by Anita Hughes
His therapist would have a field day with this piece of information, but that’s why Fletcher hated the idea of a therapist, let alone the fact that now he visited the offices of Doctor Margaret Neal every other Tuesday.
But apparently having a therapist was part of the fallout of divorce, along with the other new developments he could hardly stomach: that he only saw his daughter Lola every other Friday through Sunday, and Wednesdays when he drove from Manhattan to Connecticut to take her out to dinner for the one hour his ex-wife, Cassandra, thought Lola could spare on a school night.
He could almost hear Margaret’s nasal voice: “You’re having the dream holiday: eight nights in a romantic Vermont inn with your fiancée and your daughter. Why are you spoiling it with imaginary sightings of a woman you haven’t seen in more than a decade?” She’d lean over her huge teak desk. “At some point you have to allow yourself to be happy, Fletcher. No one scores points for being miserable.”
Of course he was happy: he was finally in love. Christ, in six months he’d be married! And Margaret was right: the whole vacation was planned so that Megan and Lola could get to know each other. He’d made a list of things the three of them would do: take sleigh rides, go cross-country skiing, make pottery in one of the artists’ studios that lined Route 100 on the way into town.
There was only one person he could talk to. It was 7 P.M. in Vermont, which meant it was midnight in London. Thank god Graham was a night owl. If Fletcher was lucky, Graham would have had a scotch or two with dinner and wouldn’t mind listening to him.
“Fletcher, Merry Christmas!” Graham’s clipped British accent came over the line. “You’re lucky you caught me. I was about to get a quick bite at the Savoy.”
“Merry Christmas! Dinner at almost midnight?” Fletcher asked. “Isn’t that a little late, even for you?”
“Tomorrow is opening night of the new play,” Graham reminded him. “I had to stay at the theater and keep telling the lead actor he was going to be the hit of the Christmas season. It never changes; famous actors turn into scared schoolchildren when they’re about to be reviewed in The Sunday Times.”
Fletcher had met Graham when he’d started working at the Old Vic. Graham had been twenty-five and already a well-known producer, with his name on a few critical successes.
“I’m sure it will be a success; they always are,” Fletcher returned.
“Is anything wrong? Is Lola all right?” Graham asked.
“Your goddaughter is fine,” Fletcher acknowledged. “You didn’t have to buy out Fortnum & Mason’s for Christmas. They do sell Christmas cookies in America.”
“Not shortbread biscuits with orange curd marmalade,” Graham corrected him. “I wanted to show her how much I miss her.”
“She misses you too; she’s made you a CD of her singing Christmas songs,” Fletcher replied. “Lola isn’t the reason I called. Megan and Lola and I were skating and I saw Emma. This time I was positive it was her: same light brown hair, and those high cheekbones. When I looked again she was gone.”
“Just like it was Emma on the subway and Emma on the escalator at Bloomingdale’s?” Graham asked.
Fletcher flinched, remembering taking Lola to Bloomingdale’s the week before Christmas. He’d been sure it was Emma, and had made Lola ride the escalator to the top floor. But it wasn’t Emma, and Lola had wondered why they’d ended up in home furnishings when they were meant to be shopping for party shoes.
“Look, Fletcher,” Graham counseled. “The divorce was hard, and you’re afraid you ruined Lola’s life. But it wasn’t your fault and it’s behind you. You’re engaged to a beautiful woman and your daughter is fine, and you’re about to open a play on Broadway.” He paused. “Even repeating it, I’m green with envy.”
“You could have been engaged to a dozen girls,” Fletcher chuckled.
“None of them understood why I had to stay at the theater until midnight and on weekends,” he sighed. “I know how important Emma was to you. I was there when you arrived in London, remember? I could feel your pain. But it doesn’t help to keep conjuring her up. Stop looking for ghosts of the past, it will only make you unhappy.”
“Now you sound like my therapist,” Fletcher grumbled.
