And then I wondered if maybe Eric had somehow had a hand in it. I didn’t think he had that kind of money either, but maybe he was able to convince one of the many corporations he worked with to make the gift. I reveled in the thought, playing out his generosity like the end of some Lifetime movie, even though I knew it was a remote possibility.
It wasn’t until years later that we discovered that Michael, the pillow golfer (though it feels weird to call him that now, considering), was behind it. Turns out, what Michael meant when he said his parents were “prominent citizens” was that they were filthy rich—and he was their sole heir.
“Come on, Jube. Let’s go.”
“Keep your pants on,” I say, scanning Charlotte’s Web in and making a note of its damage on the computer.
Outside, the sun is a giant orange in the sky, radiating a sweet warmth and happiness into the July day. “Thanks for getting Rufus,” I say as we stroll down the sidewalk. “I promise I’ll get a new dog walker soon. It’s just hard to replace Terry. He loved Rufus so much.”
Terry was my mailman (not Earl, as I had dubbed him). I met him while walking Rufus one day and he mentioned—while producing a dog treat out of his pocket that Rufus snatched with glee—that he was retiring from the post office and would be taking care of dogs as his new hobby. I hired him on the spot and he had been walking Rufus on the days I worked ever since. But now he and his wife are moving down to Florida to live in a condo on the beach.
When we reach TeaCakes, I tie Rufus up to the stand outside, where the owner has left a big bowl of water and a few chew toys for the dogs of his customers.
“Jube, seriously. You’re moving like a glacier.”
“So? What’s the big rush?” I ask as she holds open the door for me and I step inside. And then I see.
“Happy birthday!” a chorus of familiar faces shouts. But the brightest, loudest one of all is Michael. He steps forward, grinning. “Are you surprised?”
I cover my mouth with my hand, taking in all the people in front of me: Louise (how’d she get here so fast?), Roger, Dr. Zhang (I can’t believe she drove in from the city), and even Terry and his wife. My eyes return to Michael.
“Did you do this?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Well, with some help from Madison.”
I reach my hand out to him and he takes it, squeezing it. My heart swells, and I think how lucky I am. Not just for Michael, but for everyone in this room. For the family I never thought I’d have.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, I thought you were supposed to be in Chicago.” Michael had been talking about the National Golf Course Owners Association’s annual meeting for a month now. Per his plan, he bought the abandoned course on the outskirts of Lincoln a few years ago and has quickly turned it into a hot spot for NYC businessmen and -women looking to hit the links.
“A little white lie,” he says. “It’s actually next month.”
I laugh. “I guess you’re forgiven.”
“Did I miss the cake?” a voice behind me says.
I turn around.
“Maryann!” I give her a hug and then step back. “Hold on—if you’re here, who’s at the library?”
“I closed it,” she says, winking. “Just for an hour.” She leaves her arm on my shoulder and Louise comes up and puts her hand on my waist, steering me toward a long table in the back groaning under an entirely too-large sheet cake. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go eat.”
LATER THAT NIGHT as I sit on the couch in my den, rereading Northanger Abbey for the hundredth time, I can’t concentrate. Like most evenings the past two weeks, my mind keeps wandering to Michael. Tonight, I’m marveling over the course of our friendship these past seven years. How after I fixed the printer for him that day, we started chatting more regularly—our talks slowly morphing into in-depth conversations about life, where we would stay in the library long after I was supposed to close up for the night. And then, he was just always there, like a light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Stable, dependable, someone I could count on over the years. He stuck by my side through all the failed treatments, letting me feel sorry for myself when I needed, but also knowing when to give me a gentle nudge when it was time to pick myself up. And I was there for him as he truly began to grieve his parents and slowly bring himself back to life, buying the golf course and starting over.
Even though we became close, I never thought I had feelings for him like that—not like I had for Eric. That is, until two weeks ago, when he took me out to see the renovated clubhouse on the course. While we were talking about the stain he had chosen for the hardwood floors—a mix of Jacobean and Ebony—he suddenly blurted out: “I love you.” It took me a minute to register what he was saying and then his face came into focus, and I was filled with—I don’t know—love, I think. Although it’s a different love than what I felt for Eric. But then, I wonder if maybe every love is different, unique, like the grains of the wood planks in the floor we were standing on—and all the more beautiful for their distinctions.
I mumbled something about how the stain was very natural looking and left the clubhouse. And Michael, because he’s Michael, hasn’t brought it up since.
My cell phone rings, jarring me from my thoughts. Madison. I slide my thumb across the screen to answer it.
“Are you ready for next week? The big move?”
After years of Madison’s cajoling, I finally gave in to her insistence that I sell the house. “It’s a seller’s market,” she said a few months ago. “Lincoln is so hot, with its small-town feel and close proximity to Manhattan. All those Prospect Park families are leaving their overpriced brownstones by the droves for the yards and schools in towns like this. You would make a killing.”
She was right. It sold within two days of hitting the market, for $32,000 above the asking price. I knew I should be ecstatic—and I wanted to be—but something was holding me back. Probably the fact that I’ve lived in this house for so long. That it was my mother’s. That I have so many memories here.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
“See you bright and early,” she says.
