The Idea of Love

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “You can tell you’re a writer,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The way you say things. You know, like that thing about the shadows? You can tell you’re a writer.”

  “That’s kind. Thank you.” He turned away for a moment. “Anyway, we went to the funeral. My wife, Marilee, and my daughter, Amelia, and I. We sat behind Deenie’s parents—well-dressed, lawyer types who were both in the entertainment industry, always on the lookout for style and fame, always talking to the right people at the right time. Well, Deenie’s father, Carlos, leans over to shake my hand. He says, ‘Good to see you. Even under these terrible circumstances.’ We make small talk about the weather and the kids and then he says, ‘Saw your house in Architectural Digest last month.’”

  “Your house was in Architectural Digest?” Ella raised her eyebrows.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Okay…”

  “So Carlos says that and then tells me, ‘You know, I’d always wanted to take Marcus to visit that house.’ I nod, solemnly because solemn is how you should be at a funeral. I reply with sincerity. ‘Feel free to bring him by any time.’” Blake paused and shook his head. “And then it hit me, in the stunned silence of my wife and my daughter, and in the nauseated expression of Carlos, Deenie’s father, that I had just invited the man in the coffin at the front of the sanctuary—Marcus Cameron! I had just told the leading entertainment lawyer in L.A. to bring his dead friend, his son-in-law’s dead father, to my house.”

  “Oh, my God.” Ella burst out into such rowdy laughter that people stared. “That is the best. Seriously the best story I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “It’s great if it’s not you.” Blake took her elbow and squeezed it, not to steady her, but to touch someone who could laugh that freely.

  “How did you get out of that one?” she asked.

  “I apologized. What else was there to do? And then I sat alone at the funeral because my wife was embarrassed and my daughter saw her best friend, and I was mourning the loss of a man whose first name I didn’t even know.”

  “You’re a nice guy, Hunter.”

  “Thanks, Ella.”

  “I think I need to go home,” she said, and closed her eyes. “Everything is sort of moving in circles.”

  “Let’s get you home,” he said.

  He guided her through the crowd and out the front of the restaurant. “Let me drive you home in my fancy turquoise rental car,” he said.

  She shook her head with such force that he thought she might fall. “No. I’ll get a cab.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “It can’t be out of my way.”

  “No.” She motioned to a cab parked a few feet away. “Thanks, though.”

  The bright red cab with the words BEACH TAXI on the side pulled up. “Hey, Billy,” she said. “Take a girl home who accidentally drank too much?”

  “Sure thing, Ella. Get in.”

  Ella turned to Hunter. “Thanks for the fun and so sorry to kick your ass.”

  Blake was still laughing as the taxi drove off.

  six

  Her tongue had been replaced with a sheet of sandpaper. Her head felt heavy on her shoulders. What the hell had she been thinking? She knew better than to drink hard liquor.

  Ella gripped the steering wheel of the car and turned the air conditioner one notch higher. The bridge was backed up as she tried to get to Bluffton, where she’d told Hunter she would meet him to show off the best farmer’s market in the area. They’d texted that morning; he was concerned, wanting to know that she’d made it home safely the night before. She didn’t tell him about the headache or nausea, just pretended that all was well. He seemed like the tough kind of guy who never suffered from a hangover. She didn’t want to seem fragile. This fake Ella was strong and could drink Jack Daniel’s while beating him at Ping-Pong. Oh, righto.

  She didn’t want to run the risk of running into Sims again at a café or riverside store, at the park or Good Day Grocery, where they both still shopped. She would show Hunter the town next door, the place she went when she needed to feel far away, even if she wasn’t. Sims had always promised to take her somewhere far away: Paris, Rome, romantic names of cities that now seemed like characters in a novel, not at all real.

  The dock where they had agreed to meet was empty. Ella walked down to the water, sat at the edge of the wooden plank with her cell phone in her hand. A man and a woman passed by on a kayak. They moved slowly so as to barely make a ripple in the water. They waved at her and she waved back. Her cell phone sat faceup on the dock and then it happened—Sims’s face appeared with the word hubby. Yes, she’d left it like that because he was still her husband, if only on paper.

  She allowed herself, for one false moment, to pretend that he was calling her to say hello, or better yet, to say that he missed her and that he needed her to come home because he’d made a terrible mistake. He loved her and her alone.

  She picked up and used her happiest (fake) voice. “Hello?”

  “Ella, we need to talk.”

  “Okay.” She pulled off her sandals and reached her toes down into the water, scooting farther to the edge of the dock.

  “You keep promising me that you’ll get a lawyer so we can get this going. You can’t just ignore the papers. You can’t. You lied to me.”

  “I lied to you? Isn’t that your ground to cover?”

  Ella closed her eyes; her stomach knotted up. She’d done it again, even as she’d told herself a thousand times not to. She’d been sarcastic and rude when she could have been nice. This wasn’t going to win him back.

  “You feel good about getting in those stabs, Ella? Does that make any of this better?”

  “No.”

  “Have you found a lawyer yet?”

  “A lawyer for what?”