“You haven’t heard from Emma in a decade, and you’re engaged,” Graham continued. “Give my love to Lola and enjoy that fiancée. You’re a lucky man, Fletcher. Try to remember that.”
Fletcher hung up and ate a handful of cashew nuts. Graham was probably right; what would Emma be doing in Vermont?
It was just odd that he was positive he kept seeing her. And it hadn’t started when he’d returned to America; it had been happening in London for years—in the food hall at Harrods, or hopping off a double-decker bus.
The funny thing was, the first time he’d thought he saw Emma, when he had only been in London for two weeks, was the reason he’d met his ex-wife Cassandra in the first place.
July, 2008
London, England
Fletcher stood in the living room of the London townhouse and tried to look like he’d been holding champagne flutes for years. Everyone else at the party—the actresses draped over couches, the producers smoking cigars—all seemed like they’d been raised on a diet of champagne and fancy hors d’oeuvres.
This was his first theater party, and he didn’t belong in the smart townhouse in Belgravia. His title at the Old Vic was assistant director, but he was more of a glorified gofer. He spent his days running out for sandwiches, and his nights making sure the lead actor and actress weren’t drinking large amounts of whiskey or making out in their dressing rooms before the five-minute warning.
His new friend, Graham, the only person who had really talked to him at the theater outside of his boss, had scored an invitation with a plus-one and insisted Fletcher join him.
“Don’t look like we’re about to face the Spanish Inquisition,” Graham hissed. “This is a party; you’re supposed to have fun.”
“What if someone notices my suit is borrowed?” Fletcher whispered. “I should have worn my sports coat; at least it fit at the sleeves.”
“It fits fine,” Graham said, surveying Fletcher’s dark suit. “Anyway, no one will be looking at your suit. The women will be enthralled by your American accent, and the men are only here for the champagne and pretty women.”
Graham sauntered away and Fletcher approached the buffet table. British food was so odd: mini hot dogs sticking out of pastries, and some kind of dessert that looked like an exploded cake. He grabbed a plate and wondered what tasted good.
That’s when he saw Emma, wearing the yellow dress she’d worn at graduation. He remembered her looking so pretty standing on the Colby Green, he had wanted to break the promises he made to himself and tell her this was crazy, they had to be together.
Could Emma have followed him to London? The woman walked toward the entryway and he had to follow her. He stumbled over the rug and spilled champagne over a woman with wavy red hair and a multicolored blouse.
“Look what you’ve done.” The woman in the blouse glowered. “You got champagne all over raw silk.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Here, you can have my napkin.”
“Americans are supposed to be coordinated.” The woman accepted the napkin. “You’re all pro athletes or race car drivers.”
“Not all of us,” Fletcher said gruffly. He was still thinking about the woman in the yellow dress and realizing it probably wasn’t Emma after all.
“No, I can see that.” She studied his gangly body. “Please be more careful next time; this is one of my best designs. How am I going to show it off if there’s a huge stain?”
Fletcher turned, and the woman claimed his full attention. Her hair was gorgeous, like a red flame shooting over her shoulders. And her outfit was unique: the blouse was hand-painted, and she wore a flared skirt that showed off her shapely waist.
“Did you make that blouse?” he asked.
“I made all of it,”
she said, waving her hand over her body. “I’m a costume designer. Well, I will be a costume designer once I get my lucky break. Do you know how hard it was to get an invitation to this party? I had to go on four dates with a guy who smelled like liver and seemed to have more than two hands. It was worth it; everyone in theater is here.”
“Where is the offending date now?” Fletcher asked curiously.
“He left me as soon as I told him that if his hands ever wandered near my blouse again, I’d break his wrists.” She smiled impishly. “He’s chatting up some brunette in the den.”
“Fletcher Conway.” Fletcher held out his hand. The champagne had made him bold, and he liked the woman’s smile.
“Cassandra Davies.” Her handshake was firm. “Why are you at the party? No offense, but that’s a cheap suit, so you can’t be an investor. And you’re not quite handsome enough to be an actor.”
