Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  My husband, a romantic? “This is too much.”

  Graham pulls out a bottle of very expensive-looking champagne and takes two flutes off the polished wooden shelves beside the fridge. The cork pops, flies to the ceiling and falls to the floor.

  Champagne, a limo and the music of Tommy Dorsey. I have to hand it to Graham, he's doing it up right, I muse as I sip my champagne. Oh, and does it ever taste good! I take a bigger sip. "Another glass of this and I'll be asleep or silly.”

  My glance shifts to Graham and he’s looking at me with the oddest expression on his face. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I haven’t been this okay for months.”

  I don’t know how to respond to this, and I usually manage to put my foot in it when I'm nervous, so I busy myself by discovering all the gadgets lining the inside of the limo.

  I spot a pop-out area on the console between the seats and press the button. A panel slides away, displaying condoms in every color of the rainbow. Unable to resist, I pick up a couple of the fluorescent ones.

  “What have we here?” I ask, caught between surprise and curiosity. Graham has never worn a condom in his life, at least not in his life with me.

  “What the hell—” He stares at the condoms and back at me.

  “What exactly does your client use this vehicle for?”

  “He has a fleet of airport limousines. This is one of them.”

  “You’re sure?” I ask, pulling open the drawers that line the area on the other side of the fridge. “What's this?” I pull out a bunch of glossy magazines with big-breasted women adorning the covers. “Your new taste in reading?” I ask, beginning to enjoy myself.

  Graham looks like he’s been hit by a brick. “Susan, I had nothing to do with this.” He grabs the magazines from my hands and tucks them out of sight.

  The genuine embarrassment on his face makes me want to hug him. But I don’t. Not a good idea. “I know you didn’t. And I have seen those magazines before, you know. I’ve got a teenage boy in the house and I’m not a complete prude.”

  He sighs and studies his hands. “But you finding stuff like that was hardly how I envisioned our evening.”

  He's trying to make things right, and I'm being flippant. I watch the bubbles gather on the inside of my glass, and suddenly what I want is a chance to really talk. “Ask him to pullover.”

  Graham looks at me for a moment and then does what I ask.

  “I'm aware that you planned a special night for us, and it is. But is all this for me, or has your new life lost its charm?”

  I hear his sudden intake of breath as he shifts uncomfortably in the seat. “Susan, I want you back home with me. I love you. I can’t make my life work without you. If I could take back what I’ve done, I would in a heartbeat. I can’t. So I'm asking for a second chance.”

  I close my eyes and listen to his words, and all I can think of is how much I miss having him near me, having his full attention like this. “And what happens the next time you meet someone you're attracted to?

  “There won't be a next time. I promise you.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him touch me.

  How I want to believe him, to feel loved and cared for the way I once did.

  What do I feel at the moment? Anxious. Lonely. Afraid a reconciliation might fail. Then I see my life stretching ahead of me, a life without Graham. A life where the children continue to ask for their father the way they have every day since we separated.

  They miss him. Amy cries herself to sleep while Connor insists on sleeping with me. Jonathan is having trouble at school. I look at this man who’s been my life for so long, and I realize how strong my feelings for him are. I am deeply hurt by what he did, but I still love him. “What are we going to do? How do we get back what we lost? I can’t forget what you did to me, to our children. I don't know how to trust you again.”

  Graham brings my hand to his chest. “Susan, I'll do everything I can to convince you that I’m sincere when I say I love you and want you back. But if this doesn’t work for you, I’m willing to do whatever I can to make you happy without me.”

  This man I’ve spent so much of my life with is completely sincere. I see it in his eyes. “How do we find out if this is going to work?”

  “Come home with me. Tonight.” He pulls me to him, his lips searching for mine, his body curving toward me in that old familiar way.

  I want him to hold me and say that everything will be fine. I want him to make love to me, right here and now. I put my arms around his neck. He kisses me and I kiss him back.

