by Anita Hughes
“You want all of us to go tubing now?” Fletcher asked doubtfully. The last thing Fletcher needed was to go back to New York with a cast on his leg.
“It’s more fun to do it as a family,” Lola urged. “Mom and Chuck took me inner tubing in Connecticut.”
“You two should go—I’ll watch,” Megan suggested. “I don’t want to ruin my leather jacket if I fall.”
If Chuck with his bad tennis knee could ride an inner tube, so could Fletcher. And he wanted Lola to enjoy outdoor activities instead of only being interested in the theater.
“Why not? I was quite good in college,” Fletcher said cheerfully and turned to Megan. “Don’t worry about falling; it’s easier than it looks.”
* * *
Fletcher sailed down the slope and wished Graham could see him now. He was getting exercise and doing things with Megan and Lola together. And it was fun: the tube jumped easily over the bumps and he felt vigorous and alive.
“Let’s go again,” Lola said when Fletcher reached the bottom.
“That’s enough for me.” Fletcher climbed out of the tube. Other families glanced admiringly at Lola’s flaming hair and Megan’s long legs, and Fletcher thought they really were a beautiful family.
“Please, one more time,” Lola begged. “When Mom and Chuck took me tubing, we were the last ones on the mountain.”
The wind had picked up, and there was a small pain in Fletcher’s side.
“Why don’t we go back to The Smuggler’s Inn?” he suggested. “You can finish the programs, and Megan and I will take a Jacuzzi.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” Megan interjected. She had been more effusive since he suggested extending their honeymoon. She leaned forward and kissed him. “You look so handsome coming down the hill. I’ll stand at the bottom and referee.”
“We’re not going to race,” Fletcher corrected her.
“Don’t worry, I know you’re getting kind of old,” Lola said, examining Fletcher critically. “You can have a head start.”
Fletcher perched on top of the hill and wondered if this was a good idea. But Lola was already waiting impatiently for him to start. As long as he went slowly, nothing bad would happen.
Megan waved from the bottom and he pushed off the slope. Lola’s tube came up behind him and soon they were side by side. Lola was giggling and Fletcher felt a rush of joy.
But then Lola picked up speed and Fletcher tried to catch up. Lola finished first, jumping out of the tube and waving her arms in the air. Suddenly Megan got knocked down into the snow. Megan screeched and his tube came to a halt.
“Are you all right?” He jumped out of the tube and ran to help her up.
“My jacket is soaking wet—it’s ruined!” Her cheeks were pale, and her mouth was set in a firm line.
“I told you I was fast,” Lola said and turned to Megan. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean for your jacket to get wet. Maybe Betty has something at the inn that can fix it.”
“I’ll have to take it somewhere when we get back to New York,” Megan said and brushed away the snow in her hair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change out of these wet clothes, and then I’m going to go to the beauty parlor and redo my hair.”
* * *
Fletcher stood in the library of The Smuggler’s Inn and nursed a large scotch. He hadn’t even gone upstairs to change out of his damp clothes; he’d walked straight to the library and filled the tallest shot glass he could find.
If Megan’s leather jacket hadn’t gotten ruined, he and Megan would be sitting in the Jacuzzi by now. Instead she was at the beauty parlor getting her hair repaired, and Lola was upstairs taking a bath. What bad luck, almost crashing into Megan when they had been having fun.
The whole excursion had been somewhat stressful, like the opening night of a new play. There were moments of joy, and he was confident it would be a success, but until the last curtain fell and the audience broke into applause, his stomach was tying itself in knots.
He was in love with Megan, and he was certain marrying her was the right decision. But every day brought a new problem: Could he give Megan the lead in the new play? Why was Lola talking about babies? Should they consider holding the wedding at The Smuggler’s Inn?
