What More Could You Wish For

by Samantha Hoffman

  To my fiancée,

  He’d drawn a smiley face here. A smiley face.

  I went to play racquetball, then I have a couple of showings, then a meeting this afternoon at the office. I might be a little late—might have to meet you at your parents’ house as close to six as I can. I’ll call you later.

  I love you.

  I did what I always do in times of crisis: called Sophie, who’d been my best friend since we were fourteen.

  “I was just going to call you,” she said. “Happy birthday. I’m so glad you’re older than me. So how does it feel to be fifty?”

  “You’ll find out for yourself in three months, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “Three long months,” she said. “And I’m going to lord that over you every second.”

  “I know you will. You live for those pitiful months,” I said. “Hey, you know how Michael and I always say how much we like our arrangement; having our own places but spending half the week together, being committed but happily unmarried?”

  “Okay, are you trying to make me jealous just because I’m younger than you?”

  I laughed. “Well, get this: Michael proposed last night and gave me a three-carat diamond.”

  Silence. “Soph?” I said.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “Well, that’s great. I’m excited. Just don’t make me wear a pink dress with puffy sleeves again.”

  She’d been my maid of honor twice, but only once in pink. Both times in puffy sleeves, though.

  “I don’t think I want to get married.”

  “You said no to three carats?”

  “Not exactly.” I told her about the evening, how I’d felt railroaded into saying yes.

  “Well, give it some more thought before you do anything. Don’t get hung up on the way he did it. He was just being romantic.”

  “Michael’s not exactly a romantic guy.”

  “I always thought he had it in him. Think about it a little, Lib. Maybe third time’s the charm.”

  “Or not. Maybe three strikes and you’re out.”

  “You can’t count the first two,” she said. “You married Jeremy when you were twenty, too young to know what you were doing.”

  “You were twenty-one when you married Pete and you’re still married,” I pointed out.

  “I was always more mature,” she said. “Besides, we’re not talking about me. So, scratch Jeremy. Then you married Wally on the rebound, so he doesn’t count either. Michael counts. He’s not like either of them. He’ll be a great husband.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s solid, responsible, nice looking, kind. Should I go on?” She didn’t wait for my reply. “Generous, sweet, smart, everyone loves him…”

  “Okay, so I’ll manage his political campaign.”

  “He’s a good guy and he’d do anything for you and you get along great. What more could you wish for?”

  “Shining armor? A white horse?”

  “Oh, hon, that’s for kids. And that stuff doesn’t last anyway.”

  “So now I don’t get passion, I get peace instead, is that the idea? Security instead of excitement? Comfort instead of romance?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is that what happens when you’re fifty?”

  “It’s what happens, period. It’s what you end up with anyway, if you’re lucky. It’s nice, Lib.”

  “Nice? Seems pretty boring to me.”

  “This doesn’t sound like you. What’s this all about? You’re crazy about Michael.”

  “I am,” I said. “Michael’s great. We have a nice relationship and it’s nice the way it is. But marriage? I don’t know. I don’t exactly have that can’t-live-without-him kind of feeling.”

  I’d never had that with Michael, not even when we first met. It wasn’t that I didn’t like being with him or didn’t look forward to seeing him. I did, of course, but I never had that frantic will-he-call-me-does-he-like-me kind of craziness. And I liked that. It made things so much simpler.

  * * *

  I met Michael at a 5K race. The weather had been warm that day, but a soft drizzle was coming down and the skies looked like they might open up any minute. Since the race was only three miles, the runners seemed pretty motivated to clock a fast time before the downpour. The gun went off and we started the scenic course through the park and around the lake. I went out too fast as I usually do when I race, getting caught up in the excitement and competition. My legs and lungs were feeling the stress of my effort by the second mile and I slowed a bit to take in more air. A few people passed me, which always annoyed me, especially toward the end of a race, but I didn’t have it in me to kick it up. Then two women passed, one much younger than I but the other a woman in my age group, someone I often saw at various races and who always finished ahead of me. She wore a red baseball cap and her ponytail waved like a hand through the vent in the back. If I increase my pace just a little, I thought, I can beat this woman for once, place in my age group and win a medal. The last half mile was a straightaway and when I saw the banner across the finish line far in front of me I knew I could do it, so I set my sights on that banner and kicked into gear.

