“Let me see that thing,” he says, gruffly, and I hand the scarf over. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he says as he studies it. “Same color as your hair and eyes. Cashmere, eh?” When I nod, he says, “Where’d you get it?”
“Rye gave it to me for Christmas.” I don’t add that he said the same thing about it matching my coloring.
Lex lets out a snort of derision. “Guess that’s what I get for asking. I wish I’d found it before he did, though. It’s perfect for you.” His expression is gloomy as he shakes his head. “All I gave you was a plain old fountain pen. No wonder you like him better.”
“Lex! That’s not true.”
“Which part?” he asks so quickly that I laugh.
“The lovely pen you gave me is far from ordinary, and ever since Christmas, I’ve kept it in my briefcase. It’s one of my most prized possessions, and I use it every day.”
Rather than being appeased, he eyes me balefully. “Last week word was going around that you and pretty boy were hot and heavy now. Somebody saw you guys making out on a dance floor or something.”
“Oh, Lord! Our small-town gossips never let us down, do they?”
“Then it’s not true?”
With a laugh, I can’t resist saying, “Which part?”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.”
I’m silent for a moment, trying to decide what I should do. Finally I say, “I’ll tell you about it, if you’d like. But don’t listen to the gossips. Evidently it’s been a busy time for them, because another thing going around was that you moved back to Elinor’s house.”
“I was over there a lot, but I sure didn’t move in. I’m still at the marina.” He blinks at me. “Don’t tell me that’s why I haven’t heard from you lately?”
I shrug and say, “You heard that Rye and I were having an affair, didn’t you?” At first he won’t meet my eyes, then he shrugs elaborately. I’m not surprised that rumor was circulating; a couple of times I caught Rye’s neighbors peering out their windows at me when I left his house late at night. “I figured folks were saying that,” I tell him, “since I’ve been at his place a lot lately, too, like you being at Elinor’s.”
“The rumors went a little further than that,” he says, then adds, “Folks were saying that you’d stayed over a few times, too.”
“Not true. I won’t be coy and pretend that I didn’t consider it. But I’ve decided that Rye has always been one of my dearest friends, and it’s best for both of us if we remain that way. I just told him last night. You sure you want to hear this, Lex?”
He thinks about it a minute, then shakes his head. “I thought I did, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re telling me there’s no affair, and that’s good enough for me.” With a grin, he looks down at the scarf he’s holding. “Still wish I’d found this thing first, though,” he says as he steps forward to loop it back around my neck. Since his hands clutch both ends of the scarf, I’m imprisoned by it, and I study him curiously as we stand facing each other.
“Lex? All along I’ve tried not to say anything, because it was something you had to work out for yourself, but you did the right thing about Elinor. From the first time I met you and realized she was your ex, I’ve wanted to say that I didn’t think she was good for you.” Or good enough for you, I think.
He sighs. “Ever since I left her place, it feels like a load’s been lifted off my shoulders. I’ve never been a gloomy, down-in-the-mouth kind of guy, you know? Yet I’ve been miserable as hell lately.” Deep in thought, he absently twists and loops the ends of the scarf around his hands. I could easily free myself, ducking under the scarf and stepping away from him, but I don’t.
“I’m not sure Elinor’s entirely to blame for all my misery, though,” he continues. For the first time tonight, his eyes linger when they meet mine.
I lower my head, blushing. “Oh, Lex … there was another reason I was going to call you.”
“Besides the fire?”
“Besides the fire.” My smile is tentative, nervous. “You see—well—I’ve felt bad that we didn’t part on the best of terms the last time you were here. The night you built the fire and fell asleep on the sofa, remember? So … ah … I wanted to say that I regret if I said or did anything to upset you. I’ve missed you these last couple of months.” I manage another weak smile and glance up at him hesitantly before blurting out, “Actually, I missed you a lot. So much that it made me understand some things I hadn’t seen before.”
