‘Great timing,’ Richard said under his breath.
‘Whoever it is clearly wants to speak to you.’
‘To hell with it.’
‘Take it,’ I said, thinking maybe it was some update on Billy, and he needed to be on the other end of the line.
Richard fished into his bathrobe pocket, squinted at the screen, then answered the call.
‘Oh yeah, hi there,’ he said to whoever was on the other end. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you until . . . I see . . . that was fast . . . right . . . and? . . . really?. . . . just like that? . . . yeah, that makes sense . . . well then, there we are . . . that’s right . . . see you then . . . and yeah, I remember this address . . . and a very good morning to you too.’
He ended the call, his lips pursed in a near smile.
‘Good news?’ I asked.
‘Very good news.’
‘Tell me.’
Now the part-smile became a full smile.
‘The apartment is ours.’
Three
WE GOT OUT of bed again around midday. This was such new territory for me – the constant need to be making love, to have my love deep inside me. Yes, I remember, all those years ago with Eric, the way we were always falling into bed during those first heady months of our romance. This was coupled with the discovery of sex: the wide-eyed wonder at the pleasure of all that intimate friction, of bodies electric; the sheer animalistic abandon that accompanied the act itself. Even after this initial discovery period – heightened with that overwhelming feeling of being truly in love for the first time – there was still a desire that never abated. I cannot remember a night when we didn’t make love – and there was always this infectious delight in having each other day in, day out.
With Dan . . . well, the sex was just that. Sex. Pleasant. Reasonable. Semi-engaged, but never infused with the sort of passion that was ever transporting. I knew this from the outset – and accepted it as cosmic payback for losing the man I so adored. And then, when I got pregnant . . .
But I remember holding Ben for the first time after the delivery, and crying as I saw my son, and knowing immediately that, even if this child was not made in love, my love for him would be absolute, unconditional. Just as I felt the same way when Sally arrived two years later. So the passion I have for everything to do with Ben and Sally has always counterbalanced the lack of passion in the marriage.
Richard reported to me that his own marriage was even more sexually moribund than mine; that he and his wife only ‘coupled’ (her verb of choice, he told me) two or three times a year, and that he had essentially closed down that part of his life.
And then we came together. And . . .
I am not very experienced in the wider world of sex. Even Lucy was shocked to learn that Eric and Dan were the only two men I had ever slept with. She herself could count eight lovers ‘before, during and after my bad marriage . . . and the fact that I can count them all on less than two hands makes me think I really should have been having more sex with more men at that point when it wasn’t so damn hard to meet the sort of men you want to be having sex with, rather than the nightmares who only seem to be on offer to middle-aged women living in small Maine towns’.
I had to laugh when she told me this. Just as it also fueled a larger encroaching despair I’d had for years about the lukewarm physical life I had with Dan. Until he lost his job we made love at least three nights a week. Even if it was, at best, thermal and adequate, at least it was there. But when he lost his job, his libido also went south.
Making love with Richard was nothing less than revelatory. In the three, four times we had fallen into bed since arriving here yesterday evening, the profundity of the act itself – the way it so expressed the overpowering love we had just discovered and now shared – seemed only to augment and grow every time we were entwined together. Feeling him move inside me didn’t just trigger an eruption of sensuality so far beyond anything in my past experience; it was also so palpably intimate. What was even more extraordinary was the fact that this conjoining, this total fusion, was so immediate. From the very moment he first entered me.
‘I never want to leave this bed,’ I whispered as we clung to each other afterwards.
‘Well, we can stay here all day then.’
‘There is the little problem of all our things at our respective rooms back at the God-awful hotel. Sorry to raise this dreary practicality . . . but won’t they want us checked out of there by midday . . . which is kind of now? And my car is still there.’
‘Yes, that thought did cross my mind. But I use that place all the time and know all the duty managers there. So I’ll give one of them a call in a few minutes, and see if I can negotiate a late checkout . . . or even offer to tip one of the maids twenty bucks if she’ll pack up everything for us. Then we can run over there and pick everything up later this afternoon.’
‘A change of clothes and a hairbrush would be welcome. But this suite is a fortune. And we certainly don’t have to stay here tonight. In fact, we could—’
‘We’re staying here tonight,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve spent far too much of my life being cautious about money. And what has such frugality finally given me?’
‘Well, it’s given you the money to buy that apartment – and change your life.’
‘True – but I should have been really living before this weekend. I’ve gone nowhere, seen so very little. Haven’t been to a concert or a play in years.’
‘But you have been reading.’
‘The cheap escape route. It’s like what Voltaire said about marriage – it’s the only adventure available for the coward.’
‘But the fact that you can quote Voltaire—’
‘Big deal.’
‘Tell me another insurance man from Bath, Maine – or anywhere else for that matter – who can do that. Anyway, now that we’ll be here, in Boston, much of the time, there’s a great orchestra here. There are great museums, good theatres. We can do all that. And here’s another thing I was going to mention earlier – all right, I will probably use around two-thirds of my overdue vacation money from the hospital to help top up Ben and Sally’s college tuitions next year. But that will still leave me maybe seven or eight thousand dollars. Why don’t we go to Paris for six weeks on that?’