  There was one last water stop on my right, a long table with volunteers wearing blue Windbreakers handing out plastic cups of water. Discarded cups littered the ground. I did a little dance step to avoid a bouquet of them in front of me and landed wrong, twisting my ankle as I went down.

  I crumpled to my knees in pain, people running past me, a blur of colorful racing clothes and bib numbers. Red Cap’s ponytail waved goodbye as she moved confidently toward the finish line.

  “Shit.”

  Several people from the water stop ran over to help, one a wiry guy with thin, gray hair and a mustache, a take-charge kind of guy, older than the others. “I’ve got it covered,” he told them and sent everyone back to man the table. He checked my ankle expertly, his manner no-nonsense and professional.

  “It doesn’t feel like you broke anything,” he said. “Probably just a sprain. But you might want to have it X-rayed in any case.”

  “I’m fine,” I said brusquely, then nearly collapsed again as I put weight on the foot. That’s when the skies opened up. Big time. Like someone had turned on a spigot. Within seconds we were drenched.

  “Let me help you,” he said, and supported me as I hobbled to the finish line, where a tent was set up with Gatorade and bagels. Once we were under cover, he deposited me in a corner away from the stomping feet of the finishers and went to get some dry towels and an ACE bandage. Nice-looking man, I thought, as I watched him rummage efficiently through the boxes. I liked his competence.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a plastic bag filled with ice. “You need to keep that on your ankle for about half an hour and then we’ll wrap it in the ACE bandage. You should elevate it, too, if we can find something to prop your leg on.” He looked around the tent, grabbed a plastic milk crate and positioned it under my leg with the ice pack.

  “Are you a doctor?” I asked.

  “No, no. But I’ve sprained my share of ankles.” He smiled and put out his hand. “Michael Dean,” he said.

  “Elizabeth Carson.” I shook his hand.

  “If it hurts a lot or the swelling gets intense, it could be a fracture.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I appreciate your help. Glad you were there.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were there. Not glad you sprained your ankle, but you did save me from standing out in that downpour.”

  I laughed, conscious now of how I looked with my dripping hair plastered to my head like seaweed. “Well, glad to be of assistance.” I was starting to come down from my frustration and disappointment. It was only a race after all, and there were races every weekend. “You look like a runner,” I said. “How come you’re not running in this?”

  “My running days are behind me. Bad knees. Now I just volunteer. Trying to get a contact runner’s high, I guess.”

  He was ge
ntle as he wrapped my ankle, winding the bandage tightly and fastening it with that little silver gizmo. Then he helped me to my feet.

  “How does it feel?” he asked as I put a little weight on it.

  “Not too bad.” I looked up at him. “Thanks again for your help.”

  “Do you need a lift home?”

  “No. I appreciate it but I’ve got my car here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess since it’s your left ankle I have to let you drive.”

  “Well, thanks for your help, Doc,” I said.

  He laughed and put out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Elizabeth.”

  “Libby,” I said. His grasp was firm but gentle, his hand warm. “It was nice meeting you, too.” I started to go but he held on to my hand, and I turned to look at him questioningly, at his friendly eyes and warm, kind smile.

  He hesitated, just the briefest moment, and then asked, “Would you like to have dinner sometime, Libby? Or are you married?”

  “Not married,” I said, and happiness floated over his expression. “I’d love to have dinner sometime.”

