Jake and I drink a second cup of coffee and remark how our teens have taken to speaking in low whispers so that we can’t hear. I don’t at all mind being excluded from their conversations as they get older; I’m simply grateful that they have each other.
Jake, misreading my mood, blurts something that he will never be able to take back. “Wouldn’t this be nice?” he says. “Just look at the kids and us—already like family. Let’s get married.”
“Jake!” I laugh, and swat his arm. “You’re funny.”
“I’m serious. We get along so well. We’ve known each other since we were kids! It’s actually a Jewish custom, you know, dating back to the shtetl. My grandfather, when my grandmother died, married his wife’s sister. Samantha, will you marry me?”
“That would be crazy,” I say. My stomach drops. “Are you serious?” Jake isn’t even that Jewish. He rarely goes to temple, even on the High Holidays. Now he’s talking to me about the shtetl? Then I remember how he took me to dinner when Elizabeth was dying, his angling to keep Richard from the funeral, and Elizabeth’s insistence that Jake marry someone who’s good to the kids. How am I going to enjoy my weekend now? No turning back; we’re midair. I get up and pour myself another cup of coffee.
“It’s not crazy; it’s tradition,” Jake says when I return. He grins like the kid I knew growing up on Atlantic Road, the one who always managed to come up with two cookies when he stuck his hand in the jar. But maybe Jake thinks he wants me because I remind him of Elizabeth—or, for all I know, his crazy proposal might be not even about me but about hurting Richard.
“You’re not even religious!” I say, as Jake goes on and on about tribe.
“Well, forget tradition. Just think how it would make things easier.”
“Make what easier?” Marrying Elizabeth’s husband is not my idea of mourning.
“Look—I love Alexandra, you love Brooke and Lauren, I love your parents, and they love me,” Jake says smugly.
“Number one, I’m still married to Richard. Number two, we just lost Elizabeth.” I’m comfortable with Jake, yes, but more like he’s a brother. It’s so obvious to me that he’s confusing familiarity with love.
“I know what I’m talking about,” Jake says, beginning to look hurt. “Are you really signing up for more rides on Richard’s bullshit merry-go-round? Sure, he’s on his best behavior now, but I guarantee he’s the same asshole he always was. You know what I’m beginning to think, Samantha? I hate to say this—”
“Then don’t.”
“But you’re not nearly as savvy as I thought you were.”
I’m not in love with Jake. Nor would I ever just step into my sister’s life. Even if he doesn’t realize it now, what he’s actually proposing is a prison, a life of constant comparison and measuring up. I imagine the kids waking in the morning and seeing us in bed. No. No. No.
“I love you like a brother. But marriage?” I say.
“Think about it,” he says.
“Are you still dating?” I ask, trying to change the subject. A couple of months ago, Jake was introduced to someone sweet and pretty from Providence, divorced, with two teenage boys.
“She’s just someone to pass the time.”
I wince. But I can’t blame him. He’s still a young, attractive man.
“The kids don’t even know about her, do they?” I ask. “Do they even know where you go at night?”
Jake’s eyes get fierce, not unlike they did the night at Aquitaine before Elizabeth died. “You have no idea what it’s like. I have to get out. This is how I grieve.”
“By going on dates?”
“All I talk about is Elizabeth,” he says. “It works for me.”
“Jake, you’ve really got to start being home at night. Think of the kids.” It’s something I’ve been meaning to address with him.
“They’re practically in college,” Jake says. “Kathy is there if they need anything. Trust me, they barely notice me gone.” He changes the subject. “Have you filed for divorce?”
I pause. “Jake, I’m not getting divorced.”
“What? When did Richard move back in?”
“He didn’t—yet. We’re seeing a mediator, someone to help us work things out.”
“That’s old news.”
“A mediator is different,” I say.
“Shit or get off the pot, Samantha. People get divorced all the time! I can name ten couples off the top of my head,” he says.