There was no reason not to get married in Vermont. Nothing was happening with Father of the Bride until the fall. Lola would blossom in Snowberry in the summer, and he would love to direct A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
But Megan had her heart set on getting married at the Plaza. And he had gone about it all wrong. He should have asked Megan if she would consider getting married in Vermont before she heard it from someone else. It was like the time he’d brought home a puppy for Lola. He and Cassandra had talked vaguely about getting a dog, but he should have asked Cassandra first. Instead, he arrived home with a puppy that proceeded to chew their shoes and jump on the furniture.
The scotch warmed his throat, and his mind wandered to Emma. He remembered the first crack in their relationship. It had been his fault, but it had seemed so minor at the time. He’d been positive he could fix it.
April, 2008
Waterville, Maine
Fletcher stood behind the counter of Ye Olde Candy Shoppe in Waterville, Maine and wondered what hurt more: his eyes, from staying up all night studying; his legs, from bicycling the three miles from campus; or his back, from standing behind the counter.
There was nothing he could change about the situation. If he didn’t study, he would fail his exams. He had to bicycle to work, because he still didn’t own a car. And he had to earn enough money by graduation so he could move close to Emma.
Just thinking about Emma made filling paper bags with sticky taffy, and jelly beans that left orange dye on his hands, tolerable. The last few months had been the best of his life: cooking spaghetti for dinner on the hot plate in his dorm room, listening to the spring rain on the rooftops, taking long walks on Sunday mornings when the rest of the campus was asleep.
Emma was determined to move to New York, and he wanted to be near her. So, twenty hours a week, he wore a paper hat and dished out novelty candies: coconut Needhams made with chocolate and Maine potatoes, and gummy animals shaped like moose and lobsters.
The bell above the door tinkled, and a man wearing a navy blazer entered the store.
“I need a present for my wife,” the man said as he approached the counter. “Some of that fudge and a few of the pralines.” He deliberated. “And a separate bag of the Charleston Chews. My wife won’t let me eat them because of my diabetes, but I’ll finish them before I get off the plane.”
The man handed Fletcher his credit card and waited while Fletcher filled two bags.
“I’m Harry Stone,” he said, and held out his hand. “And you’re Fletcher Conway.”
“I’m sorry—have we met?” Fletcher asked.
“No, but my son goes to Colby,” Harry said. “William Stone.”
“That doesn’t sound familiar.” Fletcher shook his head.
“That’s because William is studying to be a doctor, and doesn’t approve of theater people, including his own father,” Harry laughed. “But I saw your production of Macbeth. It was excellent; I’ve never seen so much energy in Shakespeare.”
“Most students don’t understand Shakespeare’s English, so I direct the actors to use as much physical expression as possible,” Fletcher explained. “Sort of like a football game with costumes.”
“It worked brilliantly. I was impressed,” Harry agreed. “The department head is an old friend and said I could find you here. I was wondering if you’d be interested in a job.”
“You mean other than counting out milk balls?” Fletcher waved at the glass jars of candy.
“Being an assistant director at a theater company,” Harry corrected him. “Not now, but when you graduate.”
Fletcher felt like a bird was trapped in his chest, beating its wings.
“What kind of theater company?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he received
offers all the time.
“Shakespeare, mostly—though we dabble in other great British playwrights.” Harry ticked them off his fingers. “Harold Pinter and Somerset Maugham.”
“Somerset Maugham!” Fletcher had devoured his writing, but he didn’t know anyone who was familiar with his plays.
“The job will be tedious, with terrible working conditions,” Harry said cheerfully. “Actors who refuse to go on if a cockroach scuttles across the stage; pay that is so low, you’ll be living on biscuits and beef jerky. But you’ll be working with some of the greatest names in theater, and I’ll teach you everything I know.”
“It sounds tremendous.” Fletcher tried not to sound too eager. “Can I think about it and get back to you?”
“Here’s my card.” He handed it to Fletcher. “I’ll be in town until Friday; then I return to England.”
“England?” Fletcher repeated, noticing the card had a London address.
