The Good Widow_A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  “It takes a minute to get used to it, but you will,” he says.

  “The temperature or putting my entire body in the ocean for the first time—ever?” I say, finally jumping into the water.

  Adam drops in behind me and lets out a “Woo!”

  He tells us we can join the rest of the tour about a hundred feet away, who he says are watching a pair of sea turtles.

  I decide being out in the open water sounds slightly less nerve-racking, so I point toward the group. I arch my arm into the water and hear Adam remind me to use my fins to help propel me forward. It’s awkward at first, but finally I’m moving. And I’m not sure if it’s the meditation or adrenaline, but I dip my head under the surface, my mask going under but my tube still able to get air. A school of turquoise-and-yellow fish surrounds me, and I feel a surge of panic, yanking my head up and searching for Nick, whom I find just a few feet away, watching me. He points. “The turtles. All you have to do is get to the turtles.”

  I turn away from my phobia and follow him.

  According to Adam, Hawaii has very strict laws about how close you can get to a sea turtle. But you can get near enough to see him blink his eyes, to see his leathery skin, to guess how many decades he’s been swimming these waters. As if sensing my curiosity, one of them swims within ten feet of me, letting me take a closer look. He’s majestic. Just like Adam described.

  I start to swim closer to him, but Nick tugs on my arm, reminding me that Adam is watching us. “So those tiny fish back there freaked you out, but this huge guy is making you smile? In fact”—he motions toward my mouth—“I think that one might actually be real—not that shitty fake one you’ve been giving me since we met.”

  He’s right. It doesn’t make any sense that I was scared of the fish, but not of the Chelonia mydas, or green adult sea turtle, which Adam explained is about forty inches long and nearly two hundred pounds. But our fears rarely make sense, right? Isn’t that the point? That they’re irrational? I reward his insight with my shitty fake smile, and he laughs.

  “That’s Bob Marley.” Adam swims up beside us. “The coolest, most laid-back sea turtle in these parts. And he loves the attention he gets from the people we bring through here. And in case you’re wondering, because most people do, he got his name because he always looks like he just smoked a doobie!” Adam laughs. “Check out those glassy eyes!”

  Something about Adam’s words snaps me back to reality. And I remember why we’re here. That James and Dylan probably swam in this same spot, hearing the same story about the Jamaican sea turtle. I look at Nick, who nods. It’s time.

  “So, Adam, some friends of ours told us about this tour. They said you were the best guide. You might remember them? Just a couple of months ago?” Nick says.

  Adam smiles, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “I take a lot of people out here, so . . .”

  Adam must see my face fall because he quickly adds, “But maybe? You never know! What were their names?”

  “James and Dylan,” I say quickly.

  Adam’s eyes light up. “James and Dylan! Loved those two. James was my Costa Rican brotha from another motha! Newlyweds, right?”

  Nick and I share a look, and I mouth, What the fuck? Because this, we were not prepared for.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JACKS—AFTER

  Nick and I settle into the back row of the shuttle, and I try to tune out the group’s chatter, especially the intermittent high-pitched squeals from Ms. Yellow Bikini as she looks at the unbelievable shots on her camera. I just need to think. To figure out why my husband and his mistress said they were married. Because there was no way it was true. James had many questionable qualities—one of them obviously being a cheater with no regard for his marriage vows—but I knew even he would draw the line at polygamy. It would be too messy. Too much work. Too far beneath him. It must have been the thrill—playing the part of husband and wife. Out here on this island, they didn’t have to hide. They could be together, in the open.

  Or there’s another scenario, but one I don’t really want to consider: they were planning to leave us and get married.

  “What’s going on in there?” Nick points to my head after we arrive back at the hotel and step off the shuttle.

  “You don’t want to know.” I fiddle with my wedding band, which I’m still wearing. But that is a whole other Oprah. And I’m grateful Nick pretends not to notice me doing it.