‘Paris,’ he said, mouthing the word as if it was almost proscribed; the reverie he’d never dared articulate. ‘You serious?’
‘Just last week, before you turned my life upside down in the most amazing way, I spent an evening at home, looking at short-term rentals in Paris. Traveling vicariously, so to speak. We could find a very nice studio in an area like the Marais for around five hundred dollars a week. Airfares – if we book well in advance – are around six hundred each. You can eat well and reasonably in Paris. And the studio will have a kitchen . . . so, yes, we could do a month and a half on seven thousand. I would negotiate with whatever hospital down here took me on to ensure that I’d either have six weeks’ unpaid leave sometime during the first year – or, better yet, to push back my starting date until after Paris. In fact, if the apartment renovations might not be finished until early February we could go to France right after Christmas . . .’
‘Paris,’ he said again. ‘Six weeks in Paris. I never thought that possible.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Let’s do it then.’
I kissed him, then said:
‘Well, that was quite a difficult negotiation.’
He laughed.
‘Nothing with you is difficult,’ he said.
‘And nothing with us will ever be difficult. I know that sounds maybe like far too much wishful thinking. But the truth is we’ve both done difficult. We’ve both done circumscribed lives. And now . . .’
‘The art of the possible.’
‘Exactly. In fact, that must be our credo. Those five words. The art of the possible.’
‘It’s a good modus vivendi.’
‘The best.’
Hi Mom – still in Boston? Working flat out on new painting, and have run out of a certain azure blue I really need. Can’t be found in Maine, so I get it from an art supply place in Boston. Would cost me mucho to get it here by Tuesday. If you could pick up today and drop at Portland Museum of Art on your way home, Trevor will be there tomorrow at noon and can collect it. Sorry to be a pain. Would be doing me huge favor. You’re the best. Love – Ben
Immediately I called Ben.
‘You’re up early,’ I said when he answered on the third ring.
‘Very funny, Mom,’ he said, his voice all amused irony. ‘You evidently got my text.’
‘I’m thrilled the new painting’s coming together so brilliantly.’
‘Don’t use the word “brilliant”, please. It might jinx it. But Trevor –’ Trevor Lathrop, his visual art professor and all-purpose mentor at Farmington – ‘is rather enthusiastic. For him that’s big. Anyway, if you could get the paint . . .’
‘I’m still in Boston, as I’ve decided to stay on and see an old friend tonight.’
‘And miss Dad’s middle-of-the-night send-off tomorrow to L.L.Bean’s?’ he said, his tone light, but clearly pointed.
‘I do feel guilty about that.’
‘Considering how you’ve been carrying the entire financial burden for the past two years . . .’
‘It wasn’t your father’s fault that he was let go during a cutback.’
‘But it was his decision to act like an ill-tempered grump all that time. Even now. I called him last night to say hello, make a gesture and all that, and the guy asked me standard-issue questions about school and stuff, “You feelin’ OK?”, that kind of “tick the boxes with your son” conversation . . . then when I asked him about the new job, he got all mealy-mouthed and sullen. All I could think was: Who’s the adolescent here?’
‘You’re hardly an adolescent, Ben.’
‘I’m only beginning to understand what you’ve been dealing with for years.’
‘That’s a conversation for another time. On which note . . . say I dropped by to see you sometime next weekend.’
‘Here’s a better idea. I get a lift down to Portland on Saturday and we hang out for the afternoon and evening. And you can take me to dinner at that groovy Italian place we both like.’
‘It’s a date.’
‘You sound in a good place, Mom.’
‘Actually I am.’
‘Not that you’ve ever sounded like you’re in a bad place. I mean, you could give lessons about “putting a good face on things”. Still, nice to hear a hint of upbeat in your voice.’
Time to change the subject.
‘So give me all the details about the paint you need, the shop, and all that.’
Ben told me that when I got to the art supply store, just opposite Boston University on the Fenway, I was to ask for a guy named Norm ‘who’s been running this place since the nineteenth century’ and always mixed up the azure blue exactly the way Ben needed it.
‘The thing about Norm – he will never mix the paint until he has cash in hand, or a credit card number that works. And he’s only open until four p.m. today. But I’ll call him and say you’re coming . . . if you’re sure that’s not going to be too much hassle.’
‘You’re my son, Ben. It’s no hassle. And I can drop the paints off at the Museum of Art in Portland tomorrow.’
‘I’ll also phone Trevor and tell him to meet you there at twelve noon if that works.’
‘I’ve got the day off – so, yes, that works just fine. Give him my cell number and text me his. And I’ll text you this afternoon when I have the paint.’
‘You’re a star, Mom.’
As I put down the phone I found myself beaming. Richard came in from the next room.
‘So they’ve got a chambermaid at the other hotel, packing up both our rooms. I talked them into letting you leave your car there until tomorrow. And that phone call must have been a happy one, as you have the biggest smile imaginable on your face.’
