Second Acts

by Teri Emory

  “And Michelle? Is she more like her mother or her father?”

  “A little of both. She’s twenty now, and she’s studying painting at college, which I guess makes her somewhat like me. When we’re together, we talk about art and photography and sailing. When she’s with her mother, I don’t know what goes on. Joan is probably sizing up eligible young men from suitable Darien and Westport families for Michelle to marry.

  “Say,” he said, moving my legs off his knees, “you haven’t had a complete tour of my boat. Why don’t we go below for a while?”

  We descended to the cramped cabin. Most of the space was taken up with sailing gear and tools. There was hardly room for us to stand.

  “How do you sleep here?” I asked.

  “I haven’t slept on the boat for a while. Give me a few minutes and you won’t recognize this place.”

  In short order, Peter rearranged the gear and expertly reconfigured some of the built-ins, and soon there was a double-sized mattress on a platform in front of us. He pulled me down on it and tore at my clothes. I lay down on my back, and Peter straddled me with his knees, gently massaging my breasts and shoulders.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said softly. “What can I do for you?”

  I told him exactly what to do. I found words for fantasies that had long been only fragmentary images in my mind. I want to let go completely. As I talked, he reached for some ropes—lines?—that were hanging nearby. He tied my hands loosely over my head, attaching the lines to a hook on the wall behind me. For what seemed like hours, his hands and mouth slowly, scrupulously, attended to every inch of my body until, at last, he climbed on top of me. He untied my hands so I could reach around him and pull him closer, and as soon as he entered me, we came together in noisy, heaving gasps.

  __________

  “Remind me, what time is your flight tomorrow?” Peter said.

  “Noon. I can’t believe how quickly the weekend passed.”

  “We’ll find some way to see each other soon. I haven’t been to New York in years. I’ll come visit you.”

  “Remember my friend Beth? She and her husband have been hosting a fall party for the past few years, usually in October. That’s only about a month from now. Will you come up for it?”

  “Let me know when it is. Don’t worry, we’ll make other plans if need be.”

  I kissed him, hard, on the mouth. “I’ve made my plans. I’m planning on having you with me at the party.”

  I called both Sarah and Beth as soon as I got home. We have confided our most intimate moments for as long as we’ve known each other. When we were younger, especially when we lived together in college, no detail of our romantic and sexual adventures was off limits. We felt entitled to know everything about each other’s boyfriends—their sexual talents and techniques, their fantasies, their inhibitions. Over the years, though, the tenor of our discussions about men has changed. Beth, who in college had regaled us with hilarious tales about the limited sexual repertoire of her boyfriend, “the most repressed psychology major on earth,” stopped talking about her sex life when she married Jim. Sarah, well known in our dorm for her comprehensive lecture on the fine points of fellatio, has never told me about the role that sex played in her divorce, or how things are in bed with Kevin. Still, I knew I could say anything to them.

  “I’m crazy in love with this guy,” I said. “I know the geography is impossible, but I’ve never felt this way before. You need to help me believe this is real, give me hope that it can work.”

  They both said I had never sounded happier. And they couldn’t be happier for me.

  __________

  Peter came north in October, four days before Beth and Jim’s party. At Peter’s request, I guided him to some of my favorite Manhattan spots. We took a tour of the MOMA and spent an evening listening to Bobby Short sing at the Carlyle. Over drinks at the Plaza, we toasted the memory of his parents’ visit to Manhattan. We walked the streets of the West Village, stopping for paella at the Sevilla and cannoli at Ferrara’s. We strolled through Central Park, sauntered down Fifth Avenue, rode to the top of the Empire State Building.

  “Makes me think of An Affair to Remember,” I said.

  “I guess I should be glad I don’t remind you of King Kong,” he laughed.

  And after each sightseeing foray, we raced back to my apartment and made love. The night of the party, we took the train to Connecticut. At the Gillians’ house, their children, Adam and Nicole, greeted us at the front door.

  “Hi, Aunt Miriam,” Nicole said. “You look so pretty.”

  I introduced Peter to them.

  “Nice to meet you both,” Peter said. “You know, I’ve never been to Connecticut before.”

  “Where are you from?” Adam asked. “You have an accent, sort of.”

  “Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you,” Peter said. Adam and Nicole giggled.

  I looked around the living room for Violet and Sarah. Violet had just started dating Grant, and she had brought him with her from Florida. Sarah had come alone. I spotted the three of them at the bar that had been set up near the grand piano.

  “How are the multi-state commutes going?” Violet asked us.

  “She’s exhausting me,” said Peter. “I’m just a country boy. This big-city pace is too much. I can barely keep up with her.”

  “Don’t let him kid you,” I said. “He’s got more energy than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  Beth and Jim were working the room, greeting guests and leading them to food and drinks.

  “Everything under control here?” Beth asked as she and Jim approached us.

  “More or less,” said Sarah. “These two,” she pointed at Peter and me, “may need some supervision, though.”