  His groan of pleasure fills me with longing. I curl into his body, seeking his warmth and reveling in his scent. He lifts me up, his body sliding beneath me as he presses me against him. His hands move urgently down my back.

  “Graham.” I whisper his name as I cling to him.

  His hands are urgent, his fingers electric, and a sense of wonderment claims me. After all this time and everything that’s happened, we still want each other.

  Graham slips his finger under my silk top, unhooks my bra.

  I want to sink into his warmth, enjoy the excitement of his touch, his body pressed to mine. It’s been so long...

  But the sound of an engine and the scrape of boots on gravel make me open my eyes.

  Lights flash. Doors slam. The door behind Graham opens and we nearly land on the ground. “What the devil?” Graham mutters.

  I clutch his shirt, my heart pounding at the sight of a police car and a patrolman scowling down at us...

  “Out of the car,” he orders, flicking his flashlight over us.

  Graham groans, but this time it’s not in the throes of passion. “Sit up, honey.” He eases me off him and I begin to giggle nervously. Someone caught us making out like a pair of teenagers.

  My giggling stops when I see the stern expression on the officer’s face. I scramble to straighten my clothing when my fingers catch on part of my free-floating bra, loose somewhere behind my top. I’m too shocked to say anything as we climb out of the car. I can imagine what my aunt will say if this makes it into the papers.

  We stand like two condemned prisoners, leaning against the side of the limousine. I squint in the glare of the flashlight, looking for the handiest cover, only to discover a second police car parked by the side of the road.

  “You're under arrest,” the officer says, as the driver is ordered out of the car.

  “Arrest? What's the charge?” Graham asks with indignation in his voice, all of which is wasted on the officer.

  “Prostitution”

  * * *

  As I sat staring at Graham’s letter, I smiled at the memory. We were saved a trip to the precinct when one of the officers in the other vehicle recognized Graham from court. I shuddered at what might have happened had there been any newspaper people around to report that a prominent lawyer and his estranged wife had been picked up on prostitution charges.

  The owner of the limo had apparently rented the car we were in to a regular client of his. It had been under surveillance for several weeks, and it was our bad luck that we were in the wrong limo at the wrong time.

  Graham’s client fell all over himself to make up for the mistake. And a week later Graham and I had a beautiful trip to Old Orchard Beach and a long weekend in Boston, compliments of the owner.

  I won’t say that our weekend away was the turning point, but our shared laughter over the incident went some distance to heal the rift between us. And neither of us ever looked at a limo on the street again without chuckling.

  In the end we mended our relationship. It wasn’t perfect, but possibly better in some ways than before Jennifer Sargent entered our lives.

  In the years after our limo adventure, we were much more open with each other, less likely to let something go if it bothered us. It meant we argued more, but that helped us stay connected.

  And now, realizing that Jonathan might be headed for divorce, I was overcome with foreboding. If Graham were here to talk to Jonathan,
to give him advice and a male point of view, things would be better.

  Jonathan needed his father more than ever now, but Graham was gone and there was nothing any of us could do to change that.

  Least of all me.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that morning as I sat in the gazebo, I decided I needed a distraction from my worries and the memories I’d revisited in the past couple of days.

  I was going to the kitchen for a cola when I spotted Sam on his hands and knees, digging around the roses draped over his bamboo trellis. Remembering what Graham had said about Sam made me think about the possibilities. Could Sam help Jonathan? He’d spent hours listening to Graham pour out his marital problems. And Sam had given him advice. Perhaps he could tell me how to offer support to Jonathan. I couldn’t ask him to talk to Jonathan, they weren’t close enough for that. But I had to do something, if only to ease my own mind.

  Before I could come up with a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t, I crossed the lawn.

  Now that I was standing in front of him, I felt silly. I'd never come into his yard like this before, although once in a while I had to chase his poodle to the hedge.