“What if I don’t want to?” I say softly, and close my eyes. Is Jake’s scheme just some way to make everyone feel better about losing Elizabeth? Obviously, for all his business success, Jake has suffered a terrible lapse in judgment. I know that everyone in my family and community would find his proposal as strange as I do, not least our children. What’s worse, the proposal’s premise makes me shudder. I am a decent woman who would never disgrace my sister’s memory.
BOCA RATON, FLORIDA—where my parents winter in a gated, sixty-five-and-over condo park—is a thirty-minute drive from West Palm Beach, where we land.
“Give your grandma a hug,” my mother says when we see her in the condo, making her teenage grandchildren squirm. My father waves from a leather club chair stationed by the window.
Elizabeth’s death has aged my parents; grief gravels their voices and stoops their backs. My father hoists himself up on a creaky knee and crosses the carpet with his eyes down. Losing a sister is traumatic, but losing a child is catastrophic. Though my parents put on their best faces and kvell lovingly to show their joy, I can see them making the effort to do what used to come naturally.
“It’s comfortable for us,” my mother says, touring me around their spacious, two-bedroom condo. They leave Boston after Thanksgiving and return before Passover. If I manage to visit Florida once or twice during the winter, we don’t have to go long without seeing each other.
There isn’t enough room at my parents’ for us all to have our own beds, so we decided Brooke and Alexandra would share the queen bed in the guest room, Lauren would take the sofa bed in the den because she likes to sleep alone, and Jake and I would stay at the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. But after all that happened on the plane, I’m now feeling nervous about the arrangement.
Jake checks his watch. “Samantha, we should check in, relax a little. Mom and Dad,” he says to my parents, “I’ll send a car to collect you and the kids for dinner. We have reservations at La Cucina, right near the hotel.”
“Jake, how nice,” my mother says. For the sake of her grandchildren, she has forgiven his harsh behavior during Elizabeth’s decline.
“Well, there’s going to be a lot of back-and-forth,” Jake says. “I don’t want Joseph driving at night.” Gesturing to the ceiling, he adds, “Elizabeth’s idea.” He nods his head, luxuriating in his own good deed.
On our way to Breakers, Jake tells me I should book a massage. “Treat yourself,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything this weekend. Kick back and unwind.”
I call the concierge from the car. I don’t mention to Jake that the biggest bit of unwinding I need to do is from the bombshell he dropped on the plane. Thinking back to the pet names Jake had for Elizabeth and me as kids—Princess One and Princess Two—I shiver. Thankfully, the massage therapist has an opening.
I’m unpacking in my room and tense when I hear a knock at the door. Through the peephole, I’m relieved to see a young man with a folding table. The massage therapist’s skin is bronzed, clearly that of someone who lives in Florida all year long. His white polo shirt and khaki shorts display muscular arms and legs with every bit of hair removed. As he sets up the table, I am still quite disturbed, but with warm lavender oil rubbed into my back, I surrender my anxieties and sleep.
Later, I meet everyone at La Cucina, a Southern Italian, red-sauce restaurant within walking distance of Breakers. We have reservations for a table outside, where we can still smell garlic from the kitchen.
As we take our seats, Jake pulls out my chair. “Her
e, next to me,” he says in a voice that everyone can hear.
Uneasy, I say, “Mom, let me sit by you. I’ve decided I do want to learn bridge.” Brooke plops herself down in the seat Jake intended for me.
The server takes our orders, and Jake asks the kids about their afternoon. “How do you like Grandma and Grandpa’s new pad?”
“We saw the shuffleboard courts,” Lauren says.
“And Grandma took us swimming,” Alexandra says. “The water was so warm, like a bath.”
My parents are the happiest I’ve seen them in a long time, since Elizabeth’s diagnosis. “All my favorite people are here,” my father says at one point. “We’re just missing the New York Kaplans,” my brother David and his family, “and, of course, my Elizabeth.” I remember a moment after my sister was diagnosed: I told my father that I wished it were I. “Live for your husband and daughter. And don’t ever say that again,” he told me.