  “Oh, good,” Jim said. “Will you guys do something shocking to liven things up? Take off your clothes and jump into the pool, perhaps?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining about how it would feel to swim naked with Peter in the Gillians’ pool.

  “Your house is so unusual,” Peter said to Jim. “Did you design it yourself?”

  “Yes, with help from my college roommate, who’s now an architect,” Jim said. “Harold designed the original house and all the renovations we’ve made over the years.”

  “Gee, I wish I had a college roommate who did something useful,” said Sarah. “Mine have chosen the so-called helping professions. Teacher and shrink. And me a writer. Why didn’t any of us do something practical with our lives? Plumber, maybe? Divorce lawyer! Now, that would be a great roommate to have!”

  “I handle some divorce in my practice,” said Grant. “I’m not sure I’m such a good roommate, though.”

  “No comment,” Violet said, winking at him.

  We started toward the buffet table. Beth pulled me aside.

  “How’s it going?” she whispered. “I’d almost forgotten how handsome Peter is.”

  “Everything is great,” I said. “Except he leaves tomorrow.”

  “Don’t think about it now. Enjoy the night.”

  Peter and I filled our plates and found a quiet table in a corner of the living room. Violet and Grant joined us, and then Sarah made her way to the table, bringing with her a couple who introduced themselves as Mark and Ellen, “country club friends” of the Gillians.

  “Our hosts have requested that we do something scandalous and memorable tonight,” I said to them. “Do you have any suggestions? We’re not from Connecticut, so we don’t know what would shock you.”

  “Let’s see,” said Mark. “You’ll have to go a long way to beat the scene at the Laurel Falls Club a few weeks ago. In front of about a hundred people in the lounge one night, this guy we know, in his fifties, jumped on the bar, got down on one knee, and loudly proposed marriage to his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend who was sitting on a stool
in front of him. All eyes, of course, turned to her. She said, ‘Uh, no. I don’t think so.’ Just like that. Then she marched out. They haven’t spoken since, from what I understand. Sure was memorable.”

  “I’ll bet we can do better,” Sarah said. “Come on, folks, let’s be creative.”

  “How about this,” Peter said. He turned to me. “Miriam, I’d like to invite you to Savannah.”

  “I’ve already been to Savannah,” I said. “Nothing shocking about that.”

  “I thought we should try being together for a lot longer than a weekend,” he said.

  No one said anything for a few moments, and then Sarah broke the silence.

  “You win, Peter,” she said. “Memorable and, if you look at Miriam’s face you’ll agree, shocking as well.”

  “Miriam is not shocked,” I said carefully, as if I were talking about someone else, a character in a movie. “But Miriam lives in New York, and Miriam has a job . . .”

  “Miriam is on sabbatical, remember?” said Peter.

  Mark and Ellen exchanged looks that told me my current life would soon be the topic of discussion at the Laurel Falls Club. Sarah and Violet were watching me expectantly.

  “You know,” I finally said, “this is the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  I don’t recall any more about the party. I remember Peter and me on the train back to Manhattan, then lying together in my bed. I curled up in his arms, feeling the easy rhythm of his heartbeat. How could he sleep? My mind was darting wildly between cosmic thoughts about how the rest of my life would go (Does he love me? Does this mean he wants to get married?) to ridiculous, mundane details of preparing a move to Savannah (Should I sublet my apartment? Will I need my winter coat?).

  I got out of bed at sunrise and sat at my kitchen table. I heard the newspaper being delivered at the door. Would I be able to have the New York Times delivered to my door in Savannah? I was on my third cup of coffee when Peter appeared in the kitchen.

  “You look like a woman with a lot on your mind,” he said.

  “I’ve been up all night, trying to decide what to say to you.”

  “Don’t say anything now. Take this week to think. We could have some fun, you know, if you’ll say yes.”

  “How did you know I wouldn’t just turn you down flat last night? Or walk out? After the story about that poor guy hopping on the bar at the country club . . .”

  “That man didn’t know his woman very well. I wouldn’t have asked if I thought there was a prayer of your walking out on the spot. Of course, I was secretly hoping you’d say yes right then.”

  “Just give me a little time. Listen, you’d better get dressed. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  __________

  “I understand I missed the highlight of my own party,” Beth said on the phone.

  “You wanted something memorable? Your friends Mark and Ellen will be talking about the evening for some time to come.”

  “Tell me everything. I want to hear it from you.”

  “He wants us to try living together. It’s all so crazy right now, I can’t think straight. I love him, Beth, but he hasn’t said he loves me.”

  “You know how men are. Maybe he thinks that he’s showing you he loves you by how he behaves.”

  “I can’t just walk away from this, but I need something more from him before I give up my life here. I can’t go without some kind of commitment.”

  “You don’t have to give up your life. Why don’t you go to Savannah with the idea that this is a rehearsal? Give yourself through, say, New Year’s, to see how it works. What do you have to lose?”

  “On one hand, it seems so right, but maybe I’m just letting great sex—and I do mean great sex—and the romance of it all guide me, but . . .”