  “This is how you want to play it?”

  Ella swung her feet from the dock, back and forth, back and forth, like she once had as a child. When she’d felt free, when she’d believed that life was full of possibility. She opened her mouth for another sarcastic comment, something to catch him off guard, but what came out was this: “I miss you.”

  Shit. Had she really said that? She wanted to take it back. Oh, God, how she wanted to take it back. She closed her eyes because whatever he said would hurt.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t make this worse, Ella. Do not make me feel bad.”

  “I have to go,” she said. “Now.”

  “Ella,” he said quietly in that voice that made her melt, in that voice he used right before they made love.

  “Yes?” She was hopeful for something kind, even as her mind, her guardian mind, screamed at her, Don’t even hope; do not hope.

  “You have to accept that this is happening. The divorce is happening. Please let’s make it easy on each other. Sign the papers. Get a lawyer.”

  “Sims…”

  “I heard you were at Sunset last night with some guy.”

  “What?”

  “Drunk,” he said, and she heard the disgust in his voice, the loathing.

  “No,” she said with the lurch of the lie in her stomach curdled with the whiskey.

  “Listen, Ella, let’s end this civilly, okay?”

  “I need some things from home. It’s not all yours … and I need…” She stopped because the end of the sentence was I need you. She refused to say it one more time. It changed nothing—the truth that was supposed to set you free? It didn’t.

  “Soon. As soon as all the paperwork is done, you’ll get all of that. But what’s the use in giving it to you now if I have to come take some of it back?”

  “Because you have to have at least one decent bone left in your body. Because you loved me.”

  “Okay, Ella. Okay.”

  “Or did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Ever really love me?”

  “Do you want to torture us or move on in life?” His voice was so dull.

  Where
had he gone? Who was this? Ella felt the tears well up in the back of her throat, in the places of panic and fear. She’d messed up the conversation with her desperation and her need, with her idiocy. Why couldn’t she be cool so that he’d know he lost the best thing he ever had? That’s what all the books said to do; she’d read them. Be a “bitch”; have your own life; show him you’re too busy for him. But here she was again showing him how much she needed him.

  “I have to go,” she said. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Me, too.”

  Ella hung up and let the tears fall. If she didn’t cry, her throat would hurt with the effort and she’d get a headache. Let the tears out and they dry up.

  Something new for the list: accept that this is happening.

  Great.

  Why would she even want him back? The lies. The pain. And yet here she sat wanting him back more than she wanted anything else. It didn’t make sense. Love didn’t make sense.

  “Ella?” Hunter called her name.

  He was early. She wiped at her face but he was at her side before she could hide the tears.

  “Hey,” he said. “I thought I’d come check this place out before you got here but you beat me.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, readjusted her sunglasses. “Hey.”

  He sat down next to her and took off his sunglasses. “You’ve been crying. Are you okay?”

  His question, one no one had asked her in so long, set the tears loose again. She remembered a time, a long, long time ago, when she’d fallen off her bike, scraped her knees and face on the pavement. She’d been so brave in front of her friends, jumping back onto the bike and pedaling home, but as soon as her mom came into the kitchen and saw the blood and scrapes she’d gasped, “Oh, Ella-bunny, are you okay?” And Ella had busted out sobbing so hard and wretched that she almost threw up. And this, right then, with Hunter gently asking her if she was okay, felt the same. There was nothing to do to stop the tears. Nothing.

  She dropped her head onto his shoulder. This was ridiculous. She had to get a hold of herself. But she couldn’t. She didn’t. He patted her back, making small noises that sounded like clicking. His shirt, it was wet where her face was buried into the soft fabric.

  “Did something happen?” he asked.

  The question wasn’t funny, not one bit, but it hit Ella the wrong way—sideways, where sadness flipped to hysteria. She started laughing. “Happen?” she asked, and leaned back to wipe her face, try to cover her tears.

  “Is that funny?”

  She shook her head and tried to stop the cry-laugh combo. “No. Not funny at all.”

  Hunter looked around. Ella thought he must have been planning an escape. She was obviously loony.

  Then it happened again—the lie coming so easily, so quickly, brisk in its alacrity. “This was where my husband and I came when we wanted to be alone and away from all the hustle of Watersend. This was … our spot. I shouldn’t have told you I’d meet you here … I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Hunter placed his hand on her knee, squeezed it with compassion, or what she thought was compassion.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m so sorry you have to see me like this. I don’t even know you.”

  There were, as she’d discovered, myriad ways to distract yourself from a broken heart, but none that worked. So why not try this? Lying to this man about her love life was as close as she’d come to feeling better in a long, long time.

  * * *

  He didn’t have to figure out how to bring up her love story; it was soaking there in tears on his shirt. He walked right into it as if by magic.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone again. Ever.”

  “You will,” he said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but…”

  “No. It won’t happen again. He was the only one.”

  “The only one,” Blake repeated. If he could ransack the story from this woman, if he could get to the gold of this tale, he would call it The Only One.

  “Why here?” he asked. “Why did you two always come here?”

