The bartender sets down their fresh drinks before them. “Sounds reasonable to me,” Jason says. He can feel the buzz working its way around his head.
“Does it?” Her gaze fixes on him, as if it really matters what he thinks. “I’m glad to hear you say that because honestly for the last hour and a half, I was pretty sure I’d lost my mind.”
He laughs softly. “Nah.”
“Anyway,” she says, focusing back on her drink, “turns out there’s no spark there, alas. Nada. Zilch. Or at least, it’s only one-sided.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. That’s rough.” Someone has dropped money in the old-fashioned jukebox, and a Peter Frampton tune drifts through the bar. A few more people have joined them at the counter so that they practically have to shout to hear each other now. Claire, he notices, is swaying slightly in her chair.
“So now what?” he asks.
“So now what?” she asks, as if she’s not following.
“Well, you said this guy isn’t into you anymore, so now what?”
“Oh,” she says, and her expression dims. “I’m not sure, I guess.”
“Well, come on, there’s got to be someone else.” There’s no explaining why he’s suddenly invested in her well-being—maybe it’s the couple of Jamesons he’s had—but it’s almost as if he needs to know how her story ends. As if it will point him in the right direction, if only they can figure out how best to redirect hers. Here’s a woman who has lost her husband, who has been jilted by an old boyfriend, and he can’t get his act together for Gwen, the woman who is undeniably the best thing that’s ever happened to him?
“Someone else?” She sounds surprised. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. Marty was the only one left in my stack of cards. No one else.” She drums her fingers on the countertop. “And Walt, of course. He was my husband. It’s funny, I spent most of my life thinking he wasn’t a very good husband. But now I can see that he actually was a pretty decent man. We made it work, you know? We raised two kids. That counts for something.”
“I’d imagine that counts for a lot.”
“And the last year with him, after he retired, was nice, too. We had some good times together. We kept each other company, and when you come right down to it, I suppose that’s largely what marriage is all about. Someone to tell that the milk has gone sour. Someone to take a walk with, watch your favorite television show with.”
“Although, you could do those things with a dog, too,” Jason points out.
“Ha!”
He waits for her to go on but she’s quiet. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” she continues after a moment. “How you can convince yourself that, if only you’d made another choice, your whole life would have turned out so much better? But then, that’s not really the case, is it? We like to fool ourselves.” She pauses to sip her martini. “But we don’t know that a different path would have necessarily been better. It might have been worse. No, we all live the life we’re meant to live.”
The sudden philosophical twist to the conversation surprises him, and he finds himself wondering how it might apply to his own situation. Will he look back on leaving academia and regret his choice? Or is this new open-ended path, whatever it might turn out to be, the one he’s meant to follow? Is he supposed to be with Gwen? If his dad hadn’t been such a prick, would Jason still be inclined to his mad rages? It strikes him as a bit defeatist, believing everyone ends up where they are supposed to.
“Maybe,” he says. “But doesn’t that take free will and hard work and determination out of the equation? I mean, why even bother trying, if you’re going to end up in the same place anyway?” He’s enjoying their talk more than he could have predicted.
“Ah, you’re a philosopher, I see.”
“Nah, history professor,” he says. “Well, almost. If I ever finish my dissertation.”
She twists around in her chair, as if considering him in a new light.
“A smart guy, nonetheless.” Her eyes narrow. “You make a good point, though—and I’ve had way too much to drink to refute it. You’re right. You have to be motivated to achieve what you want in life. The argument I’m trying to make, though—and not very well, apparently—is that there’s no point in regretting the choices you have made. You’ll only make yourself unhappy wondering what could have been.”
His mind feels as if it’s spinning while he tries to follow along, but the whiskey is making it difficult.
“Anyway, I chose one man, and not the other. I thought if I married Marty I’d end up pregnant in the suburbs without a career. You know what’s strange, though?”
Jason shakes his head.
“Turns out I ended up in the suburbs, anyway. A big white colonial with black shutters. And I got pregnant on our honeymoon. So things didn’t really turn out that differently.”
She drains the rest of her martini. “Listen to me! Poor you. Here I am rambling, and I’ve hardly asked you about yourself. Like what are your intentions with this girlfriend of yours? Are you going to ask her to marry you?”
Jason can only laugh at her boldness. The martinis have pulled off all the brakes.
“Sorry, I’m intruding again. I do that. It’s the journalist in me. It’s none of my business, and you should feel free to tell me so.”
“No, it’s not that. I just...I honestly don’t know where things are headed with us. She’s a great girl, and I’d be an idiot not to marry her, but—”
“Go on,” she urges.
“But I’m not sure I’m good enough for her, I guess. That I deserve her.”
“Ah.” Claire falls back in her chair as if he’s laid out an age-old conundrum. “You know what I say to that, Mr. Wadsworth?” He waits for her to tell him he’s right, that he has no business dating Gwen, that she could tell from their first encounter at the elevator. Instead, she says, “Nonsense.”
Jason bursts out with a laugh. “Why would you say that?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve got a pretty good nonsense detector. And something tells me you’re making up excuses for yourself.”
“Huh. Maybe so.”