When we hang up, I look around the room, thinking about my mother. Her presence is less palpable, but I don’t think it’s just because it’s been so long, or because I redecorated. I think it’s because I’ve made peace with her, with our relationship. That letter I found so many years ago gave me as many questions as it gave me answers, but the most important thing it gave me was the knowledge that she did love me, she just didn’t know how to show it. And then I think about Michael and how he can.
A warmth grows in my belly as I picture his lopsided grin, his lanky frame, and I put my book down, able to finally name the feeling I have when I’m with him: contentment.
THE NEXT DAY, Michael enters the front door of my new brick loft overlooking the river downtown, carrying a stack of two cardboard boxes in his arms. “That’s the last of it,” he says. Madison motions for him to set them down by the couch.
“Thank you so much,” I say as he stands up, groaning. “You really didn’t have to help.”
“I wouldn’t have, if I had remembered how many books you have,” he says.
I laugh, my eyes roving over the length of his body, pausing at the sinewy muscles in his arms that he’s now massaging dramatically. And I almost blurt it out right then: I love you, too. But the words are caught in my throat.
I look down at the box I’m unpacking and then back up. “Hey, it’s such a gorgeous day. Why don’t we all take a break and go to that new gelato place by TeaCakes? My treat.”
“I think I might need something stronger than gelato,” Michael says.
“C’mon,” I say, grinning. “We’ll hit the wine shop on the way back.”
I clip Rufus’s leash onto his collar and we all head down the three flights of stairs to the street. It’s a Friday afternoon and the streets are mostly empty, the rush hour of lunch over, workers stationed back in their stores and office bui
ldings.
As we stroll through town, Michael’s regaling Madison with a story from work that week: a member of a foursome suffered a heart attack on the green, but instead of calling the game when the ambulance came, one of the guys asked the driver to move so he could continue playing because he was shooting so well. “I could get a perfect round!” he shouted as his friend was being loaded into the back of the emergency vehicle.
“Oh my god, that’s terrible!” Madison says. I laugh again, even though it’s my second time hearing it. Madison’s laughing too, but then she abruptly stops. Not just laughing, but moving. I stop, too, and look up at her to make sure she’s OK. She’s staring straight ahead of us and her face has blanched, as if she’s seen a ghost. She grabs my arm, and I pray it’s not Donovan out with yet another girl young enough to be his daughter (even though their divorce has become more amicable, he’s still kind of a dick) as I follow her gaze down the street. And then when I spot what’s got her attention, all air, thought, and feeling leaves me at once.
It’s Eric.
Our eyes meet, and though he slows his gait, he doesn’t come to a full stop until he’s an arm’s length away. I could literally reach out and touch him. But I don’t. Rufus gets there first.
“Hey, buddy.” Eric’s face lights up and he bends down, scratching the dog on his head. When they’re done with their reunion, he stands back up and looks at Michael, who sticks out his hand.
“I’m Michael,” he says, and it feels like I’ve crossed into some bizarre world—where there are two suns, Eric and Michael, and they’re colliding.
Eric takes his hand, shakes it. “Eric,” he says. I can feel a wave of recognition come over Michael. We spoke at length about Eric after we became friends. He knows who he is, even if he didn’t know what he looked like.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Michael says.
Eric nods and looks at Madison. She gives a little wave. “I’m Madison,” she says. “And I just remembered I have a little errand I need to run before we get gelato.”
“I’ll come with you,” Michael pipes up, following her lead, intuiting that I need a moment alone with Eric. He gently squeezes my arm. I give him a look that I hope conveys gratitude. Madison reaches for Rufus’s leash. I let it drop into her hands.
I turn my head to watch them go, but I can feel Eric’s eyes remain on me. When they reach the corner, I look back at him and he’s grinning. “Is that the Madison?” he asks.
I tilt my head at him. “What do you mean?”
“The one who gave you that god-awful dress? With the feathers.”
I throw my head back and laugh, thinking how that night feels like a million years and just a few days ago at the exact same time.
“Yeah, that’s her,” I say.
“And Michael?” He raises his eyebrows. Questioning.
“A friend,” I say, but I’m afraid my flushing face is suggesting otherwise.
Eric nods, his gaze steady, intense, his expression unreadable. Then he clears his throat and straightens, sticking his hands in his pockets.
I’m not sure what else to say, so I say nothing. And then we just stare at each other, the common courtesies behind us, silence filling the space between us. I take the opportunity to study him. His eyes are still green like olives; his brown hair, though streaked with a little more gray, still sticks out at weird angles, begging to be mussed by a grandmotherly sort. He’s grown a beard, but it doesn’t look purposeful—more as if his razor is just on strike. I stare at the beard—everything else is too familiar, too heart-wrenchingly congruent with my memory.
Suddenly the silence becomes unbearable and I blurt: “Where’s Aja?”
At the same time that he says: “How are you?”
We both laugh, breaking the tension. “You first,” I say.
“Aja’s at Connie’s house. We’re helping her move to the city. I just came into town for more boxes, actually.”