  So we did—sushi, it turned out—and Michael was charming. He was great company; easy to talk to and attentive, with lovely manners and a quick laugh. My heart didn’t palpitate when I looked into his brown eyes, but I felt safe and relaxed with him. I was enormously attracted by his affability and thoughtfulness, and our life together ever since had had a comforting orderliness to it.

  My friends and family loved Michael and thought he was the perfect guy for me, which normally would have sent me running in the other direction, but this time I thought perhaps they were right. Our relationship seemed adult to me. I guess I thought that was what happened when you were older, and I liked it.

  Then.

  “Well, think about it,” Sophie said now. “Is there anything you can’t live without at this stage in your life? Or anyone? We’re not kids anymore. Think about your future. Think about what it would be like if you didn’t have someone to share your life and grow old with.”

  “I do think about that.” I pictured me and Rufus sitting in a rocking chair in a dim room that smelled of peppermint and cat food. “I haven’t said no,” I told her. “You’re right, I do need to give it more thought. I will. Just don’t tell anyone yet, okay? Not even Pete.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  Yeah, right.

  Three

  It was a beautiful morning. I laced up my running shoes and headed out through the neighborhood toward the forest preserve path. The sky was a clear pale blue with feathered clouds off in the distance. I pulled the freshness into my lungs and relished the peace. The air smelled pure, like pine and sunshine, and felt cool on my skin.

  It was early and silent. Newspapers still lay rolled up on porches and stoops. One rested on top of a shrub. I loved my neighborhood with its mature trees and houses that weren’t cookie cutter, unlike the new, treeless housing developments. Mostly the houses here were bungalows in varying styles—some Queen Anne, some Prairie, many with dormers and leaded glass. Every so often there was one in need of a little TLC, but generally they were well tended with tidy yards.

  As I got closer to the forest preserve, the houses changed in style, becoming a bit larger, more elegant. On Cherry Street I ran past my favorite: a white, two-story colonial with a wraparound porch, a white picket fence, lace curtains, and window boxes that were filled with bright red geraniums in the summertime. It was right out of Father Knows Best. I’d never seen any signs of life, but imagined the woman of the house in a blue shirtwaist with an apron and pearls, serving piping-hot pancakes with big fat squares of melting butter to her smiling, fresh-faced family.

  You couldn’t help but be happy in a house like that. I’d always thought that if a For Sale sign went up I’d buy it and live happily ever after with the ready-made family who would move in with me. Now, at fifty, that fantasy needed readjustment.

  The forest preserve path was peaceful when I reached it, with just a couple of other runners. Michael didn’t like me to run this path. He thought it dangerous for a woman alone and said I should run on streets where there were people and cars. But it always felt safe to me, and tranquil, so I just didn’t tell him that I did it.

  I thought about what Sophie had said, that I needed to give Michael’s proposal serious thought before making a decision. It would be nice to grow old with someone. I did want that. But for some reason it was hard to envision living with Michael, let alone being married to him, and what did that say about our relationship? In all the time we’d been together we’d only talked once or twice about getting married, and then just briefly.

  The first time was after we’d been together a couple of months. We’d gone downtown for brunch at Luxbar and then taken a walk up North State Parkway, stopping in front of the yellow rowhouses just north of Division. They were gorgeous. Most of Michael’s business was in the suburbs of Chicago, but occasionally he got a listing downtown. And he knew a lot about the buildings and the architecture.

  “These row houses were built in 1875, Lib,” he told me. “They’re spectacular historic buildings and they’ve all been modernized. Really amazing. I saw one a couple years ago on a Realtor’s tour. Incredible.”

  “You should buy one,” I said. “What a great place to live.”

  “I think they’re a bit over my budget.” He’d looked at me. “But if you went in on it with me…”

  I’d laughed. “I could maybe afford the first-floor bathroom.”

  He put his arm around me as we walked on, admiring the brownstones with their wrought-iron balconies and huge bay windows.

  “Have you ever thought about living downtown?” Michael asked.

