“Good to see you, too, Max.” He hugged her for what felt like a minute too long. She turned slightly sideways, bump averted, then followed him to the table. Mirrors edged in seashells and colorful artwork lined the walls.
“How are you?” he asked, as if he were genuinely interested. “You look super.”
She took a deep breath to get her composure back. Had he noticed already? But apparently not. He leaned forward, put his chin on his hands, as if to drink her in, as if he hadn’t just traced the lines of her body a few months ago.
“Well, the flight was fine, aside from some early partiers. The island is gorgeous,” she quickly added. “I can see why you love it. Thank you again for the tickets.” She wanted to get that out on the table as quickly as possible.
“Good, good. You’re very welcome.” A waiter came up to their table, and Max ordered for them both, eggs Benedict and mimosas.
“Oh, just an orange juice for me, please. Straight up.” She laughed nervously. “But if you could throw in one of those cute little umbrellas?”
The waiter nodded. “Of course.”
“Too early for booze,” she explained.
“So, I thought we could start with a day of shopping at some of the street vendors,” Max began. “I know how much you like shopping. Then, if you’re feeling adventurous,” he paused, “I thought maybe we could try some snorkeling. It’s beautiful here. You won’t believe the fish. They’re out of this world. Or we could head over to St. Barts. It’s just a short plane ride away . . .”
The waiter placed their drinks before them. Ellen fidgeted in her chair. She hadn’t planned on grand adventures with Max; she was thinking a breakfast, maybe a dinner or two. After all, the man had given her the free tickets. But mainly, she was envisioning herself sitting on a lounge chaise, poolside, reading tabloids, resting her tired feet.
Max nudged her out of her reverie.
“Max,” she began. He leaned forward, bumping his mimosa so that the orangey liquid spilled onto the table.
The anticipation on his face was almost too much to bear.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night,” he began.
“Max, listen.”
“What?” He sat back. The poor man had no idea what she was about to hit him with. Would she? Could she?
“I flew down here because I thought it was the right thing to do—you know, to give you a chance to say whatever it is you have on your mind so we both can have closure once and for all. And to be honest, I was dying to see Sint Maarten or Saint Martin, whatever you call it. I’ve always heard it’s beautiful and it is.”
Max was biting his lower lip. She was buying time. Maybe she could get one nagging thing off her list before they got into the whole baby business.
“I want to let you say your piece. But as I sit here, I realize I also have something to ask you. It’s silly, I know, and I feel almost foolish for bringing it up, but it’s been bothering me for a while now.”
She was stretching the truth, but it was in pursuit of a greater truth. She took a sip of orange juice. Max waited. “Okay.”
“Do you remember Charlotte Moon? Henry’s wife? You know, the nursery guy?”
She watched a flicker cross his face, though she couldn’t tell of what.
Ellen continued. “Well, she fell in love with Henry and they had three kids. Life was blissful for them, I gather, until one day she was killed in a gruesome car accident, a missed stop sign by some drunk teenagers. I don’t suppose you remember it. It happened more than a year ago.”
His face blanched.
“I know, it was a terrible thing—dying that way,” she said. “Well, Henry was in love with her, even after twenty years of marriage.” Ellen paused and shook her head. “And so her passing turned him into a wreck. He used to come into my store looking as if it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed, and this was months later, mind you. All this time pining for her, and then one day, he opens up one of her books, and an e-mail falls out. I think it was The Grapes of Wrath, but that’s irrelevant.”
She paused to see if Max was getting any of this. He appeared not to hear her, to be looking right past her out the doorway.
“Henry hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch Charlotte’s things since her death. Kind of strange, right?”
Max nodded, stony-eyed. She was getting going now.
“But he does one night, packing up these books, and out falls one e-mail after another.” She remembered them in her mind’s eye. “Love notes, and not from Henry.”
And now, as if on a downward spiral that she couldn’t stop, Ellen kept talking, realizing she was going to ask Max what she’d had no intention of asking him. A nagging worry had stuck with her since the night Henry had unfurled his heart and shared his wife’s slight: The e-mails had all been riddled with misspellings and typos.
Ellen knew, of course, that any Lothario could tap out an e-mail rife with mistakes, that love made a person blind, unseeing when it came to the finer points of grammar and spelling. That such blatant disregard for the English language immediately reminded her of Max seemed an unfortunate coincidence. But there was something else that had stayed with her. Something about the cadence of the sentences, the repeated misspellings of the words, like your for you’re and lead for led (“You lead me to see what love could be”). The phrase “You brighten each day” was surely one that lovers exchanged often. The fact that Max had said this very thing to her during the first months of their courtship and again on their wedding day was an unlikely coincidence but a coincidence just the same. She had laughed to think where her mind could take her sometimes.
And yet now, thousands of miles from home, she found herself suddenly possessed by the urge to dispel her suspicions, to confront Max here on his own turf. To let the silly thought that he might have been involved with Charlotte Moon while they were in the final months of their marriage fly off into the thick, humid island air—and disappear.
Max, a man of big dreams, had never been able to follow through on anything. How would it be any different in matters of the heart?
He was looking at her now, his cheeks flushed.