A slight burp escapes from her. “Excuse me! Say, did I tell you I have a granddaughter? Fiona. She’s three, and you’ve never seen such a precious angel. Anyway, I’m lucky. I’ve got my kids. Do you have kids yet? No, of course not. You’re not even married. If I have one piece of advice for you, it’s this. Have some kids if you can. Because when everyone else is gone, your kids will keep you company. Look after you. I’ve got a girl and a boy: Amber and Ben.”
“Is that right?” He sips his whiskey. “So who does the better job? Of looking after you, I mean. Your daughter or your son?” He’s purely making conversation now, asking whatever comes to mind. He’s in no rush to get back to the room.
“Now that...” she pokes the countertop, slurring her words again “...is an interesting question. Amber would tell you that she takes care of me, that she’s the one always checking in on me. But I’d tell you it’s really Ben. He pretends to take a back seat, but Ben’s really the one looking out for me. That mother–son bond is powerful stuff, you know.”
He nods his head.
“Anyway, I think I should head home.” She giggles. “Oops, guess I better pay the bill first.”
But the bartender waves her off. “You’re all set.”
“But what about your tip?” Claire demands.
“Already taken care of. Automatic gratuity charged to your room.”
“Oh, isn’t that handy?” she says. “In that case, thank you very much. Your service has been impeccable.” Although it comes out sounding more like impickible.
She wobbles getting down from her chair, and it’s clear that she’ll need some assistance getting home. “I got her,” Jason says when the bartender shoots him a concerned look. “Come on, Claire, let’s get you back to your room. What’s your room n
umber?”
“Another excellent question!” She giggles while he helps her to the elevator. “Ten-oh-eight? Or maybe it’s ten-ten? I’m not really sure.”
“We’ll find it.”
“If I didn’t know any better, young man, I’d think you were hitting on me.”
He grins and hits floor ten on the elevator panel.
* * *
As they leave the bar, a man sitting at a far corner table makes another call to his client. “Just wanted to let you know that Ms. O’Dell is headed back to her room for the night, and from the looks of it, she’ll be sleeping in late tomorrow.”
The voice on the other end says, “Okay. Thank you for letting me know. Check in with you tomorrow.”
Friday, June 11, 2021
TWENTY-THREE
Riley is running late for their tasting at the Seafarer Hotel. It’s twenty past eleven, and she’s due at the restaurant no later than noon. Earlier this morning, she promised Tom that she’d be there in plenty of time. But then one of her all-time favorite customers, Mr. Seymour, had walked into the store, wanting a bouquet of irises for his seventy-year-old wife, who lives in an assisted-living home and has Alzheimer’s, and Riley didn’t have the heart to rush him. So now she’s standing on the subway platform, saying a silent prayer that the train to South Station, and not the one to Alewife, will pull in first. If it’s the Alewife train, it’ll tag another fifteen minutes onto her commute.
A street musician, long-limbed and with the chiseled features of someone who hasn’t enjoyed a full meal in a while, sits on a folding chair, strumming “Brown Eyed Girl” on his guitar. A small child, probably no more than two, bounces along to the song in his toddler-size Chuck Taylors, which Riley thinks might be the cutest thing ever. If she and Tom have kids, she’ll definitely buy them little Chuck Taylor sneakers. She watches the boy’s mom press a dollar into his hand and try to persuade him to drop it into the open guitar case lying at the musician’s feet. But he’s having none of it—he yelps and clutches the dollar tightly in his pudgy hand. The mother apologizes and fishes another bill out of her wallet—a five this time—and tosses it into the case. The small crowd gathered laughs and claps when the little boy finally relents and tosses in his dollar, too. When her train—not the Alewife-bound one—pulls up, Riley adds another dollar to the collection, grateful for her luck.
On the car she presses through a cluster of Harvard students who smell vaguely of weed and manages to find the one remaining seat. The train’s wheels squeal as it heads for Central Square, then Kendall. Finally it bursts out of the tunnel into the sunlight and barrels across the Longfellow Bridge, the Charles River a bright ribbon unfolding below. On the left, the gentle curve of the Hatch Shell juts out, reminding Riley of all the runs she and Tom have logged on those paths. Probably more than a hundred. If they do buy a house and move to the suburbs one day, jogging along this river is one thing she’ll miss.
The train plunges into darkness again as it pulls into the Park Street tunnel. Two more stops until she gets off. Riley braces herself for their luncheon. She tells herself it’s no big deal, that it’s only a tasting and ultimately it’s up to her and Tom where the reception will be. But in the back of her mind is Marilyn’s surprise visit to the flower shop yesterday and the disturbing sense that her mother-in-law-to-be has a very particular script for how she imagines her son’s wedding day will go. Riley doesn’t appreciate being steamrolled.
