It was just that when I pictured being married, it was never to Alexander.
The vision of a black-haired, dark-eyed boy standing in the gusty breeze came to mind. My own version of Jon Snow, clad in Carhartt instead of wolfskin.
But Noah and I had tried. Tried and failed, more than once, and that was a long time ago.
Carter was right. Why wait? Alexander and I had been together long enough, we had a good thing going, we both wanted kids (sort of, maybe). We weren’t getting any younger. I loved him, he loved me, we got along so well it was almost spooky.
Bridget’s bumblebee ring flashed in my mind. Call me shallow, but I wanted a big diamond, too. My materialism ended there. (Or not . . . Was it too soon to picture buying a brownstone in the Village? Alexander was loaded, after all. As for a wedding, we could elope. No color schemes or Pinterest boards necessary.)
He was due in around four, depending on traffic. Where was a romantic place in New York in January? It was freakishly mild today—thanks, global warming!—so maybe down on the Hudson as the sun set? The High Line was pretty, and I could go to Chelsea Market and buy some nice cheese and wine. We could watch the sunset and I’d just say it: “I love you. Marry me and make me the happiest woman on earth.” And the tourists and hipsters who frequented the High Line would applaud and take pictures and we’d probably go viral.
I imagined calling my dad tonight. He’d be so happy. Maybe we wouldn’t elope, because I wanted my father to walk me down the aisle. Fine. A small wedding, then. I’d wear a white dress that Carter could help me pick out. Brianna and Sloane could be my flower girls, even if they were a little old for that. I was their only aunt, so may as well. Plus, it would make my prickly mom happy.
Yes. I’d propose tonight, and enter the next phase of my life, where I was sure Alexander and I would be very, very content.
* * *
— —
As luck would have it, the temperature took a plunge, as weather in the Northeast is cruel and fickle. What had been sixty-two was the low forties by the time Alexander met me in front of the Standard, an odd-looking hotel that straddled the High Line. “God, it’s freezing,” he said as the wind blew through us. “I found a parking spot on Tenth, but I didn’t know it would be this cold.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad!” I said. I had a plan, and I was sticking to it. “Just brisk! The sunset will be gorgeous.” Or it wouldn’t. There was only one other couple who seemed to be sightseeing, everyone else hunched against the weather and hurrying to wherever New Yorkers hurry.
“Christ. I didn’t dress for this.” Alexander wore a brown leather jacket over a blue oxford shirt and bulky sweater, khakis and expensive leather shoes. I’d dressed to be beautiful—pretty black knit dress, hair in a ponytail (now being undone by the wind), the necklace he’d given me for Christmas and a cute red leather jacket that did nothing to keep me warm. Should’ve worn pants. And a parka.
“Well, come on,” I said. “We don’t have to stay too long. It’ll be fun.”
He followed me down the sidewalk, past clumps of grass and dead flower bushes. Come spring, this most elegant of New York’s parks would be filled with color and life, but as it was, it was a little, uh, barren.
Shit. Well, I’d make it quick. “Sunset’s in ten minutes,” I said.
“I’ll be dead by then.”
“I’ll revive your cold, hard corpse. Or at least give it a really strong attempt, then go into the Standard and drown my sorrows at the bar.”
He laughed, and my heart swelled a bit. He really was a good, kind person. Great husband material. Never too demanding, always cheerful . . . the opposite of Noah, which was probably no coincidence, and I shouldn’t be thinking of Noah, I reminded myself. I glanced at the other couple. Would they film us when I got down on one knee? Also, should I get down on one knee? These were my only black tights.
“I cannot believe you’re saying this!” Ah. They were fighting. Not a great sign.
I really wanted the light of the sunset to spill onto us, which it would in about six minutes. Being a painter who had once loved skyscapes, I was an expert on natural light. “How was your day, hon?” I asked, trying to kill time.
“Oh, fine,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Pretty sure I nailed down a sale to a hedge fund guy. He wants it made from scratch, of course.” He detailed the many requirements this guy had for his boat—private master deck, helipad, indoor garden, sauna, steam room and gym.
“So just a little wooden boat to paddle around in, then,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s a living. Are we about done, babe? I’m starving.”
“I bought cheese.” I pulled the block out of my bag. Shit. We’d have to bite right into it, since I didn’t have a knife.
“Hon. It’s forty degrees out here. Maybe thirty-five. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”
“It’s not so bad. See? That other couple’s brave. Plus, we’re Yankees. This is practically summer.”
He glanced at the other couple. “They have winter coats on.”
They did, both dressed in those down coats with patches that announced them as explorers of Antarctica. The woman crossed her puffy arms. “Are you shitting me, Dallas?” she practically yelled.
“Oh,” murmured Alexander. “Maybe this will be fun after all.”
“I never said I wanted to be exclusive! That was all in your head!” the unfortunately named Dallas answered.
“How many women have you been seeing, you cheating bastard? Belinda? Are you seeing that whore again?”
“She’s not a whore!”
“So that’s a yes! Jesus! We’re done, asshole. If I have an STD, I will slit your throat and burn your apartment to the ground.”
She stomped past us, cutting us a look. “Hi,” I said.