  Beth laughed. “You are seeing yourself as a character in a movie, the romantic movie you’ve wanted to star in all your life. Look, if it turns out that there’s nothing lasting here, you’ll know by New Year’s. I don’t want to encourage you to do something dangerous, but I think you’ll regret it if you don’t give this a try.”

  “I feel like I’m jumping off a cliff.”

  “Of course, you must. But we’ll all be here to catch you if need be. Don’t you think it’s incredible that you happen to be on your sabbatical right now and you’re free to go? Maybe it’s a sign from the heavens that this was meant to be.”

  “How comforting. The New York City public school gods are smiling on my love life.”

  I packed a few cartons of my things and shipped them to Peter’s house. I left my ficus tree and the contents of my freezer with Thomas and Wayne next door. I filled out the Post Office form for forwarding my mail to Savannah, hesitating when I had to indicate if this change of address was “temporary” or “permanent.” I checked “temporary,” and on the line that said, “Until what date?” I wrote January 1, which was exactly two months away.

  __________

  It’s funny how memory works, how some events are preserved forever in your mind, while others dissolve. Physical pain, for example, is an experience that can be remembered only second-hand. You’ll pass out before agony devours you. The same is true of emotional trauma. Mother Nature eliminates the stinging sensations from your memory bank. You can talk about having been hurt, but you can’t re-create the pain. Selective memory protects you, doctors say.

  On the other hand, I remember almost every student I’ve taught. More than twenty years of young faces, smiling or sullen, and I can put a name to most of them. But much of the time I spent in Savannah, desperately hopeful and in love, is a blur of shapes and sounds that stubbornly remain out of my mind’s reach. Like a narrator in my own life, I can recount a version of tender and happy moments with Peter, but I can’t re-create the exact feelings. Like a patient who recovers from a gunshot wound, I can talk about how I felt when the pain relented a little. The details are mostly lost, the fine print barely legible. Yet a pervasive sorrow and jagged feelings, like shards of glass, still linger in my heart. What does that say about Mother Nature? And more, what does it say about me? Selective memory, I should like to tell the doctors, is sometimes not selective enough.

  __________

  Peter and I settled quickly into a comfortable routine living together in Savannah. He spent most mornings in his studio or at the college. I read, rented movies, took his car for drives into town to learn my way around. Some days, his talkative neighbor Winnie stopped by for a visit, often bringing samples of her baking. Once a week, Miss Emma had us to lunch. Peter took me sailing every weekend. I met his colleagues and friends. With rare exception, though, I can no longer distinguish one day from another.

  I do remember the first time Peter told me he loved me. It was the only time he ever said so during a moment when we weren’t actually making love. We were on his sailboat, watching a glorious sunset. He stood behind me with his hands around my waist. “I love you, Miriam,” he murmured. I turned around to see his face, but he was looking straight ahead, focused on the deepening purple sky.

  A few weeks after I arrived in Savannah, Peter had to leave town for an assignment in Montana. He said he’d be gone for five days.

  “I’d invite you along, but I don’t think the accommodations will be too comfortable,” he said. “Do you mind being here alone?”

  “I’ll be pining away for you the whole time! I’ll just read some trashy novels, get my nails done, and dream up something enticing for when you return.”

  “Mmmm. Best cure for jet lag I can think of.”

  __________

  One morning while Peter was away, Winnie rapped at the back door.

  “Right from the oven,” she said, handing me a warm covered plate. “You should eat these before they get cold.”

  Winnie joined me at the glass table in the dining room.

  “I’m putting toget
her a weekend package to the Keys,” Winnie said. She was a semi-retired travel agent who worked from an office in her house. “Peter loves Key West. You should talk him into signing both of you up.”

  “Winnie, these are delicious,” I said, biting into one of her buttermilk biscuits. “When is the trip?”

  “In early February. But knowing Peter, he’ll wait until the last minute. I’ve booked most of his travel for years, and he drives me crazy. Because of him, I’ve become Savannah’s expert on getting last-minute reservations.”

  “Peter does like to be spontaneous.”

  “My late husband Bert was a psychologist. He once called Peter an excitement junkie. Peter took it as a compliment, but I’m not sure it was meant as one. When Peter delays making plans for his trips, I think about what my Bert said about him: it’s as if he can’t commit to anything because something more exciting could turn up.”

  Winnie must have seen the dark look on my face.

  “Oh, Honey, don’t take this wrong. I love Peter. And I’m sure you will be happy together. I can see the way he looks at you. Was there ever a more romantic man?”

  When Winnie left, I grabbed the keys to Peter’s car and drove myself to a nearby mall. I bought a lavender lace teddy and some new perfume. That should take care of his jet lag.

  I rented a copy of It’s a Wonderful Life and watched it that night, alone in Peter’s bed. I replayed, again and again, the scene when Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed fall in love as they share a phone receiver. The look on Jimmy Stewart’s face as he catches the scent of her hair filled me with longing for something indescribable that I knew was missing from my life.

  “Michelle will be here for the holidays,” Peter said when he returned. He had spoken to his daughter on the phone. “She’s flying in on Christmas day.”