  “Oh, I have a feeling I already do. It’s probably exactly what I was thinking the whole ride back here.” Nick rolls his eyes in Ms. Yellow Bikini’s direction. “If only her cackling had been just a little louder, then it could’ve drowned out my thoughts.”

  “So annoying,” I mutter. “How can anyone be that excited about sea turtles? I mean, it was cool, but c’mon.”

  “Well, aren’t we surly?” Nick laughs as we walk inside the lobby. “How dare people have fun while on vacation in Maui!”

  “I know. I’m being a bitch.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just upset. But for what it’s worth, Adam said they weren’t wearing rings—that they’d just laughed and nodded when he called them newlyweds. And I think we can both agree that guy’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, so his understanding of the situation is probably way off. They probably agreed with what he said so they didn’t bring attention to themselves. It doesn’t mean he actually wanted to marry her, Jacks,” Nick says. Then before I can respond, he adds, “Or that she wanted to marry him.” His clenched jaw betrays him—the feeling of denial he’s obviously trying to bury coming to the surface.

  “Maybe,” I say, more to appease him than anything else. I imagine James touching Dylan the way you do when it’s new. When your hands are like magnets—drawn to each other in a way you can’t control. I imagine her flushed cheeks, the glow that must have radiated off Dylan as she basked in his adoration. The way they were acting had made Adam assume they’d just exchanged vows, that there was no way they’d been tainted yet by the real life and problems that eventually wear away the shiny veneer of marriage.

  “Want to drink away our sorrows?” Nick finally breaks our silence and looks out to the pool. Happy hour is in full effect, and the buzz from the conversations of the barflies carries over to us as we walk near the pool.

  I shake my head. “I’m mentally exhausted. Consuming alcohol would be the worst thing I could do right now. I need to call it a night.”

  Nick checks his phone. “It’s only four o’clock.”

  I shrug. “It’s seven in California. And I think I’m just ready for this day to be over.”

  Nick looks at me for another beat, no doubt realizing I’m not going to change my mind. “So I’ll see you bright and early again tomorrow—six a.m. sharp, right?” he says.

  I nod and turn toward the elevator, feeling his eyes on my back as I walk away.

  I immediately change into my pajamas when I get inside my room and flop down on the bed. But my mind refuses to let sleep take over—I keep thinking about the way Adam had described James and Dylan. Finally, after tossing and turning for an hour, I call Beth and fill her in.

  “That bastard!” The old Beth comes out, guns blazing, and we both laugh. That’s Beth’s favorite word. Everyone has been called it at some point, including her husband and even her nine-year-old son. Probably me too, when I jumped on a plane and came here. And now James.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say as the tears fall.

  “I’ve been here the whole time, hon. And I’d be lying right next to you if you’d just let me come help.”

  “No, I mean the old you. The one who wasn’t afraid to say what she’s thinking—even if it’s calling her son a bastard.”

  Beth chuckles. “Remember, we promised never to speak of that again.”

  “He deserved it.” I smile, thinking of how he’d taken her phone and bought a hundred dollars’ worth of jewels for some godforsaken app on his iPad.

  “He really did, didn’t he? Well,
I’m glad you like bitchy, inappropriate Beth. The goody-goody one was killing me.” She pauses. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. That word, I shouldn’t have used it.”

  “It’s okay. You’d be surprised how often we say died or killed in our everyday vocabulary. Believe me, I notice every single one now. I’ve even caught myself doing it.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously, don’t be. I love you. And I need you. The one thing I’ve learned is that no one is doing me any favors by coloring the truth.”

  “Everyone just wants to protect you from any more pain. You’d do the same thing for me.”

  “Do you think I deserved this? Like it’s some sort of karmic payback for not being a good enough wife?”

  “God, Jacks! How can you say that? That because you didn’t greet him at the door in a kimono holding a martini, you deserve this? Marriage is fucking hard. We all make mistakes, and a lot of them. But that doesn’t mean bad things should happen to us as a result.”