“Fuck you,” she snapped.
Alexander laughed. The cheater skulked past us, arms folded, head down against the wind.
“Okay, so that was fun,” Alexander said. “They do have the right idea about leaving, though. This cheese is almost frozen, and I don’t really see eating it here. What do you say, babe? Shall we go? Grab a drink somewhere with heat?”
Do or die. “Right. Okay.” Shit. We were sitting. I scrambled to my feet. “Um, can you stand up for a second?”
“About time. Do you want to go out for dinner?” The cold wind whipped his blond hair, and his ears were bright red.
“Just one thing first.” I looked into his eyes, which were watering a little from the wind. Just then, the sun slipped behind a bank of clouds that had come out of nowhere. So much for fiery skies burnishing the moment.
It didn’t matter. I loved him. He was rock solid, this guy, and we . . . we had such a good thing going. Before I changed my mind, I knelt down. Felt my tights catch on the rough surface of the walkway.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Alexander Mitchum, will you marry me and make me the happiest man—shit, I mean woman—alive?” The wind gusted again, blowing my hair into my face.
“Uh . . . what are you doing, Sadie?” His face was incredulous.
“I . . . I’m proposing.” My heart felt like the sun, abruptly swallowed in clouds. Do not make me go back on those dating websites, Alexander Mitchum.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to propose.”
“Okay! Sure. Go for it.” Thank God.
He laughed a little. “Well, babe . . . I’m not ready. There are things I need to have in place. A ring, for one.”
“We can get one later. Cartier is open till seven. Probably. Not that I checked.”
He laughed. “Well, I’d like to surprise you. When the time comes.”
“I’m down on one knee here, Alexander.”
“Get up, then! This is crazy.” He pulled me to my feet. I felt my tights tear. “You nut. It’s the man’s job to
propose.”
Sexist, really. “It seemed like a good idea. I mean, we’ve been together two years. We’re the right age.” I forced a smile.
“What is the right age, really? Is there an age that’s wrong?” he asked, but he kissed my forehead. “I’ll do it when the time is right. Okay?”
Well, didn’t I feel stupid. “Okay.”
“I want the moment to be when we’re not freezing our asses off in the dark. Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”
My heart felt weird. Happy weird, or disappointed weird? “I mean, now that we’re talking about it . . . you could just . . . ask.”
“No. I want it to be really romantic. Not on a night so cold my balls are retracting.”
“Got it.”
In case there was any doubt that my plan sucked, those dark gray clouds opened and a cold rain started to fall.
“I’m gonna pass out if I don’t eat soon. Want to grab something, then go back to my place and fool around so we can salvage this night?”
“Sure.”
Feeling like a dolt, I followed him to the stairs that led to street level.
Alexander’s phone chimed. He studied it, then looked up. “Shit, babe,” he said. “I have to go up to Boston. That idiot Patriots player is pitching a fit over a painting of himself that was supposed to be hung on the ceiling over his bed, and the designer put it on the wall instead. What time is it? Damn. I’ll have to drive up tonight.” He looked at me. “Want to come? We could grab some fast food on the road and stay overnight. A suite at the Mandarin with some spa time tomorrow, maybe?”
That was the thing about Alexander. He was so thoughtful. But my feeling of ineptitude lingered.
“I think I’ll just go home. I have a painting due Sunday.”
“Gotcha.” We stood there awkwardly. “Want me to drive you home?
“Subway’s faster,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Well. Drive safely.”
“I will. Talk to you, babe.” He kissed me quickly and strode off.
It really was cold. I started walking toward Eighth Avenue to catch the subway. Soon, I’d be home. Maybe I’d take a shower to warm up. Order Thai food and work on that blue-and-white “like Van Gogh except not as swirly” painting I’d been commissioned to do. Bitter sigh, followed by the reminder to be grateful that I had these gigs at all and wasn’t living in a paper bag.
Just then, my phone rang. Juliet, who almost never called me. “Hi!” I said. “How are you?”
“Listen, Sadie,” she said, her voice strange, and instinctively, I stopped walking, my free hand covering my ear so I could hear her better. “Dad had a stroke. He’s in surgery at UConn, and it’s pretty bad. Get here as soon as you can.”
CHAPTER TWO
Barb
I was in a meeting with the head of the town crew, discussing his zealous use of salt so far this winter and the complaints about undercarriage rust I’d been fielding, when I got the call.
Yes, being first selectman of a small town in Connecticut was a nonstop thrill fest. I smiled at the thought. Truth was, I loved my job. Even moments like this.
It was my last appointment of the day, and I didn’t have any committee meetings tonight. Maybe I’d head over to Caro’s if John was already parked in front of whatever war documentary he was watching these days. If she didn’t have plans, that was.
“Yeah, well, people always bitch and moan if they skid half an inch, so I can’t win for losing here, Barb,” Lou said.
“We’re halfway through the salt budget, and we’ve only had two inches of snow so far. You know we’ll have at least four or five more storms this year.”
“Like I said, I’m the one who gets blamed!”
Lindsey, my secretary, opened the door.
“Barb?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry, but you need to take this call. Right away. Lou, out you go.”
