“For what, having feelings?”
“I shouldn’t have laid all this on you again.” Wedged my dead husband between us like that.
“Why not?” Releasing me, he scowls.
“Because.” Why does he look angry? “You’re a nice guy and I shouldn’t burden you with my stupid problems.”
Lips pressed tight, he blinks narrowed eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” He looks offended—why?
His hand cuts the air. “Trivialize us. Trivialize me.”
“I’m not.” I wish he’d hold me again, but can’t take the first step.
He blows a breath. “You do this every time. Start to open up and let me in, then slam the door in my face.”
“No, I don’t.” I wouldn’t, or else it would make me like Doug.
He opens his fisted hand. “I’m not trying to control you, Claire. I just want to spend time together. But not if I have to scratch and claw for every minute with you.”
I stand there mute, trying to sort out what to say. Doesn’t he understand?
He winces. “Well then. I suppose I should go.”
“Why?”
He stares off at nothing and shakes. “It’s probably best. Goodbye.”
Locked inside myself, I do nothing but watch as he closes the door behind him. What a strangely familiar scenario, except from the opposite perspective. My husband had conditioned me to reject love and acceptance. He’d changed me, a weird sort of behavior modification for married couples.
I hug myself and pace. “Maybe I’m not able to get close to anyone. So many years of telling myself not to care. I’ve forgotten how.” And now I’m letting the man I care about walk away from me. But what if I truly can’t respond to his love the way he deserves?
All this time, I’ve been fooling myself. I pretend my grief has ended, that I’m over my husband’s death. Over him.
But am I, really? Yes, I’d cried. Longer and harder than anyone knew. Yet in my heart of hearts, I’d held back. Buried a kernel of my shared past with Doug deep inside. For years, I dared not acknowledge it. Inside that cold, hard place are locked my deepest sorrows, and my greatest joys. Long ago, I’d begun to build that place of safekeeping, bit by bit, heartache by heartache, disappointment by disappointment.
I’d tucked away shards of my broken life and simply refused to consider them again. All my wanting and wishing, my dreams of a happy life with the man I loved. The fairy tale ending that never came, yet like a fool, I still hold out hope for it.
And finally, to protect my heart from breaking to pieces, I tucked my love for Doug in there, too. The very thought of confronting that mish-mash of emotion frightened me more than I could articulate.
The one thing I’ve never before understood is that, if I don’t open up that part of my past, I’ll never be able to have the kind of relationship I want. That jumble of bitterness and joy will turn rotten and heavy, and drag me down. And whoever I try to love will sink with me. I can’t do that to Kip.
And I deserve better, too. I have to crack open that shell and release every last bit of my old life. Only then will I be free to move on.
But how? Where to start?
An idea brings my pacing to a halt. The boxes. I’d stored all of Doug’s things in the attic, ignored Trish’s pleas to donate them to charity. What good would that do, when everything about this house is a reminder of Doug?
I walk to the rear of the hallway, pull down the folding steps to the attic and climb up to search for the boxes. Only half-finished, the attic is a scary place. Not in a ghostly sense, but for safety reasons. Pink insulation divides exposed two-by-fours, with cartons piled atop flat pieces of wood. I spy the stack I need toward the back, the stark light of the uncovered hanging bulb giving it an ominous appearance.
I’d put them out of reach intentionally, hoping to never touch them again. One by one, I haul them down the ladder and into the front room until no more remain in the attic.
Digging them out feels like unearthing Doug from his grave. He practically pops out of the dark recesses of the containers, fully fleshed out. Young and healthy and smiling at me. The Doug I’d fallen crazy in love with.
Much as I’d learned to shield my emotions over the years, I had loved him with all my heart. Part of me still loves him, despite the lonely, cold years that tore us apart.
His clothes fill many of the cartons. Their scent seems to conjure up Doug’s spirit. I can almost feel his presence there with me, urging me on. Now or never, Claire.
A photo album sits at the bottom of one box. Tenderly, I lift it out and run my fingertips across the cover. A bracing breath, and I open it. The memory of our early days floods back with each picture. Doug looks so happy. So in love with me.
“I didn’t imagine it.” Sometimes I think I fooled myself into believing he’d truly loved me.
The next page elicits a gasp. “Oh.” The sunset at the beach on our honeymoon. Someone had snapped the shot as we stood with our heads together and watched the sun sinking into the ocean, the sky streaked with gorgeous glowing ribbons of orange and gold and purple. Later, Doug made love to me with such passion, I thought I could never be happier. God, I’d forgotten about that.
A tear slips down my face. I swipe it away, but each photograph dredges up more wonderful memories, and my cheeks are soon wet. I don’t try to stop the tears, but open myself up to the pain of loss. Again. Finally.
I cry until I have nothing left to give of myself, and afterward I’m so spent, I lay there a long time gathering my energy.
When I rise, my subconscious mind directs me to the kitchen closet. Somewhere on the shelf, a telephone book lurks. A few minutes of digging produces it. Last year’s edition, but if the numbers I try are no longer in service, then neither are the businesses they represent.
Someone can use my husband’s clothes. I jot down the address of a local shelter and waste no time sorting through them.