  “I have, actually. I’d love to. Just not sure I could afford it. How about you?”

  “Yeah, I think I would. I don’t think I’d want to do it by myself, but it would be nice to start a new adventure with someone by my side.” He looked at me and smiled, raising his eyebrows Groucho Marx style. “Ya know what I mean?”

  I smiled. What did he mean? Was he thinking we should move in together? Already?

  “Do you think you’d ever get married again?” he asked.

  Holy crap.

  I stopped and turned to face him, forcing his arm to slip off my shoulder. “Whoa, slow down,” I’d said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack here.” I chuckled, but really, he was freaking me out.

  He studied me, I suppose to see if I was kidding. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not proposing. Honest. Just making conversation.”

  “Whew!” I said. “Let’s save this conversation for another time, okay? Maybe when we know more about each other than our favorite restaurant and what kind of vodka we prefer.”

  “I feel like I do know you,” he’d said. “It feels like I’ve known you for a long time.” He squeezed my hand. “But don’t worry, I’m not suggesting we elope or anything.”

  “Well thank god, because I have nothing to wear.” We continued walking, sunlight peeking through the trees, wind chimes tinkling. It was a clear, crisp day.

  “I have to warn you,” I said. “I’m a bit cynical about marriage. Relationships in general, I suppose. I’ve been married twice already and they didn’t take. I’m not chomping at the bit to give it another shot.” It wasn’t news to him that I was a two-time loser but I thought it bore repeating.

  “That’s cool,” he’d said. “I hear you. And I don’t want to scare you. It’s not that marriage is a big deal to me, but I guess something long term is.” He squeezed my hand. “And I’m not pushing that either. Time will tell, won’t it?”

  He didn’t bring up marriage again for a long time, and when he did, the conversations were always casual, not marry-me-or-else kind of conversations. In the meantime we’d settled in and had a nice, effortless life together as well as our lives apart. It worked for us. It was good, and it took some anxiety out of the relationship that there was no pressure to change our status, that
neither of us was worrying about what the other was thinking. And Michael had seemed content with the status quo.

  Until yesterday.

  Now my feet made a soft thump, thump, thumping sound on the dirt path. Leaves swayed in the light breeze. I thought about how I’d felt with Patrick Harrison so many years ago. There’s a huge difference between being seventeen years old and being fifty, I knew that. I was light-years beyond that kind of adolescent frenzy, but I really wished I felt some of the passion, had just a smidgeon of that out-of-control feeling I’d had back then.

  In all the excitement I’d forgotten to tell Sophie about seeing Patrick’s name on SearchForSchoolmates.com. She’d get a kick out of it. His was one of those names we’d often bring up in our nostalgic “Remember the time…” conversations.

  I thought about the first time I’d seen Patrick, at a Christmas party my senior year in high school. I’d been talking to Sophie and Pete, who was then her boyfriend, and I’d whispered, “Who’s that?” when Patrick walked in. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket with a silver chain hanging from his pocket. His hair was long, past his shoulders, much longer than the other guys wore it. Longer, even, than mine. He looked dangerous to me, and very sexy.

  Pete had waved him over and I’d stared at Sophie. “You know him?” She’d smiled.

  “Patrick, this is Libby,” Pete had said. Patrick’s eyes were soft and brown, and he looked at me in a way no boy ever had before, as if he recognized me from somewhere. It made me feel like I was the only girl in the room. I was appalled to feel myself blushing, but he smiled and took my hand, sending a tingle up my arm.

  He said, “Is it corny to say that you are truly beautiful?”

  “No!” Sophie said at the same time Pete said, “Yes,” and we all laughed. The air around us shimmered as the music pounded. “Come on,” Patrick said, “let’s dance.” He guided me into the middle of the crowd and we spent the rest of the evening together. Later, when I was in danger of missing my curfew, Patrick drove me home and I sat right up against him on the bench seat of his big black Ford.