“Didn’t I mention that?” Harry asked. “The job is in London. I’m the director of the Old Vic.”
* * *
Fletcher walked out of the store at the end of his shift and noticed a girl leaning against the lamppost. Her head was hidden in a book, but he recognized Emma’s sandals.
“Emma? What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to meet you.” She put the book away. She was wearing a summer dress with a cotton sweater tied around her neck.
“I have something exciting to tell you.” She kissed him. “If I waited until you got back to campus, I was afraid I’d burst.”
“I have something to tell you, too.” Fletcher unlocked his bicycle. “But you came all the way here—you go first.”
“I told you that Julie’s father works at Ogilvy & Mather in New York,” Emma said. “He put in a good word for me, and I have a job interview.”
“That’s wonderful,” Fletcher said, beaming.
“It’s better than wonderful!” Emma exclaimed. “Ogilvy is one of the biggest ad agencies in the world. And the job isn’t in the mailroom or secretary pool, it’s as a junior copywriter. I’m taking the bus to Manhattan on Friday.”
“You’ll get the job,” Fletcher said, and kissed her. “You’re smart and talented, and they’d be lucky to have you.”
“What did you want to tell me?” she said, turning to him.
Fletcher thought of Harry’s card in his pocket. Now wasn’t the time to mention Harry’s offer in London. There would be plenty of opportunities when Emma returned from her interview in New York.
He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a paper bag.
“Ye Olde Candy Shoppe got in those chocolate cashew bonbons.” He handed her the bag. “I saved some for you.”
Three Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
Fletcher paced around the library of The Smuggler’s Inn and pulled his mind back to the present. The sun was setting over the fields, and the church steeple gleamed in the distance. It didn’t matter whether he and Megan got married in New York or Vermont, as long as they were together.
He might not have all the answers. Some days it was still hard to comprehend that he was divorced, and no matter how hard he tried, Lola could be a complete mystery. But he knew one thing: He and Megan had to communicate with each other. There couldn’t be any secrets between them, or their marriage would fail before it started.
Thirteen
Three Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
EMMA SAT AT A TABLE at the Snowshoe Café on Main Street and toyed with a bowl of baked-potato soup. It was late afternoon, and Emma had been sitting there for hours.
Every now and then the waitress looked meaningfully at her and Emma ordered something else: French country bread, or a cup of hot tea with lemon. But she wasn’t hungry, so the plates piled up like snowflakes on the cars outside the window.
She had started the day with a brisk walk through the forest, followed by a breakfast of poached eggs and Vermont sausage. But when she came downstairs to find Lola, Betty said Lola had gone out, and there wasn’t going to be any kids’ club this afternoon.
Emma hid her disappointment and mumbled something about catching up on her work. She spent half an hour playing listlessly on the piano, but Betty kept poking her head in and asking if she wanted a muffin. Emma finally gathered her laptop and headed into the village.
She told herself it was good that Lola was busy; she had to finish the ad copy for Lancôme’s new lipstick. But she imagined Lola and Fletcher and Megan sharing fondue at some cozy restaurant, and felt oddly alone.
The waitress glared at her, and Emma tried to examine her feelings. She often tagged along with Bronwyn and the girls on outings. And she didn’t mind being the single woman at Bronwyn and Carlton’s dinner parties when she was between boyfriends.
She had to be honest with herself. She couldn’t stop thinking about Fletcher. But he hadn’t given her any reason to believe they were anything but old friends. He was infatuated with Megan. In six months they’d be married, and Fletcher would completely forget about running into Emma at Christmas.
But this morning when she was jogging through the forest, she wondered if Bronwyn was right. Could Fletcher and Megan really be in love if they had only known each other for a few months? What if Emma was meant to come to Vermont to find Fletcher, and synchronicity really existed?
There was a new email notification on her laptop from her boss, Helen, and she opened it.
Dear Emma,
Normally I hate to send or receive work emails during Christmas week. So feel free to ignore this and go back to snorkeling or watching hula dancers or whatever you and Scott are doing in Maui.
