fish to her lips, but was unable to put it in her mouth. “Can I think about it?” Why didn’t she just say no?

  “Did you ever think that maybe you think too much?”

  Lynn nodded. “Good chance of that.”

  “I can be very patient,” he told her, “as well as persistent.”

  There was a long pause during which they both sat with forks poised and neither made a move. For an instant, Lynn was tempted to shove the fish into her mouth as Nicholas would no doubt do, and yell triumphantly, “First taste!” Instead she said, “There have to be some ground rules.”

  “Name them.”

  “No more kisses across the table. No more clinches on the beach. No more rolls through the sand.”

  “How about in the back seat of my father’s new baby-blue Lincoln convertible?”

  Lynn said nothing. The image of the two of them groping at each other in the back seat of a car pressed itself teasingly against her eyes, lingering, refusing to leave. She chewed the blackened snapper with grim determination, refusing to acknowledge that her mouth was on fire from the heavy layer of pepper.

  “Hey, I’m just joking. No back seat, honestly. No sudden lunges across the dinner table. No frolicking by the ocean. Lips sealed,” he said, grimacing, and she laughed, lunging for her glass of water.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a prude,” she found herself explaining, abandoning the water for her glass of wine. “It’s not like sex hasn’t been on my mind lately. I mean, it’s been over six months. I’m not interested in celibacy as a way of life. But I just don’t want to rush into something I’ll end up regretting.”

  “I won’t rush you.”

  “I think it’s important to keep our relationship platonic. At least for now,” she added, then bit down hard on her tongue. Why had she added that? Why couldn’t she stop when she was ahead?

  Marc Cameron lifted his wineglass into the space between them. Lynn quickly raised her glass to his, listening to the delicate click of their touch. “For now,” he said.

  TWELVE

  His hands were cold on the back of her neck. “Your hands are cold,” Renee told him, feeling Philip’s fingers slide gently away from the base of her throat, where he had been doing up the clasp of her wide gold necklace. Renee rarely wore the necklace, a gift from Philip on her last birthday, because she was slightly uncomfortable with its weight, more uncomfortable with theunwanted attention it brought to her overly round cheeks. She thought about the last time she had worn it, the surprise birthday party of a number of weeks ago when her husband had spent much of the night engrossed in conversation with Alicia-call-me-Ali Henderson. Thoughts of Alicia Henderson led to thoughts of the unpleasant surprise that Debbie had arranged for her in the restaurant the previous week. She hadn’t said anything further to Philip about that afternoon, and, of course, he hadn’t mentioned it, each pretending the incident was as innocent as he claimed. There were times she’d been tempted to bring it up, but Philip always seemed to have one foot out the door, or there was Debbie or Kathryn to contend with, and when they finally found themselves alone together in bed at the end of the evening, Philip would plead exhaustion and roll over and be asleep within
minutes. Renee patted the heavy gold links at the base of her throat. A man of grand gestures, she thought. And casual infidelities. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “It looks great.”

  “Not it,” she corrected, wondering if he had been aware of his choice of words. “Me. How do I look?” She dropped her hands to her sides, feeling naked despite the fact she was fully dressed, waiting nervously for his assessment.

  “Terrific,” he said, staring at his own image in the mirror across from their bed, smoothing his hair carefully at each side.

  “You don’t think it draws too much attention to my double chin?”

  “What double chin?” He moved behind her and cupped her full breasts inside his large hands. “Who even notices your double chin when they have these glorious doubles staring them in the face?”

  “Thanks a lot.” Renee leaned her body back against his, welcoming the feel of his touch despite his words, not caring that her freshly done hair was being mussed or that her new black silk lounging outfit was being crushed between his careless fingers. It felt like an eternity since he had touched her this way. She suddenly didn’t care that they were already late for dinner with several of her partners; she was unconcerned that neither Debbie nor her sister had returned home from their afternoon outing. She wanted Philip’s hands on her body. She needed to feel close to him; she needed this reassurance.

  He pulled away. “You look great,” he said, appraising himself again in the mirror. “I think I’ll change my shirt.”

  “Now? Philip, we’re already running late.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “I’m not saying it’s anybody’s fault. It’s just that we’re already half an hour late, and the shirt you’re wearing looks great.”

  “It’s the wrong shirt for this suit, but fine, if it’s going to create problems for you to be a few minutes late, I’ll wear it. At least one of us will look good.”

  “You look terrific,” Renee told him, her voice a gentle plea. How could he think he looked otherwise?

  “Whatever you say.”

  “No, no,” Renee said, giving in. “You have to feel comfortable. If you’re not comfortable …”

  “It’s the wrong shirt,” he explained, an endearing half-grin on his face.

  “Which shirt do you think will be better?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, moving to the closet. “What do you think?” He returned to the side of the bed with two blue-striped shirts. “I think the stripe is more interesting than the plain,” he said, referring to the shirt he had on. “Which one do you like better?”

  “They both look the same.”

  “God, Renee, you’re so unobservant. This one has a much wider stripe.”

  Renee looked harder but still couldn’t see the difference. “The one in your right hand,” she said finally.

  “Really? I prefer the one in the left.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

  “I’m sorry, Philip. Really, it just doesn’t matter to me.”

  “That’s obvious. Now, if it concerned what you were wearing, that would be different.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Oh, so now I’m being ridiculous. What other names are you going to call me?”

  “I’m not calling you any names.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I could have sworn you called me ridiculous.”

