Measure of Love

by Melissa Ford

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve been in a car without either your parents or a taxi driver at the wheel. Can’t really have car sex with Anita watching.”

  “Do you remember the last time?” Adam asks, leaning his head back against the seat rest.

  I stare out the window, racking my brain. It had been raining, and we had been somewhere up north. Massachusetts. We had planned on hiking up to see a Buddhist monastery that Adam predicted was frequented by white Jewish men who left Long Island or Shaker Heights, shed their Passover seders and Bar Mitzvah-issued Kiddush cups (but kept Yom Kippur services just in case as well as Sunday morning bagels) and moved to Western Massachusetts to capture some slice of Americana they dreamed up back in their suburban roots. They dressed in LL Bean and shopped at used bookstores in Amherst, went to hear Salman Rushdie read when he came through the college, and drove ten minutes out of the way for Starbucks, though they claimed to hate it and called it a blight on small America. They taught sociology or pecked at a novel and lived in converted farmhouses or reoccupied less charming standard-issue vinyl siding houses that their original owners had sold in order to move to a larger town. They held potluck dinners at each other’s houses where they brought black bean loaf (they secretly still ate meat, but only when they were somewhere like Boston and only then if they were really craving pho), and their wives all belonged to a knitting club that they formed when someone had the idea from a book she was reading, even though only one of them actually knew how to knit, and she wasn’t a very good teacher.

  This was the backstory that Adam constructed as we drove through the mist toward the base of the mountain, having passed many people who fit this description when leaving the bed and breakfast we were staying at early in our marriage. We had ended up in Western Massachusetts based on a tip from the travel editor of the New York Times, not a personal tip, but an article that appeared on a Sunday prompting Adam to ask me if I wanted him to look into a road trip. We were following the itinerary laid out in the newspaper: sleep at one of the three B&B’s outlined in the article, eat breakfast at Nell’s on the corner making sure we sampled her pancake platter, and then head out into the surrounding area to observe the ruins of a mill, a teddy bear factory, and a Buddhist monastery with a stupa garden—a somewhat creepy construction based on the image in the newspaper which made the little stone stacks scattered across an open field look like either an army of ill-formed robots or the markers for mass graves.

  By the time we actually found the mountain as well as a place to park, the rain had started to fall in earnest, and we turned off the motor, sitting in silence in the crude gravel parking lot, the only car around and the only structure being a clapboard office that could barely be seen many yards away beyond the trees.

  Adam had asked me if I wanted to head back into town, but I shook my head, snuggling deep into my sweater as if it were a layer of fur over my bones, and staring through the windshield at the fall foliage which was still brightly red and yellow. For a while, we watched the leaves float down gently, brought into flight by the wind and rain, and then Adam motioned toward the backseat with his head, and we climbed over the emergency brake, leaving our shoes in the front. I settled my back over the dips in the bucket-like bench, the metal of the seatbelt pressing into the side of my hip. Adam hovered over me, his mouth moving over my neck, hands fumbling to unbutton my jeans. We left on our tops—it was too cold and uncomfortable in the cramped space to remove them—moving against each other with the thick wool between us like a cushion, like a stillness. His fingers had entered me, leaving my wetness against my thigh, which moved from warm to cold and then disappeared from my mind as he entered me, slowly, like he was one of those leaves drifting outside.

  I mentally leave Massachusetts and return to present day Tarrytown to stare at Adam, who raises his eyebrows at me as he starts to undo the top button on my pants.

  “We were in Western Massachusetts, in the rain, in a deserted parking lot,” I gasp as his fingers start to work their way down.

  “This is a deserted parking lot,” Adam breathes, unhooking his seat belt.

  “This is a parking lot with cameras,” I inhale, my back arching slightly despite myself.

  Adam looks grimly at the surveillance cameras, two curious metal birds over the back door, and then sighs loudly. “Hold that thought.”