“I was going to tell you,” he began. “Not today. But eventually. It’s part of my journey toward healing. Part of trying to win you back—through honesty, through full disclosure.”
Ellen felt her stomach drop. Was she going to deliver the baby right there?
“What?” It was as if Max were speaking Mandarin. “You’re in a twelve-step program now?” She couldn’t help but joke.
“About Charlotte. I didn’t mean for it to happen. Neither of us did. It’s remarkable when I still think about it, that we ever met in the first place. So improbable.”
“How’s that?” It was all Ellen could do to get the words out. Was Max saying what she thought he was saying?
“You probably don’t recall, but remember when I helped Jack out at the hardware store about a year and a half ago?”
Ellen’s mind was doing flips. When had Max worked at the hardware store? Then she remembered: he had assisted when the store was getting remodeled and Jack needed someone up front to man the register.
“Jack knew?” She couldn’t help herself.
“Oh, God, no. Nobody knew. At least I don’t think anyone knew. And to be honest, there wasn’t much to know till the very end.”
“Oh.” She laid her hands on the table, bracing herself for what might come next. Her nail beds flushed a bright pink.
“Anyway, Charlotte came in one day looking for picture frames. She had these delicate little watercolors in her bag.”
Max never used words like delicate. Ellen untied the shawl around her waist and used it to pat her forehead. She set it down next to her plate.
“They were really something. Pastels, pretty little paintings of the lake, of the Union Terrace at sunset, of State Street early in the morning. I complimented her on them, and she told me they were hers. That she loved to
paint, though she’d never done anything professionally. She was very, very talented.”
Ellen thought he emphasized the second very unnecessarily.
“She made it sound easy. Like anyone could learn to paint. I told her she was making it up, and then I said I’d give her ten bucks if she could get me, a Neanderthal, to paint one picture as pretty as those. He paused. “It stopped her. I don’t think she ever thought she was talented. I didn’t mean it in a flirtatious way, I swear. I was just making small talk, you know, how people do.”
Ellen nodded, her mouth open.
“Well, turns out she took me up on it. We bumped into each other again one day and she asked if I was serious about painting, and that if I were, she’d love to try her hand at teaching me.
“I know it must sound ridiculous. But I appreciated her kindness, and, well, what if there were a famous artist buried somewhere deep inside me that I hadn’t yet discovered? What if I could have been making millions on my artwork?”
“Max,” Ellen said with a scold in her voice. “Surely you knew better.”
“You’d think, huh? Long story short, we met on the Union Terrace one afternoon when I was on break from the store, and she pulled out this tiny tin of paints, an easel, a pad of paper. I looked at it all and thought to myself, ‘I’m not an artist. There’s no way I can do this.’ ”
Ellen sighed.
“But Charlotte was patient. She was good that way. She gave me time to explore, to figure out what kind of style I’d work best in.”
Ellen made a phhff sound. Max? A style?
“Turns out my style was more abstract than realist, but she praised me for it. Said I had an eye for the way the colors played on the water of the lake.”
Ellen rolled her eyes. Then it came to her. The miniature painting of muted pinks and blues, oranges and yellows, which had hung on their foyer wall wasn’t something he’d purchased. It was Max’s painting, inspired by Charlotte’s soft touch, her gentle guidance. At the time, Ellen couldn’t believe he’d paid good money for those splotches of color on parchment.
“It wasn’t like you think, though. It was perfectly innocent for the first few weeks.” He paused. “But then we fell in lust.”
“Oh, please.” If it was so innocent, why hadn’t he ever mentioned their painting sessions to her? she wondered.
“You were so busy trying to figure out what you were going to do next,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts. “You’d just lost your secretarial job at the university and you were stressed about money. You wanted me to find something stable.”
Ellen remembered. It was not a time she was proud of. She’d been flailing for her life’s purpose, accusing Max of not doing his fair share of contributing to their financial bottom line. The unhappy reality of not being able to have children still hung over their heads.
“Being with Charlotte was my therapy. All the pressures we had at home fell away. I could talk to her. And then, well, it got so we couldn’t see enough of each other. Her hair, it was so soft, and it always smelled like peppermint shampoo, and she had this cute Southern drawl and . . .”
“Please, please stop,” Ellen said now. Her eyes darted around for the ladies’ room; she was certain she was about to be ill.
“I’m so sorry.” Max reached out for her hand, but she placed it in her lap.
“Like I said, neither of us ever meant for it to go anywhere. It just kind of happened. And then I guess you could say it turned into love.”
“Just stop, please.” Ellen looked away, breathed in, and clasped her hands together in front of her mouth. “Enough,” she said softly.
“You never knew?”
She shook her head.
“When you filed for divorce, it was so soon after the affair, that I was sure you had an inkling.”
“No. Not a clue.” Henry’s words echoed in her ear.
He nodded. “Just one more thing. And I’m sorry, but I have to get this off my chest.”
“There’s more?” She waited. “How can there possibly be more?”
“The day she died in that accident?” His voice cracked, and tears swam in his eyes. “She was coming to meet me.”
Ellen sat up straight. “What?”