  “This whole conversation is ridiculous,” Renee said flatly. “Look, let’s not argue. I’m sorry for what I said and I’m sorry if I sounded disinterested about what shirt you should wear.” She checked her watch. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

  Philip’s voice became soft, concerned.

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I guess because we’re already late, and these are my partners. I don’t know. I can’t help it.”

  “Yes, you can. You decide whether or not you want to be nervous.”

  It was at times like this that Renee wished she had married a plumber and not a psychiatrist. Did he always have to be so damned analytical? Did he always have to be pointing out that she had a choice in most matters and that she usually opted for the wrong one?

  “Renee,” he was saying, a hint of impatience in the way he said her name, as if it were a burden of great weight, “you have to decide what’s important to you.”

  “You’re important to me.”

  “Not as important as being on time for dinner.”

  Renee said nothing. How many times could they cover the same ground? She watched him return both shirts to the closet. “Aren’t you going to change?”

  “It’s not worth it. Your partners are so boring, I doubt they’ll notice what I’m wearing anyway.”

  “I don’t think they’re boring.”

  “They’re lawyers,” Philip said, as if the word was all the explanation necessary. “Is Debbie home yet?”

  “She and Kathryn went to the beach this afternoon.”

  “It’s after eight o’clock,” Philip said. “They wouldn’t still be at the beach now.”

  “They said they might go to a movie and for a bite to eat.”

  “Christ,” Philip muttered, shaking his head.

  “What? What is it?”

  He continued shaking his head. “Well, you really don’t give a shit, do you? Debbie is sixteen years old. Your sister is seriously depressed. They’ve disappeared, and all you care about is getting to your stupid dinner party on time.”

  “That’s not fair, and it’s not true,” Renee said, hearing her voice rise and struggling to steady it. “They haven’t disappeared. They went to the beach and probably to dinner and a movie afterward. Kathryn has been feeling much better lately and Debbie is quite capable of taking care of herself. I’m not worried because there’s nothing to be worried about. Philip, what’s going on here?” She closed her eyes, wishing his hands were back on her breasts, that he would surround her with his large arms and tell her he was sorry, that he was acting like an idiot, that he loved her more than anything in the world, and let’s get out of here now before it gets any later. Instead he stayed where he was, on the other side of the room, clearly angry with the conversation, and with her. What was wrong with her? Why did she always rise to the bait? Why couldn’t she just go along with him occasionally? Why did everything have to be such a big deal?

  “You tell me,” he said, his voice cold.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve been so distant lately,” he said, sounding very much like a small child.

  “What?”

  “I don’t even think you’ve realized how distant you’ve become. I’m not trying to blame you, Renee. I understand how busy you are at work, how preoccupied you are. And I know you’ve always been busy, but you used to be able to handle it better. You used to have time for me. But think about it. You’re always working. In the last couple of months, we haven’t had much time to be together, and I guess I miss it, that’s all.”

  “I’m not always working,” Renee whispered, hearing her voice trail off and disappear, caught off guard by his words.

  “What time did you get home last night?” he asked.

  “Around seven.”

  “And the night before?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably the same.”

  “Try closer to seven-thirty.”

  “I was home early the day before that.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Philip, what is this? You’ve never complained about my working late before.”

  “What good would it have done?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  “If I’d known you were unhappy …”

  “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

  “I don’t understand. What are we arguing about?”

  “I was merely pointing out why we haven’t been spending much time together recently. You’re too busy
with your work. And if it’s not work, it’s work-related, like tonight.”

  Renee looked helplessly around the room. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, and she was, though she wasn’t sure why. “I didn’t realize … I guess it’s hard to find time between both our busy schedules and my sister being here, and Debbie …”

  “So it’s Debbie’s fault we haven’t had any time together?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You don’t spend two minutes with Debbie. The kid comes to visit for two months, and you’re too busy with your damn practice to spend two minutes with her.”

  “That’s not fair, Philip. I’ve tried with Debbie. You know I’ve tried. She doesn’t want to be with me.”

  “If you really wanted to win Debbie over, Renee, you would. You’re a good lawyer. You know how to win.”

  “Wait a minute. How did we get onto Debbie?” Renee asked in frustration. “Why are we talking about this?”

  Philip paced angrily back and forth in front of the bedroom door. “Oh, I see. We only talk about what you want to talk about. Is that it?”

  “No, of course not. Nobody said …”

  “What is it you want to talk about, Renee? The weather? Politics? My practice? Your practice? All of the above? None of the above. You want to ask me about my lunch with Alicia Henderson, isn’t that it, Renee? Isn’t that what all this is about?”

  Renee tried to form the words to protest. It was true she had been thinking about the woman earlier but … Did he know her so well?

  “You’re nervous about tonight, and you’re worried about your sister, and so you have to take it out on someone, and Debbie’s not here to pick on, so it might as well be me. Go on, Renee, fire away. It’s been eating you up for days, so you might as well spit it out.”

  Renee stared at her bloated image in the mirror across from their bed, holding her breath to try to keep the budding tears at bay. She didn’t want to cry. Philip hated it when she cried. Besides, if she cried, her eyelids would puff up, make her look more bloated than she already was. Did she really have to ask herself why he turned to other women? Couldn’t she see the answer staring her in the face?

  “I was wondering how long it would take until you found some excuse to mention that lunch,” he was saying. “I actually had hopes that maybe you’d grown up enough not to bother bringing it up at all.”