He’s quiet for so long that I dare steal a glance at him. He gives his head a shake and says in a tight voice, “The problem is, I’m not sure you and I can be friends anymore, Clare.”
Taken aback, I blink at him as my face burns hotly. Putting a hand to my throat, I say, much too loudly, “Oh! I … see. If that’s the way you feel, then of course I understand. I—Well, I do understand. Really.” I’m taken aback by the sense of loss I feel, and I swallow hard, too stunned to move. The rain has picked up; a gust of wind roaring down the chimney causes the fire to dance and spin wildly, casting a yellow glow on us. So eager was I to warm myself by the fire that I neglected to turn any lamps on, and we’re standing in darkness, with only the fire for illumination.
Lex twists the ends of the scarf around his hands again, pulling me a step closer. He says, “It was actually Elinor who made me see that you and I couldn’t be friends.”
“Elinor!” I cry. “But you said you were through with her. Why should you listen to anything she has to say?”
“Because she said something that surprised me, but at the same time, it made a lot of sense. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s the thing I was coming over here to tell you.”
“You were coming here to tell me something that Elinor said?”
Nodding, he stares down at me. “She thinks that you and I can’t be friends because of the way I feel about you. She seems to think that the way I feel about you … well … that it goes way beyond friendship.”
Startled, I stare up at him before saying with a laugh, “Elinor said that! How did you respond to such an outrageous thing?”
His eyes reflect the glow of the fire, and he smiles down at me. “How do you think? I told her I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
I’m lightheaded with relief, and my laugh sounds foolish and giddy. “Where do you think she got such a foolish idea?”
When Lex loops the ends of my scarf around his hands again, I realize it hasn’t been an absentminded gesture on his part after all, fiddling with the scarf. Each turn of his hands has pulled us closer. “Damned if I know,” he murmurs. “As I tried to tell Elinor, I’ve never even kissed you.” Smiling, he adds, “One more twist of this scarf, though, and that might have to change.”
I look down at the cashmere scarf wrapped around his hands. Large, rough hands, callused, but I’ve found them to be both gentle and trustworthy. Returning his smile as I place my hands over his, I say, “Too bad you’ve gotten the scarf as close as it will go. You can’t twist it again.”
“Want to bet?” His eyes never leaving mine, he loops the ends once more.
It’s two days before the first retreat, and everything moves into high gear. I have moments of sheer, unadulterated panic. Many times I wish I’d left well enough alone and continued to have the retreats at the conference center in Fairhope—it would have been so much easier. So what if the cost was so high it kept many women from attending? At least I’d be sane enough to conduct the next one. At Fairhope’s conference center, the attendees were responsible for booking their own rooms at nearby hotels, but now we provide lodging, which means linens. There are four bunk rooms, with five bunks in each, beds enough to accommodate the participants in addition to volunteers staying overnight. In my office in the back, I have the daybed, so I won’t have to drive back and forth. At the outlet in Foley, Dory and I had purchased dozens of towels and washcloths, sheets, pillows, and light blankets that double as spreads. What we hadn’t considered was laundry. Dory blew it off, sayi
ng that she’d take the used linens home and wash them, but I wouldn’t allow it, as busy as she is with her business now. Although Fairhope boasts a laundry service, they won’t travel as far out as the Landing, so we compromise. I’ll consent to the White Rings taking the laundry to the service, but that’s it. One problem covered, a million or so to go.
At the conference center, there had been a costly meal plan, but I hadn’t had to worry about food. I’ve hired a cook and two kitchen workers for Wayfarer’s Landing, and one of the White Rings who previously ran a restaurant has volunteered to take charge of planning the meals and running the kitchen. Two days before the retreat, she calls to say she has the flu. The same morning both of the kitchen workers quit before ever getting started.