My mother updates us on her new bridge tournament, before going over some of the details of play. “Daddy saw my name on the board for coming in first,” she says. “That was a treat.”
Our teens talk among themselves, forking meatballs with one hand and holding their cell phones in the other, desperate not to miss a single text from a friend. They take pictures of their food, shoot selfies with the palm trees that canopy the patio, sticking out their tongues.
“Let’s spend tomorrow here at the pool,” Jake suggests. “I have an awesome cabana. The driver will pick you guys up at ten thirty. Okay?”
“Sounds good to us,” my mother says, between bites of her eggplant parm, pleased that she’ll have some to take home. It suddenly feels strange to be here without Elizabeth; she and my mother would have shared that dish before. I begin to realize that this trip to Florida, rather than assuaging my grief, is making me miss her even more.
“I want to let you all in on a little something,” Jake says, and I can just tell by his expression that this announcement is going to be a doozy. Even before he’s speaking, I’m saying no, but no sound is coming out.
“What’s that?” my mother asks.
“Samantha and I are thinking about getting married,” he says. He pulls a ring box from his blazer, and I gag on my osso bucco.
My parents’ faces pale.
“That’s gross,” Lauren says.
“No, it’s not,” Jake says. “My grandfather married his wife’s sister after she died. It’s in the Bible.”
“That was, like, a million years ago, Dad!” Brooke says.
“He’s not serious,” I say, and look sternly at Jake, then at my parents, who don’t know what to make of this. Jake puts the ring box back in his pocket and frowns.
“What about my dad?” Alexandra whispers, as if she’s about to weep.
“I’m still married to Dad, don’t worry,” I say.
After dinner, we put my parents and the kids back in a car to Boca Raton—I can tell my mother is nervous to leave—and Jake proposes a drink at the bar. It’s already ten, and the music is revved up, singles meeting and grinding on the dance floor. A typical Palm Beach scene plays out: young men seek wealthy older women, widowed or divorced; young women with pumped-up breasts seek wealthy older men. The women wear Manolos, and the men wear Gucci shoes. I remember being here with Elizabeth on a trip in our early twenties—two older guys hit on us.
“No drink. This has been an emotional day. You have some nerve,” I say.
“Marry me,” he says, taking a knee. “It’s the last time I’ll ask, I promise. Marry me. Put an end to our grief.”
“I will never stop grieving—do you hear me? I will miss Elizabeth for the rest of my life.”
“We had a great love, but you were part of it.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
Jake swallows. “Stay with me. Just stay with me at the bar. Don’t leave me here all alone,” he whines.
“Good night,” I say.
“The box was empty, no ring in it,” Jake says, looking down. “I was joking around.”
“I’m still going back,” I say.
The rest of the weekend passes awkwardly. When it’s time for us to return to Boston, my parents, the kids, and I share tearful goodbyes.
“So long. Stay well,” my father says. He and my mother, according to family tradition, never mention what happened at La Cucina, and the kids, for better or for worse, follow their cue.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Richard beats me home from his golf trip in Cabo San Lucas. When I am back from Florida, he calls.
“Mind if I sleep over after the game?” he asks. He’s on his way to see the Patriots at Gillette Stadium with a friend. It means that he will be coming in late, but I am touched that he has used the excuse.
“Sure,” I say. “Come sleep at home.”
Alexandra needs help with an English paper. We work together for several hours on a computer in my office while my phone charges upstairs.
I put Alexandra to bed and finish making a few edits that we discussed. Richard returns from the game at eleven and greets me in my office.
“Well, that game really stunk,” he says.
“Oh, no,” I say, even though my sport is really baseball.
“We got killed. I don’t know what Belichick was thinking. I’m exhausted.”
Richard trudges up the stairs. Before I know it, I hear his feet pound back down.