I nod. “And how is he?” I ask, though it’s more a perfunctory question. A few weeks after they moved back to New Hampshire, Aja emailed me. I still don’t know how he got my email address, but we kept in touch, sending funny articles, facts, and jokes back and forth every couple of months. I always wanted to ask him about Eric, especially in the beginning, but I knew it wasn’t fair to Aja. To put him in the middle like that. And anyway, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know—especially if Eric had moved on.
“Good.” He grins. “Really good. Starts college this fall.”
“Dartmouth, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad you were able to keep in touch. He missed you so much when we left.” His face goes solemn and the word “missed” hangs in the air. It’s a silly word, not nearly big or grand enough to encompass what it really means. You can miss a pitch in baseball, but a person . . .
“I missed him, too,” I say, a lump forming in my throat.
His eyes track down from my face, taking me in. I close mine, but it doesn’t make a difference. I can still feel his gaze burning into my flesh. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t fantasized about this moment—seeing Eric again. Once, years ago, I ran into Connie at the drugstore. We exchanged short pleasantries, but I was shaken for the rest of the day, wondering how I would have felt if Eric had been with her. If I would have felt. When you love someone—and it became clear to me, as the months passed after Eric left, that that’s exactly how I felt about him—where do those feelings go? I realized the answer that day—they don’t go anywhere. Even now, as much as I care for Michael, it’s almost as if I have two different hearts, and the one that’s been housing my feelings for Eric all these years is now beating loud and clear in my chest.
“Where are your gloves?” he asks, and my eyes snap open.
“I don’t . . . I don’t wear them anymore.” I thought maybe Aja would have told him back in February, but now I wonder if Eric bought into the same philosophy as I did—that it was better not to know.
He searches my face. “Are you . . . does that mean that you . . .” He swallows.
I nod. “Yes.” There’s something on my cheek, a trickle—and I look up to see if it’s started to rain, but the air is dry.
As I reach up to feel what it is, Eric’s hand shoots out like a bullet from a gun and he grabs my wrist. A puff of air escapes my lips. He’s touching me. Our eyes lock as his fingers encircle my skin, the warmth of them like sunlight on a temperate day. The perfect amount of heat.
And part of me thinks how unfair, how unspeakably cruel, life can be. How this moment—his skin on mine—is all I ever wanted, all I ever thought about for weeks, months, years of my life. But it’s been seven years. So why now? Why is he standing here, making me feel this way, just when I thought I had everything sorted out?
But then, I think of my mom and of Madison and Donovan, and even of my deepening relationship with Michael, and I know that if I’ve learned anything, it’s that love is messy. It doesn’t come to us in a perfect box all wrapped up in a bow. It’s more like a gift from a child, crayon-scrawled and crumpled. Imperfect. But always a gift just the same.
It’s just that not all gifts are meant to last forever.
Michael’s face flashes in my mind and I’m conflicted. He loves me. And I—well, part of me—cares for him, too. But the other part . . .
I look at Eric standing in front of me and I can’t help it—I smile at him with abandon. He cocks his head, grinning back. With his other hand, he palms my face, using the pad of his thumb to gently catch the drop of water and then swipe it across my cheekbone.
“Jubilee,” he says in wide wonder, as if my name is a secret he’s held on his tongue for years and at last, he gets to tell it. “You’re crying.”
Frozen, we stare at each other, his hand glued to my face, his other still holding my wrist. With my free hand, I grab his arm and we stand there, clutching each other, a bizarre puzzle of limbs.
I lean toward him, until the flats of our foreheads are touching and my eyes are swi
mming in his and his sweet breath is warm on my face. But it’s not close enough. I reach up and grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer until his lips are firmly on mine.
And we’re kissing.
Finally, we’re kissing.
We’re kissing to make up for the hundreds of kisses we never got to share, and maybe for the hundreds of kisses we never will.
We’re kissing to beat the band.
And then, we’re laughing. Our mouths open wide, our cackles traveling out into the street. We don’t care who hears or how ridiculous we look. We’re laughing as hard as I’m crying. And as I concentrate on the heat of his hands on my face, my wrist—his skin on my skin—something bursts free inside me like a wild animal escaping from a cage.
It’s the humming of one thousand Tibetan monks.
An electric current.
It’s everything.
Author’s Note
WHILE THERE IS no evidence that Jubilee’s allergy exists, many of the stories contained within this novel, along with the day-to-day fear that Jubilee endures, are all-too-real scenarios for people and families battling severe and life-threatening food allergies. The immunotherapy and Chinese medicine used to treat Jubilee’s affliction are based on the research and lifework of pioneering allergy experts Dr. Kari Nadeau at Stanford University and Dr. Xiu-Min Li at Mount Sinai Hospital, respectively. Their treatments have shown great promise in the still largely mysterious world of food allergies. As part of my research, the New York Times Magazine article “Allergy Buster” by Melanie Thernstrom (March 7, 2013) and “Inside the Search for Chinese Herbal Food Allergy Treatments” by Claire Gagne for AllergicLiving.com (February 18, 2015) proved immeasurably helpful.
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