  He peels out of the parking lot, but the Hudson River Valley isn’t exactly as deserted as Western Massachusetts. We drive around, looking for a corn field or a dirt road, my heart pounding in my chest excitedly at first, and then the sexual tension slowly growing painful, like contorting my arms to scratch an itch in the center of my back. I lean forward, directing Adam to do the opposite of whatever the GPS tells us, until we both agree that the field next to a burned out, condemned house is the best we’re going to find. Adam throws the car into park, switches off the engine, and we dive for the backseat, my foot grazing the side of Adam’s head accidentally as we try to find a comfortable position.

  “I’m not twenty anymore,” I gasp, throwing my purse onto the floor. My iPod falls out, the unattached earbud cord unwrapping itself from around the player.

  “Thank God for that,” Adam murmurs, biting my earlobe, taking the soft skin into his mouth and sucking lightly for a moment before releasing it. “Older and wiser.”

  “With grey hair,” I whisper, unable to keep myself from pointing out my foibles no matter how turned on I am.

  “Grey hair is sexy,” Adam breathes into my throat, his breath hot against my skin. He kisses me down my neck, into the collar of my shirt. “I love your hair.” To make his point, he tangles his fingers through the end of my ponytail and tugs lightly as he slips his other hand past the elastic top of my panties, inching his fingers forward.

  I slide my jeans and panties down to my knees, awkwardly shifting my body to accommodate Adam who is crouched, half over me and half on the car floor. His knee hits the button on my iPod, and we hear Lady Gaga coming in weakly, as if we’re catching her concert from an arena parking lot.

  “I was born this way,” Adam croons, helping my fingers as I fumble with his jeans, sliding them off with his boxers while I glance out the window, hoping that we’re not going to find ourselves post-orgasm staring at a troop of astonished Girl Scouts all peeking in our car on their way to some do-gooder project to raze the house or mow the lawns of condemned properties in order to earn a badge.

  I moan as he enters me; I am so wet, almost spent from all the wasted minutes of driving, that I think I’m going to instantly orgasm, but we settle into a rhythm. Each of Adam’s exhales punctuating Lady Gaga’s drum beat, my nails working the skin on his shoulders, trying not to leave marks as my whole body tenses, even my thighs clenching and shaking as I near closer and closer to release. And then my entire body opens up, like a book fanned out to its central page, offering up something beyond understanding. Just the stubble on Adam’s cheek against my skin, his mouth against my ear like a whisper about to happen, and his hands, one still in my hair while the other squeezes my hip, kneading me and kneading me and needing me.

  “Holy shit,” Adam chokes, trying not to put all his weight against me. We both deep breathe for a moment.

  He pulls out, doing his best to be neat in a situation that defies neatness, and hits the off button on the iPod before Lady Gaga can start crooning her next song. He sinks onto the car floor, giving me the entire backseat to recuperate while he crunches his knees up to his chest. I wait for him to open the back door, step out and stretch for a moment before getting into the driver’s seat, but instead he just sits there as if he’s in the middle of a yoga session, and he stares at me with an expression that is far more serious than his usual post-coital look.

  “I love you,” he says softly.

  “I love you too,” I respond, wondering if the inflection in my voice makes me sound as if I’m trying to conv
ince him of this fact.

  “We stopped doing this at some point, and I know we’ll probably stop doing it again, mostly because Zipcar might revoke our membership after this. But what I mean is that I’m conscious of this now; how we stopped looking at each other like this, how we stopped taking the time to drive around the hour before an appointment so we could find somewhere to screw each other in the backseat. I won’t do that again.”

  “So I should expect a lot more sex?” I lightly joke.

  “You should expect a lot more attention,” Adam corrects. “I’m not going to stop feeling this passion. It may not always come out as abandoned house sex, but what I mean is that we’re not going to mess this up a second time.”

  I nod, even though I don’t totally know if I can make that promise and what that means. Am I just not as committed, or am I more realistic about the way all relationships go over time? Is he willing to try harder, or is he just naïve in thinking that we won’t be sucked into the relationship void a second time? I want to believe Adam. I want his reality to come true obviously more than I want my fears to be the path we end up on. But even great sex can’t make me let go of my nagging what ifs that reenter my body post-orgasm, as if they had been banished to the hallway and have now been let back into the room.