  “What if I didn’t disclose everything to him before we got married? If there were things I held back? Would that change your mind?” I had never told Beth what I withheld from James. I knew she’d insist I tell him, that she’d tell me what I know now—that a secret like that could break a marriage in half.

  “Jacks, none of us tell the person we’re going to marry everything. We all have secrets.”

  “Even you?” Beth tells her husband everything. She once asked him to take tweezers and pick an ingrown hair out of her ass, and he did it. (Apparently this is a thing?) I cringed when she told me—I had never even peed with the bathroom door open in front of James.

  “Yeah, there are things Mark doesn’t need to know. But you know them all! Because you have to love me no matter what.” She laughs.

  My stomach rolls. Would she forgive me for not having the same faith in her? Although not telling Beth had nothing to do with not trusting her. I didn’t confide in her because I knew I’d made the wrong choice by not telling James. And when you fuck up like that, sometimes it’s easier to let the guilt fester in the darkness of your soul, rather than bring it out in the light.

  I’d wanted to confess to Beth so many times that I hadn’t told James until it was too late. When she’d had her first baby and I’d held his tiny body in my arms. When I watched James—his eyes swimming with melancholy behind his phone as he videotaped Beth’s kids tearing into their gifts on Christmas morning. When the clock would strike 2:00 a.m. and I’d still be up, sipping James’s whiskey, wishing I could turn back time so he’d love me the way he used to. He never said his love had changed, but I could tell. He looked at me differently. And since I found out about Dylan, I’ve wondered if my omission was why he’d strayed. Was he trying to hurt me the way I’d hurt him?

  I make a decision to tell Beth the truth about why James had come to resent me when I get home from Maui. Clean slate.

  After we say good-bye, the knock comes. It’s timid, like whoever it is worries I might actually hear it. I sigh, wishing I’d put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. I open it just a crack so I can tell the turn-down service no, thank you, but it’s Nick, and he has a pink drink adorned with one of those silly umbrellas in his hand.

  He smiles.

  I frown. Is he here to talk about what happened earlier? Because I’m not sure I want to discuss it.

  “You look upset. Did I wake you?” He studies my face.

  “No, not at all. I was awake,” I say. “What’s that?” I nod toward his glass and wave him inside. As he walks past me, I grab a hoodie and put it on to cover my skimpy pajama top.

  “Don’t worry, it’s a virgin POG,” Nick says.

  “A what?”

  “It’s fresh-squeezed passion-fruit juice, orange juice, and guava juice, but without the vodka.” He bends the straw toward my mouth. “Try.”

  I take a sip, the flavors of the juices blending together perfectly. It’s sweet but not too sugary like so many froufrou drinks I’ve tried. “It’s delicious.”

  “I brought it for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the drink from him.

  Nick glances around the room, and I cringe as I follow his gaze. My shoes are strewn across the floor; my towel from the shower I took this morning is still draped haphazardly over the back of the desk chair. And then our eyes fall on my lacy black bra and inside-out panties, the crotch staring us both in the face.

  We stand there, neither of us knowing what to say about my underwear. I resist the urge to scoop it up and toss it behind the chair, not wanting to draw more attention to it. Before James died, I would have instantly filled this awkward moment with words, any words. That had been my thing—to ease tension out of situations like a masseuse kneading someone’s sore muscles. Before, I would have laughed awkwardly, then told Nick stories to distract him—like how I’d walked in on the housekeeper yesterday and she’d screamed. Or how I’d been on the lanai last night and stared down at a couple practically having sex on their balcony. But I don’t. Instead, I just stand here in the thick of the embarrassment and absorb it.

  Finally, thankfully, Nick speaks. “I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I needed to talk.”

  Here we go.

  “Let’s go outside.” I motion for him to follow me onto the lanai.

  We sit side by side in chairs and stare out at the ocean. The sun is low in the sky, a sunset fast approaching.

  “Can we talk about things? Is that okay?”