“August fifteenth. I’ll never forget. It was a Saturday, you were out shopping with Lanie, and Charlotte and I had made plans to meet for an early dinner in Delavan. We sure didn’t count on a bunch of drunk teenagers riding around like maniacs.” He wiped at his eyes.
Ellen knew only the outline of the facts that shrouded Charlotte’s death. Three boys, juniors in college, were out drinking beers in the late afternoon in a field outside town. They got the idea to drive into Madison and were barreling down Country Road C, going eighty miles an hour, when they missed the stop sign where she happened to be crossing at that very instant. Ironically, all the boys walked away from the crash, only a few scratches on their young bodies.
Ellen felt positively ill. “That’s quite a burden to carry.”
“I went to the funeral, but I could never let anyone know how crushed I was. She died because of me.” Large wet tears rolled down his cheeks.
She was stunned.
“Oh, Max,” she said. “How could you?” The question was all encompassing, for so many slights, so many wrongs committed.
He wiped at the tears. “I know. It’s all my fault.”
“I don’t mean Charlotte’s death. I mean us.” Her words came out sharp, like little knives.
He looked at her as if the answer was obvious. “With Charlotte, I was always good enough. With you, I never measured up.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Their waiter hovered in the corner, looking uncertain whether to clear their untouched eggs Benedict or stay away altogether. He scurried off to hide in the kitchen.
“No matter how unkind I was, what you did, Max Nelson, was unforgivable.”
“I know it was. I’m hoping, though, that you can find some way to forgive the unforgivable.”
She shook her head. “Oh, Max. You’ve always been such a dreamer. That’s one thing you’re fantastic at.” Her words carried bite.
He sat back in his chair.
“It’s funny. You know I came here thinking I’d let you do all the talking, but I also must have known deep inside why I really agreed to visit.
“A part of me knew,” she continued, her voice cracking. “A part of me knew, when I read those letters, that Charlotte’s suitor had been none other than my ex-husband, who was, need I remind you, my husband at the time.”
She felt herself building steam. “You don’t miss me, Max. You don’t love me any more than you did a few years ago, which is to say, not much. Those letters you wrote me? They were really meant for Charlotte. I suppose you loved me once. I know I loved you. But your heart is still aching for Charlotte.”
She took a sip of orange juice. “All you really want from me is my forgiveness.”
He shook his head and put his hand up, “No, you’re wrong there. I’ve done some thinking . . .”
“Max, please. Just stop. Spare us both. I’m glad—if that’s the right word—for the closure, but frankly, I think we’d both benefit if we just left it at that.”
She blew her nose into her napkin, patted her hair. Then she pushed her chair back and got up, grabbing her pocketbook and flowery hat, which suddenly looked ridiculous.
“I trust you can get the check?” He looked at her, his eyes rimmed with red, and nodded.
“Good.”
“Have a safe flight back?” It sounded like a question.
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
She went to the ladies’ room and promptly vomited. It was what she’d feared subconsciously all along. Now the truth had come out in a cheap little restaurant in the Caribbean.
When she left the ladies’ room, she noticed their table was empty. She walked back to the hotel in a slight daze. Max hadn’t noticed her stomach, thank goodness. The only saving mercy in all o
f this. She would tell him at some point; she owed him that. But not today. Today she owed him absolutely nothing. She couldn’t wait to check the next flights out, couldn’t wait to hear Henry’s voice on the other end of the phone, couldn’t wait to get her baby back home.
“Mothers who tell stories are the first teachers of literature. They give their children the key to the great realm where dwell the great and mighty of all times.”
—Talks to Mothers
Lanie was nervous. Ellen had called from the airport, asking her to come pick her up. Evidently things hadn’t gone as planned. All Saturday Lanie paced the floor, biting her nails, worrying how Max would take the news. Even with Rob’s amazing promotion, she couldn’t stop thinking about her sister and Max. Would he be back in their lives again, like an old, tired song that pops up on the radio? What if Max proposed? She didn’t think she could take it. And what about poor Henry? Lanie was starting to feel sorry for the guy. He deserved to know Ellen’s big news—not much longer and she would have to tell him. A woman could only hide a pregnant belly for so long.
Truth be told, Lanie was angry. How long had her sister waited for a baby, for a good man, and now she was about to turn everything upside down by bringing Max back into the fold? As far as she was concerned, Ellen was hung up on Max for all the wrong reasons, trying to live the life she thought their mother had always wanted but had missed out on. It still struck Lanie as odd that someone as smart as her sister could be so dumb, so blind about some things.
“Phew. It feels good to be back,” Ellen said as she plopped herself into the car and knitted her coat tightly around her middle. Lanie detected a slight bump underneath.
“Weather wasn’t good?”
“Oh, the weather was perfect. The island is beautiful. We should go sometime for a mini-vacation. Just the two of us.”
“Another time maybe,” Lanie said. She could already feel herself growing impatient with Ellen’s small talk. What happened? she wanted to scream.
“You’re right. I suppose it’s best for us to stay out of Max territory.”
“Mmm.” Lanie eased out of the airport garage and fished some change from her purse to pay the parking attendant. “So how did Max take the news?”
Three Good Things Page 21