So that the participants won’t have to listen to me every session, I’ve always brought in as many resource speakers as possible: anyone I can beg, bribe, or coerce. The lineup for the first retreat is dazzling. Because of the publicity last year about the retreats, resource speakers from all over the country have offered their services. I’ve lined up a child-custody specialist from Miami, a financial planner from Cleveland, and the Native American founder of an ecumenical spiritual community in New Mexico. Not ten minutes after I’ve hired a replacement for one of the kitchen workers, the financial planner cancels on me.
As if that isn’t enough, I have a nagging concern that overrides the endless details, cancellations, headaches, and frustrations, and it’s all Dory’s fault. Dory, in all of her whimsical, charming, but maddening weirdness, has drawn me into her circle, and I’m in a panic.
After the work started on Wayfarer’s Landing the past fall, I held several meetings with Etta, Dory, and the White Rings to plan the upcoming calendar year, discussing how many retreats to hold, how often, who would do what and when. Once I agreed to schedule the first retreat for the weekend of the spring equinox in March, Dory started pestering me with another of her fanciful notions. Catching me off guard, she begged me to hold the Asunder Ceremony in the labyrinth at dusk, incorporating the pathways. Before she could finish her breathless speech, I shook my head, saying we’d have enough to do without trying to figure out a way to light up the labyrinth. It’d be great to have the ceremony there once we’ve had a few retreats and ironed out the kinks, but not at the first one.
Dory has never given up easily, so I should’ve been suspicious when she conceded so graciously. At our next meeting, the White Rings and Etta took up the cause, asking me to reconsider. They had worked out the logistical problems, so there was no need for me to worry. It wouldn’t be that difficult to pull off, they said. I agreed, and when Dory, Etta, and the White Rings high-fived one another in triumph, I couldn’t help but smile with them.
It wasn’t just the logistics that made me so hesitant, as Dory and the others knew. The truth is, the Asunder Ceremony is the aspect of the retreats I’ve been determined to downplay. The ceremony has been a significant part from the beginning, but I never intended for it to be the main focus. When the articles came out about the retreats, and I was on talk shows and gave interviews, it was the ceremony that got them tagged as both innovative and controversial. I was appalled when a Birmingham newspaper began their coverage with the headline DIVORCE THERAPIST CASTS MARRIAGE ASUNDER WITH REVERSE WEDDING CEREMONY. I knew what would happen. Following the article, Etta was swamped with phone calls, and we had as many cancellations as inquiries from those intrigued by the idea. The editorial pages of the Birmingham paper quoted religious fanatics, predecessors of the letter that would make its appearance in The Fairhoper several months later. Even less-fanatical religious groups expressed distaste at the idea, because in most denominations, marriage and baptism were the only two sacred sacraments. Who did I think I was, outraged clergy demanded, to perform such a thing, mocking a holy ritual of the church? After the flurry died down, I determined to put the ceremony back into proper perspective.
I came up with the idea for the Asunder Ceremony while doing research on wedding customs for the first retreat. I found countless ceremonies having to do with getting married, from jumping the broom to stomping a glass, but none for getting unmarried. Rituals are a crucial part of all aspects of our lives, from momentous occasions such as religious observations, graduations, and holidays, to more everyday affairs such as birthdays and sporting events. One of the most ritualized parts of our lives is in the way a death is observed, with funerals or wakes or memorial services being so necessary for closure. Ritual is not merely important, I concluded, it’s essential. No wonder we have so much trouble when a marriage ends. Marriage is one of the most important steps in everyone’s lives, a celebration unlike any other. Kingdoms have been built; countries split; wars started; heads rolled; religions formed; dynasties established, all as a result of the rite of marriage. But where are the rituals that mark the end of a marriage? Signing papers in a lawyer’s office hardly qualifies; neither does the whack of a judge’s gavel. Many of my clients told me they made up their own ceremonies—usually unsavory things such as getting drunk, stoned, or laid. In response to what I saw as a real need in the process of recovery, I created a brief ritual for acknowledging the end of a marriage, called it the Asunder Ceremony, and added it to the first retreat.