  If Adam notices any change in my mood, he doesn’t let it affect him. Instead of opening the back door, he awkwardly climbs into the front seat again, glancing at his watch. “We have to go,” he says, reaching a hand out to help me back into front. I settle back into my seat, slip on my shoes, and buckle my belt as he pulls away from the overgrown grass on the field.

  “What do you think happened to this house?” I ask, feeling as if screwing next to a condemned property is perhaps some sort of omen.

  Adam glances at it in the rear view mirror as we pull away, the GPS woman patiently reminding us that we need to turn left despite the fact that we haven’t listened to her in almost an hour. “Pa lost his job at the paper mill, and Ma torched it for the insurance money?”

  “I’m serious,” I say. “Don’t you ever wonder how a house becomes that dilapidated? Someone built that place, and someone had a first night in that new home, marveling at how fresh everything looks. How did it go from being someone’s refuge to being unlivable?”

  This line of questioning does catch Adam’s attention, and he gives me a sideways glance as he takes the GPS woman’s advice and turns left. “Jesus, Rachel. I just gave you an orgasm.”

  Adam squeezes my hand while he keeps his left one on the wheel, taking each turn the GPS woman tells him to take until we’re back on familiar ground in Tarrytown.

  We spy the entrance for Pâturage and turn down the road, following the signs until we reach the restaurant with its long rooms and sloping roof. The stone work is gorgeous, evoking a different time period all together, before iPods and cell phones. A time when you’d look out the tiny windows jutting out from the upper story to get the news rather than looking at a screen.

  Adam parks the car, and we walk inside for our appointment with the event planner, Arthur. He greets us at the door wearing hip, black-framed glasses and a corduroy jacket over his slim frame even though it’s a fairly warm autumnal afternoon. I try not to focus on how I can feel Adam sliding out of me, pooling in my panties.

  “I like to always start out by walking around the farm,” Arthur warns us, leading the way down a path. “It doesn’t matter if we have great food or great service if you don’t fall in love with the scenery. Plus, we can work up an appetite before you try some of Chef Dan’s butternut squash soup. Made from butternut squash. Grown right here.” He motions to the sprawling, picturesque complex of stone and glass buildings and rolling fields.

  “Sometimes butternut squash soup is made from something other than butternut squash,” Adam whispers.

  “Chickens,” I respond, pointing at a gathering of birds outside a small coop. The hens peck at something on the ground, almost like animatronic fowl robots placed outside to convey to visitors that this is what farm life is like. I joke about this with Arthur, who looks as if his feelings are hurt by that accusation.

  “I promise you, those are real chickens,” he tells us.

  So much for upsetting the residents with Ichabod Crane jokes.

  Arthur brings us into the greenhouse, pointing out the freshness of their salad greens, telling us about how Pâturage is a four-season working farm, hence their private events also span every weekend of the year.

  “I think we’re now looking at late fall,” Adam tells him.

  “So a year from now?” Arthur questions.

  “Actually, more like two months from now,” Adam admits, laughing nervously.

  “We’re booked out far in advance,” Arthur warns, but Adam cuts him off, trying to recall the person he spoke to when he first set up the appointment.

  “There’s a cancellation in late November. I think we want it,” Adam tells him. Cancellation means that the wedding has been called off; the bride stopped in her tracks before she can get to the aisle. I wonder if the couple is calling their friends and family to tell them that the wedding is off, returning engagement gifts, undoing the flower order. How does it feel to call off a wedding?

  “There is a cancellation in late November,” Arthur concedes, almost as if it pains him to do so. “So you already have your dress? The invitations? The band?”

  Arthur’s questions make me acutely aware of the sweat that is forming in my armpits. I look over at Adam, and he is rocking back on his heels, smiling slightly as he surveys the salad greens. He doesn’t look worried about time constraints at all.

  “No, we don’t have any of those things,” I admit.