Chapter Eighteen
Ella surprises Kip by popping in that morning. In the middle of a Tom Petty tune, his voice trails off. “Hey kiddo.”
“Dad? What are you doing?” Her expression turns sickly at the sight of the guitar in his lap.
“Do I sound so awful?” he jokes, and leans the guitar against the sofa arm.
She frowns at the instrument, then at him. “I thought you’d be in the garage working on my cabinet.”
“I was earlier. Thought I’d take a little break.” He rises from the sofa and goes to the kitchen for some coffee.
“Why did you dig that thing out of storage? You haven’t played since I was…” She rolls her eyes and blows raspberries. “I don’t know, nine?”
“Because I miss playing, and it has been way too long.” Stupid of him to abandon something he loves so much. Justine had encouraged him to practice, but he’d always felt selfish when she worked so hard at taking care of the kids and the house.
His daughter huffs. “Yeah, sounds it.”
He ignores the dig, and leans against the counter. “Staying over tonight?” He could’ve infused a little more hopefulness into the question.
Her expression sours. “Probably not. Don’t you have a date?”
He’d also ignore the negative taint she’s given to the word date. “I’m not sure yet. I might ask Claire to a movie. Maybe dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”
Disgust twists her lips. “This was a mistake. I better go.”
“Ella.” His sharp tone surprises even him.
Defiant, she turns to glare at him. “Yes?”
He softens his demeanor. “Please give Claire a chance.” If he hasn’t blown their relationship already.
Ella tsk’s. “Why do you have to make this about her?”
“It isn’t.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be. Bye, Dad.” She stomps off, out the door.
What just happened? For the past year or so, Ella has pushed him to date. Not long ago, she specifically suggested he date Claire.
Now she objects?
Or does his daughter realize he has deeper feelings for Claire? A double dose of reality. He trusts his girl to handle it.
He returns to the living room, picks up the guitar and lays into another Petty tune. So the confusing part about parenthood hasn’t ended, apparently. He still has unfamiliar territory to navigate. Part of him will always love Justine, and both his daughters know that. Dammit, he has a right to happiness. And if they can’t accept Claire, that’s their problem. He won’t let it be his.
Much as he loves them, he has to draw the line. Right now, before things go any further. He sets the guitar beside the desk and sits to compose an email. Maybe one of the most difficult he’ll ever write.
Ella and Liz, my lovely and beloved girls,
You both helped me through one of the worst times in life. Losing your mother might have destroyed me if I didn’t have you to keep me in the lifeboat of your love. These past three years, we’ve all managed to accept that your mom is gone. I have to move on with my life. Please understand that I need this.
You’ve always been the center of my world, but you’re grown up. You’re making your own worlds now—beautiful, complex and perfect for you. But I can’t be part of them like I used to. So I’m trying to find a way to rebuild the life that crumbled to pieces when I lost your mom.
I’ve found someone who helps me remember what feeling alive is like. Claire makes me laugh, helps me feel whole and healed. I’m not asking your permission to see her. I’m telling you I’m going to see her, and I want you to accept her.
If you can’t, I will try to understand. But no matter what, you are forbidden to treat her badly. If you visit and Claire happens to be there, you will act polite, if not friendly. This is a firm rule, and there’s no exception.
She deserves much more, but I understand you might need time to adjust. Please look into your hearts and open a bit of space for her there.
I love you more than words can convey.
Dad
When he finishes typing, he slumps forward. It’s taken much more out of him than he expected. But wait, he’s forgotten the most important part.
P.S.
Sorry for putting this in an email. I’d much rather have spoken to you in person. So, instead of the goodbye hug I wish I could give you, wrap your arms around yourself and know that I’m hugging you in my mind. Very tightly and with much love.
A quick re-read, and he hits Send. Now he has to wait. Give them time to absorb the message.
He slumps back and rubs his eyes. Halfway out of the chair, a new message arrives.
Liz is glad he’s dating, she writes—he’s free to see whoever makes him happy. Both she and Ella had hoped such happiness for him.
Kip notices Liz has copied Ella on her reply, and reads between the lines, one sister admonishing the other for poor behavior. In truth, he’d directed his email more at Ella, but he hadn’t had any way to gauge how Liz might react. Focused on her schoolwork, she hasn’t checked in as often as Ella, hasn’t come home in months. He doesn’t want to blindside her. He wants them both to become reacquainted with Claire as adults, a much different experience than as young, impressionable students of Claire’s. Liz is more independent, but he still won’t rock her foundation. He’ll always keep home base open to them both.
The response from Ella arrives later that night, and not by email. His cell chimes, and her name appears in the display. “Hey honey.” He braces.
“Dad.” She sounds out of breath. Upset.
He grips the phone tighter. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, just let me say what I need to. First, I’m sorry. I acted like a big baby.”
Her insistent tone helps him relax. “No. Well, maybe a little.”
“Don’t rub it in,” she teases, then turns serious again. “I didn’t mean to be so selfish. Liz and I talked so many times about you finding someone wonderful. It’s just different when it really happens. You know?”