I picked up the phone. “This is Barb Frost, how can I help you?” I said in my warm, mayoral voice. Most people who called my office wanted to complain about something, and I found that being polite always shocked them a little. I grew up in Minnesota, where manners were drilled into us. This was New England.
“Mrs. Frost, it’s George Macon.” George was a paramedic in town, but I didn’t think we had any issues with the first responders. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask for new equipment. They just got a new ambulance last year.
“How can I help you, George?” I said.
“I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Frost. Your husband is on his way to the ER, and he’s unresponsive and not breathing on his own. Seems like he took a bad fall off his bike. Can someone drive you to the hospital? Right now?”
Gosh. Right now sounded real ominous, all right. My mouth moved for a moment before the words came out. “Of course. Thank you.” I hung up.
Mind you, I’d always been good in emergencies. My mind could prioritize needs and get things taken care of in near-perfect order. When Juliet was eight and sliced open her hand so deeply the blood was pulsing out of it with every beat of her heart, I wrapped it tightly, told her to keep it over her head, and put her in the car rather than calling 911, mentally doing the math on how long it would take the ambulance crew to get there versus how quickly I could take her to the hospital myself. At the same time, I was wondering if I should tourniquet her arm, but I was thinking that might cut off her blood supply. I remembered my purse so I’d have our insurance card and grabbed her Pooh bear for comfort. Got a blanket to tuck around her in the car in case she was going into shock. We were at the hospital in under ten minutes, and I only went ten miles an hour over the speed limit, because I didn’t want to drive like a crazy person and cause an accident. That wouldn’t have helped anyone, for Pete’s sake.
When Sadie was bitten by the neighbors’ dog, same thing. Ice for her face, call to the police to secure the dog and get proof of rabies vaccination, call to Caro to ask her to pick up Juliet from school, call to the hospital to tell them we’d be needing the plastic surgeon, not some resident who wanted to practice stitching, thank you very much. Six months later, you could barely see the scar.
But now . . . with John in the ambulance already . . . I felt kind of . . . well . . . frozen.
Because tomorrow, I was planning to tell my husband that I’d be filing for divorce.
And even with that, and though I’d often pictured myself a happy widow . . .
I did not ever see this moment actually happening.
Unresponsive. Not breathing.
“Barb?”
I looked up. I was still at my desk. Lindsey, the dear girl, had her coat on. “Why don’t I drive you?” she said. Guess she knew, then.
“That’s—that’s a good idea, Linds. Thank you, hon.”
My hands were shaking as I grabbed my purse. Things seemed to be moving in slow motion. I should’ve been well on my way to the hospital right now, but instead, I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
“Don’t forget your coat,” she said, because I had.
Then time sped up, and we were on 95, and I had Juliet on the phone, and she would be on her way as soon as her sitter got there. I don’t know what I said to her, to be honest.
“Do you want to call your other daughter?” Lindsey asked, and no, I didn’t, because it didn’t seem fair to Sadie, not if ten minutes from now I’d be telling her her dad was . . . was dead.
My throat was tight. I kept swallowing, but it didn’t help.
The doctor was waiting for me in the hallway of Lawrence and Memorial, which I knew wasn’t a good sign. I wondered if Westerly would’ve been a better choice. But maybe not. Maybe this place was better for unresponsive, not-breathing patients.
“Mrs. Frost, I’m Dr. Warren,” she said. “We’re going to have to chopper your husband to UConn, okay? He’s g
etting a CAT scan now, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a ruptured aneurysm with massive bleeding. His condition is grave, I’m sorry to say, and he’ll need surgery as soon as possible to relieve the pressure. We need you to sign these forms.”
Grave? Massive? Did she have to say massive? My breathing was loud enough that I could hear it.
“Just sign here, and here, and initial here.”
Forms. Yes, God forbid we just treated him. God forbid I got to stand by my husband and hold his hand and reassure him.
An old man was wheeled in on a gurney into a stall. Because the ER was like a barn. There were barns nicer than this, frankly, with all this beeping and noise and chaos and people in different-colored scrubs. Barns were beautiful, peaceful places. Sadie had taken horseback riding lessons, and the barn had been so gosh-darn pretty, but she lost interest after—
“You can see him now,” the doctor said.
Oh. The old man . . . the patient they’d just parked . . . that was John. I could barely see him amid all the people in there, the equipment. He was in a neck brace. Intubated, too. His face was bloody, his eyes shut. There were electrodes and wires and an IV, and he looked so unlike himself that I nearly told the doctor there’d been a mistake.
But those were his hands. Old man hands, but wearing the ring I’d put on it fifty years ago. He’d aged well, but his hands looked old now. Then again, they may have looked old for some time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d noticed. We weren’t the hand-holding type.
People were talking, but I didn’t listen to what they said. They weren’t talking to me, anyway.
“He’s very healthy,” I said. “He’s been taking real good care of himself. Swimming, running, riding his bike. He wants to do a triathlon in the spring. I told him, ‘John, don’t be crazy, you’re seventy-five years old.’”
No one was listening. I didn’t blame them. He was massively bleeding. They had important things to do.
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