  Ella dropped her head onto his shoulder again. It was nice the way she did this, placed her head on him to rest. His hand went to her hair without any thought.

  “It’s quiet. See?” She pointed and then waved her hand. “It’s a full panorama here. You can see forever. Over there is the Oyster Company. We used to get fresh oysters on the boat and then roast them in the backyard with friends. Over there—” She pointed to the right. “That leads to the sandbar where we’d anchor. Friends would join us and we’d drink warm beer. We’d stay until the tide rolled in and there was nothing left to sit on. The water would take whatever remained on the sandbar. I bet there are a thousand coolers floating through this river.” She laughed. Or maybe it was the start of tears again.

  “Where are those friends now? Have they been a help at all since he…”

  “Died.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “No. Of course they were all there for the funeral and the memorial. They were there at the beginning, bringing food and fancy cards and all that, but not since. A couple of them have called to say hello or dropped an e-mail to say ‘thinking of you.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s a couple’s world out there.”

  “A couple’s world.” Blake needed to remember that phrase.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s how it feels. The Morrisons’ dinner party. The Yanceys’ boat round up. Game night…” She lifted her head and ran her fingers through her hair. Her hand caught in a tangle and she absently worked her fingers through it while she talked. “It’s not that they don’t want me around. At least I hope that’s not it. It’s more like they just forget. They forget that I’m still here because he’s not. So when he left, in many ways, he took me with him.”

  “I know. I’ve been through divorce,” he said. “Friends divide. They say they aren’t choosing one over the other, but they always are. They can’t help it.”

  Ella lifted her sunglasses and wiped under her eyes, clearing her face with that smile of hers. “Okay, enough about that. I’m sorry.” She jumped up. “Come on. I’ll show you around. I know that you have to get back to L.A. today, right? Or is it tomorrow?”

  “I’ve changed it till tomorrow.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  Her countenance changed that quickly. Her face lit up and she shook out her hair. She wore another one of those little flowered sundresses. Or maybe it was the same one. This dress hinted at the body underneath, enough for him to make an adequate guess.

  “Where do you want to go first?” she asked.

  “You decide.”

  “Well, really it matters more what you want to write about. I mean, I’m guessing each town gets only a couple of pages or something. So what’s most important?”

  “Today isn’t about that. Today I’m just here to enjoy. Okay?”

  “Farmer’s market first,” she said. “Then we can stop in any of the shops you want.”

  The street was blocked off with orange traffic cones and streamers announcing the local vendors. The crowd was light, and everyone carried more than one brown paper bag of produce. Blake stayed at Ella’s side and they picked out tomatoes and green onions, ate kettle popcorn, and drank hand-squeezed lemonade. A banjo player played a song Ella seemed to love, one he’d never heard, called “Down to the River to Pray.” She dropped a five-dollar bill in his case. She waved to a couple of people but never stopped to talk or even say their names. It was nice, this peaceful afternoon. Blake wanted to film it, construct a montage of the bright red tents and silver-white corn stacked in rows, the puddles at the edge of the sidewalk with white petals floating like miniature lily pads. Ella. Most of all he wanted to film her. The way she moved. The way she’d look over her shoulder. The way she’d smile.

  The thunderstorm came without warning. There must have been a few black clouds or a breeze that smelled of electric
ity, but he hadn’t noticed. Now he knows that he was only seeing Ella, the way her dress moved around her hidden body, how her hair lifted and settled with the breeze. How her shoulders pulled forward slightly so that her collarbone formed the loveliest little space at the base of her neck. These were the details he gathered.

  They ran from the thunderstorm, ducking into an art gallery. Lightning tousled the clouds without reaching down to earth. “My God, where’d that come from?” he asked.

  “That’s how it is around here,” she said, shaking her wet hair.

  Blake looked around at the gallery full of folk art: a mermaid made of shells and driftwood on metal; a sunset painted on warped wood; puppets carved from coconuts and a vivid watermelon on canvas. But the thunderstorm was the real show, and Ella and Blake stared out the front door at the leaves trembling in the slanted rain, the spiderwebs catching the drops and holding them, the Spanish moss dropping in clumps from the wind.

  “See?” she said. “You just don’t know when life will catch you unaware.”

  Blake lifted his arm and dropped it onto her shoulder. He pulled her close to him before he even knew what he’d done. Ella went stiff and he dropped his arm.

  This was the definition of an awkward moment.

  Blake faltered. “How long do you think the storm will last?” Dear God. That was the best line he had? Next he’d be asking, “Are your people from around here?”

  Ella pulled out her cell phone. “Let me check the radar. I have this app.…” She stopped talking midsentence, covered the phone with her hand but not before Blake saw the word “hubby” on the screen.

  She looked up to him and opened her mouth, and then looked away. “That’s really embarrassing,” she said.

  Blake held his breath. She was remarried? Already? It wasn’t true about one true love and never loving again? His mind circled—a spiral with crazy side trips. Thunder sounded far away and then close, a double clap of dueling storms. “Hubby?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She spoke so softly, a hint of speaking.

  “I don’t understand. How could he show up on your screen?”