“I know.” All too well. And he guesses that Liz had more than a mere talk with Ella after his email. His youngest never restrains her opinions, doesn’t hesitate to point out when her sister’s out of line.
“I hope you’re not still mad. I want you to be happy, too.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” He wishes she were there so he could hug her. “Some of that depends on Claire.”
“Why? You haven’t broken up because of me, I hope.”
“No. We took a step back, but not broken up.” Not exactly together, either.
“Seeing you together was really weird, and confusing. The way you were acting like kids, well, I just never thought of her that way. And I didn’t realize how much Claire meant to you.”
“Maybe I didn’t, either.” The thought stuns him.
“You haven’t told her?”
“Not in so many words.” He’s hinted at his feelings. Many times. But had she understood?
“Oh, seriously, Dad. She’s great.” She seems to have more difficulty saying, “And she’s good for you. What are you waiting for?”
Now he feels like a real dunce. “I don’t know. I’m a dumbass, I guess.”
“Go. Tell. Her. And not in an email.” Her breathless laugh bursts through the phone.
“You’re right. I will. Thanks, honey bunny.”
She groans. “Don’t call me that. I’m not three.”
“Yeah, I know.” Though sometimes he wishes she were. His colleagues are always spouting the old saying about adult children—the bigger the child, the bigger the problems. He has to admit, he’s lucked out as far as kids go. He wouldn’t trade them for anything.
In the background, a girl calls Ella’s name. “I gotta go, Dad. Talk to you soon. Love you.”
“Love you more.” After clicking off, he stares at the cell in amazement. Definitely not what he expected, in the best possible way.
His daughter makes a valid point. Kip hasn’t ever told Claire outright how he feels about her. Something he needs to put right. But he can’t just show up at her place out of the blue and make some announcement about it. No, he has to do this right so she’ll take him seriously. Some sort of grand gesture is called for. Like a Cyrano de Bergerac, except he’ll be damned if someone else will spill his heart out to Claire. He has to do that himself, but in a way that she’ll understand he truly means it.
Another idea hits him. Maybe the whole Cyrano thing won’t work, but he has an idea what might convince her. Prince Charming. The college’s theater department put on a production of Taming of the Shrew last year, and he hopes the costumes sit in a trunk.
He makes a quick phone call to the theater director, who probably won’t remember him from the holiday party because Kip hadn’t stayed long enough to mingle with everyone. Another part of his life that he needs to change.
“Hey, it’s Kip Baldwin from the English Department. Sorry to call out of the blue, but I need a favor and I’m hoping you can help. Do you still have the costumes from last year’s Shakespeare play? You do? Fantastic. I hope you don’t think this is too strange, but would you consider lending me an outfit? Just for one day, and I’ll take good care of it. I have a very specific one in mind. You will? That’s great. When… well, that’s the other imposition. I need it tomorrow.”
The theater director’s sigh tells Kip he has a chance. The director provides the name and number of a student who can assist him.
“I really appreciate the favor.” He hangs up and dials the student. A Shakespearean costume will do nicely. He’ll simply have to avoid mirrors while he wears the thing. If he catches sight of himself dressed like that, he’ll feel more like a jester. A fool.
It’s the last way he wants Claire to think of him. Costume or not, his heart is on the line.
Chapter Nineteen
From the center of the living room, I turn slowly, assessing the room with the eyes of a stranger. I’m tired of feeling like an outsider in my own house. Even with renovations, I don’t want to live the rest of my
days in this house.
Today, I’ll begin the arduous process of searching for a new property. This time, I’ll move only if and when a house feels like a home. My home.
A shiver of excitement mixes with fear. What a huge leap. After the snail’s pace that I’d complained about to Trish for years, my life has kicked into warp drive. In little more than a year, I’ve gone from boring, silent-suffering, menopausal wife to middle-aged female with a world of options to consider.
For what seems like the thousandth time, I want to talk to Kip about the idea. But since our argument—had it actually been one?—he hasn’t called, hasn’t emailed, hasn’t stalked me one little bit. Maybe I should learn the art of stalking. And the art of communication. I can’t allow a misunderstanding to ruin what we have. Maybe it’s taken a fight for me to recognize how precious and rare it is.
The longer I wait, the harder it will be to start that conversation. What am I waiting for? Time’s slipping away. Time I could be sharing with Kip.
I make a beeline for my handbag on the island in the kitchen. Just as I pull up the contact list and press Kip’s name to dial, the doorbell rings.
Of course. Poor timing is my specialty. This time, I’ll use it in my favor. Whoever stands on the other side of that door can just wait.
After four rings, Kip’s recorded voice apologizes for not being able to take the call, and invites me to leave a message. Gah, this isn’t the sort of thing I can say in a voice mail. And I need to hear his response so I can gauge his reaction.
After the beep, I hesitate a beat. “Hey, Kip. I’m really sorry about… everything. I miss you. Please call me.”
The door bell rings again. Anger flares up and pushes me toward it. “I’m coming already.” I yank on the knob. “Hold your... horses…” Stunned mute, I blink hard. Am I really seeing what I think I’m seeing? “Kip?” Or an ancestor of his who’s time-travelled to the present?
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