  Sam sat back on his haunches and stared up at me. “I saw your car leave quite a while ago with Jonathan at the wheel. I take it he’s off to visit his sister,” he said, his face mostly hidden by a huge straw sun hat, which was coming apart at the seams.

  Sam had to be the only person on earth who wore such an absurd hat, I mused as I knelt down next to him. “Yes.” I smiled. “Amy’s so proud of Graham and so happy. What a wonderful time in her life.”

  “It is, and everything to look forward to. Now, what about you? How are you feeling?”

  Did I dare confide in him about Jonathan? As I looked into Sam’s eyes, I reminded myself that Graham had suggested I could approach this man—my long-time neighbor and one of his closest friends—for help. But did I have any business meddling in my son’s life? Looking for a way out of this quandary, I kept my response light. “Oh, I'm feeling pretty good. Most of the time.”

  “Just not today, right?” Under the wide brim of his hat his perceptive eyes held such kindness and caring it pushed the air from my lungs.

  Graham’s letter and Jonathan’s personal problems hung around me like a dark cloak as I met Sam’s gaze. The soft breeze stirred the rose-scented air as I struggled with an urgent need to confide in the man my husband had trusted all those years. “How could you tell?”

  “You're easy to read," Sam said as his hand covered mine. I felt the leathery warmth of his skin, the way his body leaned toward mine.

  “Yeah, I’m worried about Jonathan,” I said frankly. “He and Linda are having problems, and Jonathan needs his father’s advice.”

  “And you're feeling helpless.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I glanced away, studying the trellis as I fought to hold my feelings in check. Unable to answer without crying, I simply nodded.

  “I’m a pretty good listener, if you’d care to talk,” he said as his arm settled on my shoulders. “And I'm always available,” he offered, his face near mine.

  Unable to resist his warmth and the scent of earth and sun that clung to his skin, I moved closer. He slid his arms around me, shielding me from all my worries, and for a few welcome moments I didn’t feel so alone.

  And oh, how wonderful it felt to have a man’s arms around me, to feel his breath on my cheek. I'd missed this feeling of protection, of caring. ..the silent communication that had been such an important part of my life.

  I noticed the dappled light of the garden the muted hum of a bee, as he held me.

  I wanted to bury my face in his chest and stay there. I wanted to forget all my worry over Jonathan, my longing for Graham. I wanted...what did I want?

  A car horn broke the spell.

  “Mrs. Arnold’s waving at us,” Sam said pulling away.

  “The same Mrs. Arnold who reported a couple of kids for necking in the park,” I muttered, feeling as if I’d been caught in bed rather than in the garden with Sam.

  Silly!

  Yet the stiff set of Sam’s shoulders, told me he felt it, too. Standing up, he held out his hand.

  “Have you heard back about the fence estimates?” I asked, ducking my head to hide my embarrassment, while I surreptitiously glanced down the street. Molly Arnold was nowhere in sight.

  Sam cleared his throat nervously as he picked up his trowel. “I got estimates from four different companies. In my opinion, our best bet is a black steel fence. There are several designs and different weights of steel. Want to see the brochure?”

  He looked at me with such attentiveness…I felt connected to him again. “No, I’m willing to go with whatever you decide,” I said, fighting an awkwardness I hadn’t experienced before.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I trust you to pick what we need, and besides, it was your idea. I don’t know anything about fences and I don’t want to learn. Just tell me what my share of the cost is.”

  “I'll do that. But I can’t imagine you not wanting to learn something. Aren’t you the one who taught Graham all about transplanting shrubs?”

  “Yeah, but he asked for it by hanging around me when I was gardening.”

  “That wasn’t his version of things. According to him, your gardening was a pleasant distraction from all his work concerns.” Sam fidgeted with his trowel. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you—”

  “It’s all right.”

  His face brightened. “So we can make our plans?”

  “Our plans?”

  “The dance class. Are you still up for it?”

  I saw the smile in his eyes, the way he looked at me. The beginnings of a blush started up my neck. This was about more than comfort and advice... “Are you sure you want to take dance lessons with me? You’re not just being kind because you feel sorry for me?”