“That stings my ego just a little,” Fletcher said, smiling. “I came with a friend. I’m an assistant director at the Old Vic.” He looked at Cassandra. “Why do you want to be a costume designer if you don’t like anyone in the profession?”
“For the same reason you’re willing to stand around a drafty theater for less than minimum wage,” she said, and her smile was as intoxicating as the champagne. “Because the theater is the only place I feel properly alive.”
Seven Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
Fletcher blinked, and the memory of his first meeting with Cassandra dissolved like ice in a glass of scotch. Graham said the divorce wasn’t Fletcher’s fault, but Graham had never been married. But Graham was right about one thing: Megan was smart and beautiful. Fletcher wasn’t going to let an imaginary sighting of Emma get in the way of the first Christmas he and Megan and Lola spent together.
“Dad! There you are.” Lola appeared in the doorway. Cassandra still designed many of Lola’s clothes, and she had the most amazing wardrobe: dresses with matching leggings, wildly patterned coats, and bright scarfs and hats. Lola had her mother’s red wavy hair, and the smile that had bowled him over.
“Megan and I are waiting in the lobby.” Lola entered the library, wearing a smock with ribbed tights and pink boots. “She said you disappeared and she hasn’t seen you in ages.”
“I was doing some work,” Fletcher said hastily, putting away his phone. “Let’s go, I’m suddenly hungry as a bear.”
“You’ll still be hungry after dinner.” Lola grimaced. “Megan said the restaurant serves soups and organic vegetables. On Christmas Eve! I’d rather eat at the inn. I walked by the dining room and they’re serving turkey and stuffing with gravy.”
“Megan chose the restaurant tonight, but you can decide where we eat tomorrow night.” He took Lola’s hand. “How about we pick up a pint of ice cream after dinner? You pick the flavor. What should we get?”
Lola looked up at Fletcher and the love in her eyes made him melt. “Ben and Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake, of course,” she said with that blazing smile. “Why do you have to ask?”
Fletcher and Lola entered the lobby, and Megan turned toward them. She really was stunning: blond hair tied in a neat ponytail and long legs fitted into leather boots. It wasn’t just her looks that had attracted him. Megan had graduated from Yale’s drama department four years ago, and she still had that wonderful enthusiasm and drive. Fletcher was a little tired of the whole game: producers who pulled their money at the last minute, actors whose demands were longer than a child’s Christmas list. Megan made him recall why he’d fallen in love with theater.
“There you are.” Megan kissed him. “You were gone for a while, and I missed you. I was afraid you got lost and Lola and I would have to eat by ourselves.”
Fletcher wound his scarf around his neck and opened the door. Snow blanketed the sidewalk and the sky was full of stars. He was with the two people he cared about most at Christmas. What more could he ask for?
Five
Six Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
IT WAS THE MORNING AFTER Emma arrived. She peeked out the window of her room. The sky was a swirl of clouds and fat snowflakes falling on the pavement. The church spire was almost invisible, and the village looked like it had been dipped in a bowl of warm milk.
She flopped back on the bed and thought of Fletcher and the blond woman and the little girl in that fantastic wool coat. There was no chance of staying at The Smuggler’s Inn and interrupting Fletcher’s family vacation. She had to go back to New York.
But she couldn’t just leave; she’d promised to run the kids’ club. Betty said only one child was signed up, but perhaps Betty could take care of it herself. And what about the roads? If she waited, they might not be passable.
She threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater and raced to the door. Then she turned back and glanced in the mirror. Even if Fletcher was with another woman, she didn’t want his one memory of her to be without any makeup. She rubbed on lipstick and combed her hair. There was a cashmere scarf in her luggage, and she draped it around her neck. She was a successful advertising woman, after all; she didn’t want to look the same as she had in college.