  I start to tell him that no, I don’t want to rehash the fact that my husband was playing the newlywed game while in Maui. But there’s something about the way he’s not looking at me, like he’s afraid he’ll be left alone with it if I don’t listen.

  “Of course,” I say, taking another sip of my drink.

  “I was down at the bar for a while, but I had to leave. I was listening to all of the conversations going on around me—about regular things. Someone’s house was in escrow, but they worried it might fall out. Another guy’s niece had just scored the winning goal in her soccer game, and he was watching a video someone had texted him. I had thought being around all that activity would make me feel better. Give me hope that I could eventually be someone who was talking about things other than my fiancée dying. But right now I worry that won’t happen. That I’ll never live a normal life. That I’ll never be me again.”

  I know exactly how Nick feels. He’s desperate to feel normal. It’s all I’ve wanted since James died. Like when I went to Beth’s for taco night and forced myself to engage in the conversation, to laugh when my niece told a story about the new class hamster named Ollie; or when I walked to the coffee shop last week and sat at a table next to a gaggle of preschool moms planning a Star Wars–themed birthday party, desperately wanting to do something regular like that again. It’s as if the world has kept spinning without me, and I’m not quite sure how to get back on the ride. Or if I even want to. “I know exactly what you mean.” I lean over my chair and hug him. It’s an instinct. To make him feel better. But when he squeezes me back, my body tenses, unsure of how to respond to a man’s arms around me that aren’t James’s. It’s foreign, and I feel almost suffocated by them. I try to cover my discomfort by moving over to the railing and making an observation about a luau we can hear down below, but I know Nick felt it. “I’m sorry. It’s just strange hugging someone else,” I finally say, my back still to him.

  “Phew!” he says. “I thought maybe I smelled?”

  I turn and face him. “Talk about not feeling normal. Apparently I can’t even hug someone anymore without feeling awkward.”

  We laugh quietly at ourselves. It feels like the only choice.

  “I miss her,” he says. “It feels like I have a huge hole inside of me—where she used to be. I keep seeing things and think, ‘Oh, I need to tell Dylan about this.’ And then I realize I can’t.”

  “I miss him too,” I say. I miss how he’d wrap one of his legs around mi
ne when he slept. I miss the way he sang off tune to any Eagles song—didn’t matter which one; he couldn’t control himself if he heard their music. I miss when he’d make me chilaquiles with homemade salsa on Sunday mornings. Suddenly it occurs to me that it’s been years since he did any of these things. The parts of him I miss the most were gone long before he was.

  “Does that make us fools?” he asks. “To miss the people who fucked us over so badly? Especially now that we know they were playing house over here?”

  “This might surprise you, but I don’t think so. Just because they did a bad thing—several bad things—doesn’t mean we can’t be sad they’re gone.”

  “Can I ask you something kind of strange?”

  “Why not? I’m abnormal. You’re abnormal. Maybe it will seem normal when you say it.”

  “What if you found out he was alive? Like this was all some big mistake? And he knocked on the door right now and asked you to forgive him. Could you?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation, surprising myself slightly, and clearly surprising Nick.

  “Really?” he asks after staring at me for a beat.

  “Yes,” I repeat, realizing that is exactly what I’d do.

  “I get that you’d be excited to see him again. I’d feel the same way about Dylan. But what would happen after the initial shock and excitement wore off? You could really get past it? The lying? The cheating? The betrayal?”

  “I’d like to think I’d at least try.” But I don’t tell Nick the next part. Because it sounds pathetic, even as I think it. If James wanted me back—if he chose me, even after not choosing me—I’d say yes. I’d planned for us to grow old together—for better or worse. And I now understand how lonely I’m going to be without him. And I’d make it right. I’d delve deep and uncover the old James. The one that had to still be there. The one Dylan probably knew.

  Nick whistles. “Not the answer I was expecting.”

  “Maybe it’s because we have a lot more history than you and Dylan do—eight years.”