It turns out that Jake has been drunk-dialing and texting me for the past hour from Stella, where I had all of my boring dates with Steve. Upstairs, my phone has been buzzing and buzzing, and Richard picked it up. When he sees ten missed calls and five sloppy texts, he reads them.
“You’re marrying him?” Richard screams.
My heart jumps into my throat. “No! What are you talking about?”
“Here.” He shoves my BlackBerry in my face.
“Once we’re married, you’ll be rid of him,” Jake wrote in his final text.
“FUCK YOU, it’s Richard,” Richard texted in response.
I scroll through the previous texts and gasp. They’re about how bad Richard is and how I’m wasting my life by staying with him.
“How could you do this to me?” Richard says. “We’ve worked so hard to get on the right track.” To my utter surprise, he begins to cry.
“Calm down. It’s all a misunderstanding,” I say, and put my arm around him.
“I don’t believe you,” Richard says.
“Jake’s had too many drinks. Please,” I say. All I want to do now is choke Jake.
“You would do that to Elizabeth?” Richard asks.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. In Florida we spent time with my parents and the kids. I thought he was joking about marrying,” I say.
Richard smacks his hand on the counter. “Don’t lie to me! Only one of you thinks this is a joke.”
Alexandra appears at the top of the stairs. In addition to having her English paper due, she has a math test tomorrow. “Why are you fighting?” she asks, her face scrunched in tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Richard, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “I can imagine how this looks.” I tell him to meet me up stairs. I tuck Alexandra back in and kiss her good night. “Don’t worry, sweetie pie,” I tell her.
When I come out of her bedroom, Richard is gone.
The next morning, I call Jake. “How dare you text me all that shit about Richard and marrying me last night?”
“I was out at a bar,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“You are out of control. I get it—you feel like your life is ruined, so you have to ruin mine?” I consider that maybe Jake wasn’t drunk at all and knew that Richard might see those texts. I realize that I have to keep my distance from Jake.
For the next week, Richard exiles himself to the office. He invents excuses for not getting on the phone, and we don’t speak. I don’t get a chance to explain myself. Richard is obviously angry and deeply hurt, and this time I can’t blame him.
&n
bsp; Friday evening, I dine at the bar at Aquitaine, where Elizabeth and I had many lunches. I order a glass of white wine and an appetizer, intending to be alone with my thoughts, but after a few sips I notice someone else at the bar. He’s bald, wearing a sleek, stylish suit, flashing the bartender a charming smile. I can’t help but notice that my bar companion is not wearing a wedding band.
We make eye contact, and he points at the stool next to me. “Anyone joining you?” he asks from down the bar.
I shake my head, suddenly glad for the company.
The man closes the distance between us. “Mind if . . .”
“Not at all,” I say. The man takes the stool next to me. The bartender slides a rocks glass from his old seat to his new one.
I learn that he’s visiting from San Francisco. He and his eleven-year-old daughter—whose photo he shows me on his phone, and who, he explains, is adopted from China—are visiting his parents in Newton, where he grew up, and where his parents still own a local bakery, whose bagels I happen to love.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Originally? Gloucester,” I say, and my companion smiles instantly. He used to sail in Gloucester as a kid.
We chat a while longer, and I learn that he avoided the bagel business for a finance career in private equity. I wonder if he knows Richard.
“What are you doing at the bar alone?” he asks.
“You first,” I say, and then relent. “My daughter is out with friends.”
“My wife passed away two years ago,” he says, drumming his fingers, then removes his glasses on the pretext of wiping a spot.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, placing my hand on his arm—a member of my club. “How?”
“Breast cancer.”
“Terrible. She must have been young.”
He launches into the whole saga, and we order another round. He tells me how his wife discovered the lump, how they endured the chemo, the surgery, the radiation, this doctor and that specialist. How weak his wife became, how desperately they grasped for more time, how defiant she remained before death—to the end.
“My sister died last April,” I tell him. “Lung cancer.”
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