Although the retreat participants are strongly urged to participate, the Asunder Ceremony isn’t a requirement, despite the insinuations of the newspaper articles. Instead, it’s the grand finale of the Saturday talks, workshops, and presentations. The ceremony is on the schedule right before folk dancing, which is the way we end Saturday evenings. At first I was surprised to see the participants who wept so profusely at the ceremony go on to dance with such great abandonment afterward. Then it hit me—but of course! How many weddings have I attended where everyone was dragged onto the dance floor, from toddlers to the very elderly? Nowadays a wedding is one of the few occasions where dancing is encouraged as a means of emotional release. Over time, the dancing after the ceremony became as much a part of it as the ritual itself.
Two days before the retreat finds me and Dory in my office at Wayfarer’s Landing, finishing up some of the details before Friday afternoon, when the first participants arrive. The tension has caught up with me. “Shit, shit, shit!” I cry as I slam the receiver down after yet another kitchen worker quits. “Why did I ever think having my own retreat site was a good idea?”
Dory gives her throaty laugh. “Here’s why it was a good idea,” she says, straightening up a stack of handouts. “I’m no longer in danger of going bankrupt from sponsoring so many of the participants. Out here, the retreats will be more affordable.”
I stare at her, guilt-stricken. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. What a thoughtless remark! I never want to appear ungrateful for your generosity. Any time it gets to be too much, don’t hesitate to say so.”
She shakes her head. “Hell, it’s mostly Son’s money, since my business isn’t breaking even yet. With more affordable retreats, though, I can help more folks. Oh! I have the perfect person to replace your financial planner.”
“Who? I’ve called everyone I know, but at this late date—”
“Rye Ballenger,” she replies, opening up another box of handouts.
“Rye? You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. It’s what he used to do, remember? Before he went to law school. His undergraduate degree from Tulane was in finance. He’ll be perfect.”
“Oh, yeah, like he’d do it.”
Dory looks at me slyly. “He’d do it for you, even though you broke his poor old heart.”
“Christ, don’t start that again. I most certainly didn’t break his heart. Since you demanded all the juicy details about the night I told Rye that we should remain friends, then you know he was very gracious about it.”
“Of course he was, because that’s the way Rye is,” Dory says, and her eyes go soft. “He was still being gracious when he came over to cry on my shoulder, too, but I could tell how hurt he was.”
“That’s not true!”
I insist. “I explained to Rye how I loved him too much to make him a substitute for Mack, which was what I’d been doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t secretly relieved that we’ve decided to stay friends instead of becoming lovers. Rye’s been single for so long, he didn’t really want things to change, is what I think.”
“Yeah, right,” Dory says with a hoot. “You may be a hotshot therapist, honey, but you’re as bad as the rest of us about believing what you want to.”
I’m not about to go there. “A session on financial planning is such an essential part of the retreats that I’m desperate. If you think Rye will do it, I’ll ask him.”
She shrugs lightly. “You don’t have to. I already have.”
“Dory!” Putting my forehead on the table, I sigh. “God, I’m so exhausted. But what would I do without you? In a matter of seconds, you took care of one of my main concerns. I never would’ve come up with Rye, not in a million years.”
Her look is unbearably smug. “What would you do without me? I’ll tell you: You’d have the most serious and down-in-the-mouth retreats imaginable, that’s what. Oh, sure, the poor participants would come away with tons of new information—the ones who stayed awake long enough to get it, that is. Without my magic touch, the retreats would be duller than dishwater.”
“You know, one thing I’ve never worried about was your lack of self-esteem.”
She asks, “Who talked you into adding the folk dancing, pray tell? The first time Rye took you dancing after Mack died, you came home raving about how it made you forget your grief and all that stuff. Then why don’t you add dancing to the retreats, says I? How did Clare respond? She said it couldn’t be done. Now, I ask you—what’s the favorite part of the retreats for everyone?”
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 38