I told him about the exchange with Ben, leaving out his comments about his father. I could see Richard again trying to get thoughts about his own son out of his head.
‘He so obviously recognizes what an amazing mother you’ve been to him.’
‘He’s quite the amazing son. And I really think – if he can keep his nerve and not give in to all that self-doubt, and can also get out of Maine for a number of years and really keep upping his game – he’s going to be important one day. Maybe even major.’
‘With you behind him . . .’
‘He still has to do it all himself.’
‘Without you having to tell me anything I know that you’re the parent who’s been there for him.’
‘All I know is this – I’m the parent who needs to pick up some special paints for him this afternoon.’
I explained all the details about the particular shade of blue that this particular art supply dealer mixes up near Fenway Park, and how I had to be there by around three p.m., as the shop closes an hour later, and my son’s major new masterwork – Hey, I’m his mother – was awaiting completion.
‘Well, you clearly need to be up there at three,’ Richard said. ‘So here’s a plan . . .’
We decided that, after lunch, Richard would jump the T out to the airport and I’d head up to the other side of town and pick up Ben’s paints, then we’d reconvene back here at the room around five.
But first we had a shower together, soaping each other up, kissing wildly under the cascading water, clinging to each other, promising to be always there for each other, repeating how much we loved each other, talking with an emotional freedom and openness that I had lost decades ago and never thought I would find again.
After dressing I sent a fast text to Sally:
Spending an extra day in Boston, playing hooky from the workaday world. How did the evening in Portland go? Love you – Mom
Bing. Back came the reply.
Concert was boring. Have an essay now to write on Edith Wharton. B-o-r-i-n-g. Dad says you have hangover. Cool.
My daughter the purveyor of a literary style that could best be described as ‘sullen adolescent minimalist’. I dreaded to think the volcanic reaction that would follow my revelation to her about the major upheaval that was going to change the contours of our family life. But first . . . there was the rest of this wonderful weekend to get through.
Richard’s phone binged a few times when we were dressing. He glanced in a cursory manner at the screen but chose to send no replies.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
‘Just some business stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this client – has about five hardware stores in the Lewiston/Auburn area – thinks he can call me day or night when he’s got a claim on the go. The thing is, one of his warehouses burned down three weeks ago. A disgruntled employee lit the match. The guy’s still on the run. My client suffered close to four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Between ourselves, because he’s had a couple of bad years, the insurance inspectors and the cops are wondering whether he might have talked the “disgruntled employee” into playing arsonist.’
‘You are going to write this story, right?’
‘Actually, it does have a nice James M. Cain feel to it . . .’
‘Especially if you could add a femme fatale to it.’
‘You amaze me,’ he said.
‘Because I know who James M. Cain is?’
‘Because you’re so insanely smart.’
I kissed him.
‘Almost as smart as you.’
He kissed me.
‘You’re smarter,’ he said.
I kissed him.
‘
You’re being kind.’
He kissed me.
‘Just accurate.’
‘I so love you.’
‘I so love you.’
On the way out of the hotel Richard stopped by the front desk to tell the woman there that we’d be staying in the suite another night. She checked its availability and said: ‘No problem.’
The gods were, without question, with us. Especially as we stepped out into another dazzling autumn day. The sun incandescent. The sky devoid of clouds. A light wind cascading the fallen leaves. The city spread out before us, so welcoming, so freighted with the great possibilities. Richard took my hand as we crossed into the Common.
‘Just yesterday . . .’ I said.
‘Just yesterday . . .’
He didn’t have to complete the thought. Just yesterday the world was different. And today . . .
‘Let’s go back and look at the outside of the apartment,’ I said.
‘I’m for that.’
We walked hand in hand across the Common, talking, talking, talking. About getting down here the weekend after next to meet with Richard’s contractor friend to discuss the renovations on the apartment. And also finding out who was conducting the Boston Symphony Orchestra that weekend, and trying to get seats. And yes, we would finally get to the Institute of Contemporary Arts that weekend. And we should also find out what’s going on at one of the interesting professional theater companies around town.
‘Leave all that to me,’ I said. ‘I’ll play Cultural Event Organizer.’
‘And I’ll find us the hotel and arrange the appointment with my builder friend from Dorchester, Pat Laffan. Surprise, surprise, Pat is a retired Boston Irish cop turned builder. A rather plain-spoken guy, Pat, but reasonably honest . . . which is rare to find in a builder.’
‘We could also start looking at furniture then . . . if that isn’t rushing things.’
‘I like the fact that we’re rushing things. We’re right to be rushing things.’
Ah, romantic discourse! How we both revelled in it – like two strangers who had separately thought: I’ll never master the French language, and then woke up next to each other one morning to discover they were speaking it together with a fluency and a confidence that had seemed impossible before then. How we both wanted this love. How we both knew it was so right. I wanted to gush romantic. Just as I also wanted to tell myself that the shared will to make this wonderful was so immense that we were naturally going to cohabit beautifully and deal with the usual domestic stuff with an ease and a grace that comes out of knowing what a sad marriage is like on a year-in, year-out basis.
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