“Emma, you look lovely this morning,” Betty said when Emma descended the staircase. The parlor was empty, and Emma felt silly. She had been worried about how she was dressed, but Fletcher wasn’t even here.
“Thank you.” Emma fiddled with the scarf. “I was wondering what the road conditions were like.”
“The road conditions?” Betty repeated, running a duster over the fireplace mantel.
Emma was too embarrassed to say she was thinking about leaving.
“I was thinking of taking a drive,” Emma volunteered. “The countryside is so pretty.”
“The Green Mountains are breathtaking, but I’m afraid you won’t see them today,” Betty chuckled. “We’re supposed to get six inches of snow by nightfall. You’re not going anywhere unless you’re a tow truck.”
“Are you sure?” Emma winced.
“Don’t worry, tomorrow is supposed to be clear,” Betty offered. “You can always take a walk. A few of the guests already snapped on snowshoes and are trudging around the village. And the little girl signed up for the kids’ club is going on an outing with her parents. I don’t expect them back until dinnertime, so you have the afternoon to yourself.”
“I don’t feel like a walk,” Emma said, deflated. She was completely stuck, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“Then you’ll have to enjoy my breakfast,” Betty said, beaming, and led her into the dining room. “You’re the last one down, but there’s plenty of biscuits and sausages.”
Emma ate a bite of scrambled eggs and put down her fork. The eggs and warm biscuits with fresh-churned butter had looked delicious, but she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. She’d explore the inn, and then go upstairs and take a bath. One day of relaxing at The Smuggler’s Inn wasn’t so bad; tomorrow she’d go back to New York.
There was a honey jar shaped like a bear on the dining table, and she remembered her first date with Fletcher. Not their first kiss, because driving to Kennebunkport had been part of the trade for playing piano. The first time was when he’d picked her up wearing a blazer borrowed from his roommate, holding lilies that were wilted because they’d spent the afternoon in his dorm room.
October, 2007
Waterville, Maine
Emma sat across from Fletcher at the all-night diner and poured honey into a cup of tea. It was three weeks after their kiss at the seashore, and Emma had been certain Fletcher had forgotten about her. The kiss had meant nothing; it was the thrill of the sea spray combined with the exhilaration of being far from campus. They had been two puppies that momentarily escaped the litter.
When Fletcher did call and ask her to see a play at the Waterville Opera House, she’d thought it was a bad idea. Her senior thesis was taking up all her time, and there were only six months until graduation. But she’d blurted out yes,
and spent the afternoon frantically searching for something to wear. Then she put the lilies Fletcher gave her in water and squeezed into his borrowed Corolla.
The play was entertaining, but the Corolla got a flat tire on the way home and they had to cancel Fletcher’s dinner reservation at a French bistro. By the time he changed the tire, it was almost midnight, and they settled on burgers and fries at the diner near campus.
“A theater major who can change a tire,” Emma said mischievously, pouring ketchup on lettuce. “I thought actors didn’t do mundane things like work on cars or cook or do laundry.”
She should have been disappointed that they’d missed out on soufflé and caramel flan, but she was strangely elated. Being with Fletcher was like putting her hand close enough to a fireplace to feel the warmth but not get burned.
“I’ve done my own laundry since I was in high school, and I make a decent tuna salad.” Fletcher ate a handful of fries. “Anyway, I don’t want to be an actor.”
“You don’t?” she asked in surprise. “You made me play the piano for your one-man show.”
“You need a huge ego to face an audience across floodlights without wanting to run away,” he explained. “I’m happier behind the scenes. I’ve wanted to be a director since I was a kid.”
“Are you going to move to Hollywood and make blockbusters and drive around in a convertible?” She was joking, but underneath her light tone was the question of whether they would end up on different coasts.
“Movies are important, but there’s no connection with the audience. I want to direct plays,” he explained. “The greatest thrill of being a director is standing in the back of the theater and sensing the excitement ripple through the crowd. When they leave their seats at the end of the night, they all experienced the same adventure.”