  “Well, we have the band . . . I mean the DJ. One of my students is going to be our DJ. And another two are going to be playing violin for us as we walk down the aisle. So we do have music under control.”

  Arthur stares at us as if he has never met a more clueless prenuptial couple. Adam tries to assure him that we will have everything come together in time; that we’re simple, that this is our second wedding—to each other—therefore it doesn’t require the pomp and circumstance that most of his brides bring to the farm. Unless you’re a celebrity, getting married a second time shaves at least eight months of useless wedding planning filler from your schedule.

  I hear myself joining in too, trying to convince Arthur that we have this one in the bag, even though I don’t believe anything I’m saying. Arthur looks at me doubtfully, but continues out of the greenhouse and past the pig enclosure, telling us various bits of history about the grounds, the restaurant, and how private events work at Pâturage.

  We bypass the kitchen, which is what I really want to gawk at, and instead move into a small private dining room that overlooks the pastures outside.

  “You’re most likely looking at an indoor wedding since it will be late November. My favorite formation then, for an evening wedding, is to use this room for the ceremony and then move into the larger space for dinner. I love the simplicity of the decoration, which really allows the natural beauty of the farm to shine through. We light this room dimly and fill those holders with hundreds of candles.”

  I try to imagine the room at night, hundreds of small flames flickering above our heads. I feel myself getting a lump in my throat, but I have no idea why. I distract myself by rubbing my hand over the grey upholstery on a nearby chair.

  “I’m going to go tell the kitchen that we’re ready for the tasting,” Arthur tells us, excusing himself. Adam slides into a seat at the table, and I join him, staring out the window at some sheep walking across the hill. He takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “What do you think?” Adam asks. We need to decide quickly if we want the November date; set these plans in ink. I’ll have to scramble to find something to wear since there won’t be enough time to order a d
ress. I’ll have to figure out invitations. Find someone who will do my hair, pull together a bridal party and clothe them, order flowers. Doing it quickly will be like ripping off a Band-Aid. It will push me to commit to this life I’m promising him.

  My conscience niggles at me, poking me in my rib cage. Aren’t I supposed to be entirely certain before I agree to make the commitment? Is that even possible for someone who has been through a divorce? I am acutely aware that Adam is staring at me, waiting for me to speak. Either I need to hold my breath and jump with the belief that swimming will come later, or for Adam’s sake, I need to jump off this roller coaster before it begins ticking up the hill. I find the single reminder I need to convince myself: If I am going to have a wedding, I want it to be here rather than one of Anita’s overpriced hotel monstrosities.

  “It’s perfect,” I hear myself say, as if I’m listening in on a phone call—one discussing me. “I think that unless the food is awful, we’d be crazy not to sign the papers and commit to this today.”

  “And then maybe you could write about it on your blog,” Adam says lightly. “Let your readers know about the wedding now that we have a date and place set. I know your readers are important to you.”

  Adam looks over my shoulder at Arthur and nods imperceptibly, indicating with this small movement of his head that he will take care of it, he’ll make it happen, he’ll take care of me.

  Chapter Nine

  WITH THE WEDDING date now set, etched into my brain like a mental tattoo, I swing by Lisbeth’s studio to pick her up for dress shopping. I offered to go on the weekend when her arms wouldn’t be covered in printer’s ink or something similarly staining, but she tells me that a weekday is the perfect time to hit the bridal stores while Emily is captive at the hospital. She is anxious to keep her dress possibilities hidden until Emily sees her walking down the aisle.

  Though I can’t really picture Emily trailing us on the way to Madison Avenue, ducking into alleyways and storefront openings so she isn’t seen, I agree to go on a random Tuesday to both Shoshana Shalom and Carolina Herrera where Lisbeth has set up nearly back-to-back appointments, allotting us two hours at each boutique. Just to give us a taste, even though both stores are very much out of my price range and, once again, the last places I thought Lisbeth would want to get her wedding dress. I thought she’d have some insane avant-garde gown made out of something like gessoed tuna fish cans or ostrich feathers. I never pegged her as a white-poofy-gown type.