I just received word that Lancôme was so pleased with your ads for the deep lash mascara, they are assigning you a new product. It’s top secret, but it’s some kind of age-defying serum, and it’s yours from the test kitchen until it hits the stores.
Put a couple of daiquiris on your expense account to celebrate, and I can’t wait to hear about your vacation. There’s a betting pool in the office whether you’ll come back wearing a diamond ring. If I win, I’ll be able to afford the January sales at Bloomingdale’s.
Best, Helen
Emma closed the laptop and groaned. She should have told Helen she had broken up with Scott and wasn’t going to Maui. Now a swarm of copywriters and account executives would gather around her desk, inspecting her suntan and her ring finger.
Her very own product! She should ask the waitress for a slice of maple walnut pie to celebrate. Instead she felt slightly hollow, like the day she’d been promoted to copywriter. It had been January three years ago, and she had just broken up with a writer named Paul. She had been so thrilled about the promotion; she’d called Bronwyn to tell her the good news. But Bronwyn had been at a toddler gymnastics class and Emma’s parents were on a cruise, and she couldn’t think of anyone else to tell. She picked up some salmon chowder and went home and watched The Real Housewives of New York City.
She could call Bronwyn now with the news. But Bronwyn might be busy making sure Liv didn’t sneak her mermaid shampoo and bubblegum toothpaste in her carry-on.
Emma remembered when she had taken the bus to New York from Colby for her first job interview. She was so excited to see the landmarks she had read about: the Statue of Liberty, the Botanical Gardens, the New York Public Library. But halfway through her first day in Manhattan, all she wanted was to hear Fletcher’s voice on the other end of her phone. Without that, the jugglers in Union Square and the parade that happened to pass through Midtown seemed as drab as the Greyhound bus station.
April, 2008
New York
Emma glanced at her flip phone and slipped it dejectedly in her purse. She had been in New York for twenty-four hours; her head throbbed and her feet ached and all she wanted was to go back to Colby.
Her interview at Ogilvy & Mather had been yesterday afternoon. She’d been so nervou
s, she spent an hour pacing up and down outside the office building. She might never have worked up the courage to enter the revolving glass doors if a police officer hadn’t asked if there was something wrong.
The interview went better than she expected, and she left flushed with optimism. Then she pulled out her Lonely Planet and vowed to do everything it suggested. She started at Grand Central Station, and it was one of the most magical places she had ever seen: the pale blue ceiling was painted with elaborate murals, and she could have spent hours in the food hall sipping espresso at Café Grumpy and sampling red velvet cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery.
By the time she left Grand Central Station, it was almost dusk, and she was suddenly anxious about walking alone. But the guidebook said she had to fit in a quick tour of the Guggenheim before it closed. She ate dinner at a falafel place on Sixth Avenue, and by the time she reached the hostel, she was convinced New York was the best city in the world.
She tried to call Fletcher, but his phone went straight to voicemail. She tried again four more times because the Australian tourists at the hostel kept her awake until midnight with their rowdy discussion about the differences between rugby and football. She even tried the phone in his dorm, but some guy answered groggily and said he hadn’t seen Fletcher all night.
This morning she had woken early, determined to fit in more sightseeing before going back to the bus terminal. But she didn’t enjoy the bagel with strawberry cream cheese at Ess-A-Bagel because Fletcher still hadn’t returned her calls, and she almost got thrown out of the Met for answering her phone. She was sure it was Fletcher, but it had been her suitemate asking where she kept her curling iron.
Now it was afternoon, and she was standing in Central Park wondering where Fletcher could be. On Thursdays he only had one class, and even if he was studying in the library, he could have stepped outside and taken her call.
There was a food cart selling hot dogs, and she decided to buy one because there was nothing worse than the Velveeta sandwiches they sold at the bus terminal. She handed the vendor three dollars, and there was a ringing sound in her purse.