It’s a fine line that she’s walking today, probably the first of many. She sighs and checks her phone for any texts from Tom demanding to know where she is, but thankfully there’s nothing. It’s eleven forty—still room to make it on time. Once she’s off the train, it’s no more than a ten minute walk to the restaurant. Riley doesn’t want to come across as ungrateful or indecisive or disagreeable this afternoon. But despite the holiday dinners (and occasional weekend or summer vacation) she has shared with Tom’s family, she wouldn’t exactly describe them as welcoming, like her own parents would be. Her father met Tom once when he flew out to Boston for a weekend, and they all enjoyed steaks and more than a few laughs at Del Frisco’s. Had her mom been around, there’s no question she would have swept Tom into one of her huge hugs, demanding to know everything about him. Conversely, Riley feels as if Marilyn tolerates her in small doses, like charity work she’d rather not be doing.
Tom tells her it’s all in her head, that his parents adore her, that his mother has a strange way of showing affection. And it’s okay, she tells herself, if his parents aren’t in love with her nor she with them. It’s Tom whom she’s marrying, after all. But does it make her a bad person that a piece of her was hoping for a surrogate mom when she inherited a mother-in-law? That in losing her own mother, she’d be gifted the most fabulous mother-in-law because that’s how the law of averages worked? Because the universe owed her that? It’s silly, she knows, but somehow she’d been envisioning a mother-in-law whom she could meet for the odd midweek cocktail, with whom she could wander museums, maybe talk about her favorite books. Someone who would welcome Riley into her home and offer her a warm blanket and a good book to sit by the fire with while the chili warmed on the stove, as her own mother used to do. That Marilyn, while perfectly nice, seems interested in doing none of these things hollows her out a little.
When she’d talked to her dad last night, he’d sounded back to his old self and had tried to talk her down from her wedding stress. “Honey, the wedding is more than a year away. You have plenty of time to plan it. And don’t lose sight of the important thing.”
“Which is?” Riley had waited for him to say something like finding the perfect venue, or having a great band, or being willing to compromise. What hadn’t occurred to her was the response he’d actually given.
“The important thing, honey, is that you and Tom are in love and are getting married. That’s all that matters. Don’t get distracted by all the hoopla.” He chuckled on the other end.
“What?” she demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just remembering when your mother and I tied the knot.” Riley had heard this story before. “We planned it for maybe a week. She was already pregnant with you, and we wanted it to happen before the bump started to show. So it was her, me, the minister, your mom’s best friend and my brother. And our parents. Your mom wore a cream suit, if I remember correctly. I think I pulled out of my closet whatever jacket and tie I owned at the time. We were so poor back then! All that mattered was we were in love.”
Riley has seen photos of this day, and it’s true. Her mother wore a simple cream suit, her long dark hair straight and divided down the middle, like Ali MacGraw’s, the style at the time. Riley seems to recall, however, that her dad wore a blue suit. But he’s right: it was a simple affair. There’d been no worrying about flower arrangements or receptions or fancy invitations.
“I think we all went out for dinner at Ponderosa because that was considered fancy back then. And for our honeymoon, we drove over to Madison for the weekend and stayed at a Holiday Inn. I was back at work on Monday. But, honey, it was the most perfect day of our lives, aside from the day you were born, of course.”
Her dad’s description made her throat tighten, not so much for the reminder of the simplicity of her parents’ wedding but more because the love he still so clearly felt for her mom infused every word. Her parents’ marriage had been a true love affair. Forty-five years cut much too short.
The announcement for South Station comes over the intercom, and Riley pushes her way through the crowded car. Up the elevator and then up another set of narrow stairs and she’s on Atlantic Avenue, several short blocks away from the restaurant. Already the air is swollen with humidity, and she imagines her long dark hair frizzing as she walks. At least, she thinks, they’ll have the rest of the afternoon off. She and Tom have planned it this way. After the tasting they’re going for a walk along the water, will maybe grab some gel
ato in the North End and enjoy a lazy Friday afternoon together. It’s been a long time since they’ve done just that—linger in each other’s company without being consumed by wedding talk. They’ve made a pact that post lunch no one can mention the wedding for the remainder of the day. And at the thought of this, Riley hurries a bit more quickly across the bridge and over to the stately white-clapboard hotel that is the Seafarer, host to dignitaries, writers, movie stars and—Riley thinks, mildly amused—florists.
TWENTY-FOUR
On her app, Claire locates the red zigzag mapping her route to the aquarium, about ten minutes away from the hotel. It’s the only remaining item on her to-do list. It’s already nine thirty, but sleeping in this morning had been a necessity. How her head had ached after her night out! In her dreams, Walt had been talking to her about those damned spiders again, and as she swam up from sleep, she’d reached across the bed to drape an arm over him, certain he was lying beside her.
That he hadn’t been there left her feeling rattled. Is it only because Marty shattered her heart last night that Walt crept back into her dreams again? In the first few weeks after he died, Walt would make nightly appearances, reminding her where their tax returns were filed, telling her to pay the electric bill. But then, slowly, he’d faded away, showing up only occasionally in her dreams. Last night, though, he’d felt so close! He’d been wearing the same brown cardigan and khaki pants (of course, khakis!) that he’d worn almost every day last fall, when the evenings had turned unseasonably cool, the air sharp with the scent of fallen leaves. The same cardigan he’d had on when she found him in the TV room, a book on the Peloponnesian War tented across his stomach, his forehead cold to the touch and one arm dangling off the side of the couch, the bluish fingertips almost brushing the floor.
Summertime Guests Page 18