  “Not a chance,” he said with a grin. “Kind doesn’t cut it when my whole reputation as a Don Juan is at stake.”

  I grinned back.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I had to hand it to him; although he seemed awkward and disheveled, he understood how to close a deal. But did I mind? Not really. If my new life was going to begin with flying off to Santiago, Chile, for heaven’s sake, why shouldn’t I take up ballroom dancing? “Yes. It’s a yes.”

  He dropped his trowel and grabbed my hand. “This calls for a celebration. Come on around to the patio and have a glass of my homemade wine.”

  I was inordinately pleased by the feeling of my hand in his. “Isn’t it a little early for alcohol?”

  “Is the sun over the yardarm?” Sam glanced at his watch and squinted up at the sky.

  “It’s only eleven-thirty.”

  “Close enough,” he said, leading me to the back of his house. Sam’s poodle, Bouncer, barked at us from the living room window. “Your dog needs to speak with you.” I kidded to cover my nervousness.

  “He’ll be fine. I walked him earlier, and he’s had his lunch. It’s time for his afternoon nap.”

  I suspected that Sam cared as much for Bouncer as I did for Fergus. I’d seen him out many mornings walking his dog when Graham left for work.

  Sam’s garden at the rear of the house glowed with huge red, green and blue pots brimming over with plants of all colors and shapes, set off by beautiful copper irises standing tall at the back of each container, the sun glinting off their hammered surfaces. Happy-faced sweet peas sprawled over the wall next to the patio doors.

  “Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

  Before I could get comfortably settled in the wicker chair he’d returned with fluted, long-stemmed glasses edged with gold and filled with a pale, pink liquid.

  “This is a sparkling wine kit I decided to try. It’s wonderful on warm days like this. Taste it.” He passed me a glass before he disappeared into the kitchen again. He came out with a tray of cheese and crackers.

  “Lunch?” I asked.


  “By all means,” he replied, stretching his long frame over the chair next to mine.

  We sat in comfortable silence while we sipped the wine. I don’t know what I’d expected, but certainly not the bubbly tartness as the wine tingled its way down my throat. Feeling pleasantly warmed by the wine and the sun, I leaned back and stared up into the canopy created by the tall oak trees along the far edge of his patio.

  “Ah, this is the life, isn’t it?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. There’s something so peaceful about being out here under the sun, drinking wine. I haven't felt this good in a long time.”

  “I'm pleased to hear you say that.”

  I heard a funny catch in his voice and looked at him. “Are you fishing for a compliment?”

  His gaze met mine. “A compliment wouldn’t go astray.”

  My heart bumped my rib cage. “Okay...you're the best gardener on Postmaster Lane.”

  I watched him as he tipped his hat back from his face and held his glass up to the light. “Thank you. I make great wine, as well.”

  He glanced over the rim of his glass at me, searching my face. An unfamiliar sense of excitement had me tightening my grip on the wineglass.

  What are you doing? You’re too old to be carrying on like this!

  “Let’s eat, I’m starving,” I said, shifting my attention to the rim of my glass and keeping it there.

  “What about the wine?” he asked, moving the plate of crackers and cheese closer to my side of the table.

  “Your wine is wonderful. Truly wonderful.”

  “Thank you. This is my lucky day. I get to drink wine with a beautiful woman while I enjoy her compliments.”

  “You're smooth, I'll give you that,” I said, feeling the buzz of the wine and a reckless need to flirt—with Sam of all people.

  “Well, now that I have you where I want you...”

  I nearly jumped out of my chair.

  “Sorry, I was only teasing, but this time I need your advice.”

  “I'm not available for advice giving today. Try tomorrow.” I was about to launch into the cost of my advice and a lot of other silliness when it dawned on me. For the first time since Graham died, I was teasing a man and enjoying it. He smiled at my remarks but I could see that he'd grown serious.