She’d once read that sex was often the last thing to go in a relationship; she now questioned if it had been the only thing, outside of being a mother to Cory, that had kept her in the marriage. If it hadn’t been for the sex, would she have left a lot sooner? She considered what her life might have been like. She might have met someone else and had a child of her own, before the cure for her terrible disease had left her sterile.
Tell the truth, Laura. It wasn’t only the sex that kept you and Jake together. At least not on your part. After he had proposed to her that night at Freeman’s Pond, they had lain under the stars for hours, talking about the future. Her happiness had been complete, and she had believed with all her heart that it would endure.
She removed her bra and rolled down her panty hose, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. She stepped into the shower. For a long while she just stood there, immobile under the rusty showerhead, allowing the steamy, now clear stream to beat against her face. After she had arrived at the house two days ago, she had immediately gone to work scrubbing down the upstairs bathroom, and afterward, replacing her aunt’s face and body soaps with her own special preferences. She’d always had a penchant for expensive toiletries—it was her one personal luxury, she liked to tell herself. But she found herself wondering why she had brought so many of her things here in the first place.
Just how long was she planning to stay?
Still lingering in the air, the smell of cleaning disinfectant assaulted her nostrils, taking her back to that Saturday in December at the indoor community pool. It was the winter she turned twelve, and she had just finished her first period. Jake had accidentally-on-purpose bumped into her under the water. Pressing his body against hers, he dragged her poolside as if he were rescuing her from drowning. Big hero. All he wanted was to cop a feel off her newly budding breasts. But as angry as she was, she also felt a tingling in her stomach, although at the time she couldn’t identify the sensation. “I think she needs artificial respiration,” Jake announced to all their friends. She pushed him away and ran off to the lockers, Cassie and Cynthia following closely behind.
Like I said, some things in life don’t change.
It’s true, Laura thought now—some things never change. Jake was still the same cocky adolescent. Every time she thought about what had happened earlier that morning, she felt her blood churning.
There you go again, Laura. Can’t you ever tell the truth? Sure, you loved him and for you it wasn’t just the sex that kept you in the marriage, but let’s be honest here—the sex was good. Once again she caught herself thinking about the night he had proposed. Admit it, Laura, it wasn’t just the talking you remember so well. And speaking of sex, didn’t it feel nice, that day at the community pool so long ago, when he pushed his cool, bare chest against the thin layer of your bathing suit top? Haven’t you always regretted, one little bit, running off to the lockers before he had a chance to perform mouth-to-mouth?
She picked up her favorite soap, My Secret Sin, and her body sponge from the caddy over the faucet, and began washing her arms and legs. Gradually, the cleansing gave way to a slow massage, the nylon both fleecy and scratchy against her skin. The aroma of the scented suds merged with the memory of Jake’s woodsy scent, blotting out the last traces of disinfectant. She closed her eyes. Once again she tried to picture Edward’s face, and once again she failed. “Go away, Jake,” she moaned into the vapor. “Some things in life do change.” Oblivious to the groaning in the pipes behind the wall, she stood under the slow, hot flow, and then, dropping the sponge, slid her hand down her soap-streaked belly, seeking the softness below.
She was thinking of him three hours later as she sat at a table outside the Café St. Gabriel in Ridgefield, sipping a glass of chardonnay. Although Jake had always preferred to dine at what he called less “artsy” places like Joe’s Burger Hut or Mama Rosa’s Pizza Pub, he had taken her here from time to time to please her. A neighbor to Middlewood, Ridgefield was acclaimed for its restaurants, and the café was one of Laura’s favorites.
The trendy French restaurant hadn’t changed in the time she’d been away. Inside, heavy wooden beams lined the ceiling, and the far wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The décor outside, with its provincial blue-and-yellow tablecloths, accentuated a French country motif and was as welcoming as it was inside. The day had warmed up unexpectedly, and the patio was filled with patrons enjoying what remained of summer.
A voice drifted into her consciousness. “Would you like something with your wine, Madame Logan?”
“Uh, no thank you,” Laura answered, startled out of her reverie by the sound of her married name. She’d taken back her maiden name, Matheson, when she’d left Jake. “I’m waiting for a friend.” She glanced down at her watch, a gift from Edward on her last birthday. The polished stainless steel case of the Cartier gleamed in the sunshine, the numbers on the mother-of-pearl dial showing that Cassie was fifteen minutes late.
“What about an appetizer in the meantime? May I suggest our house smoked salmon? Or perhaps you’d prefer the steamed mussels?”
She looked up at the stocky, well-dressed man hovering over her. They sure pay their waiters well, she thought, taking note of his Armani suit. “I’d like to wait for my friend, if you don’t mind,” she said, growing impatient with his persistence.
“Forgive my impudence,” he said, as if sensing her displeasure. “I was hoping you’d recognize me. You and Monsieur Logan used to come here sometimes. If memory serves me, he always ordered the sixteen-ounce sirloin with fries on the side.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “But you,” he continued, now smiling, “preferred our finer selections. As I recall, your favorite was the coq au vin.”
“Michel! Michel Dubois! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” She flushed, embarrassed that she’d mistaken him, the proprietor, for a waiter.
“It’s the goatee,” he said, fingering a sparse spread of whispers on his chin. “It even confuses my wife. Bien, here’s your friend now.” He pulled out the chair for Cassie. “Will you be having your regular?” he asked as she sat down next to Laura.
Cassie was as chic as ever, in a high-neck jade shell and a knee-length black skirt, her outfit complementing her lively green eyes and bobbed dark hair. Next to her Laura felt dowdy. In her shower that morning, it was as if Jake had sneaked in beside her, and afterward she had wanted to cover up as much of her flesh as possible, as though to compensate for having exposed herself to his eyes—and touch. Now, sitting in the golden September sun, she was uncomfortably warm in her gray cashmere turtleneck and black wool slacks. She should have reserved a table inside.
“Yes, I’ll have the regular,” Cassie said. “How are you, Michel? And how is Madame Dubois?”
“I’m fine,” he answered. “Madame is well, too. She’s in her last month, big as a bathtub and still growing. The doctor says twins for sure.” Laura’s back stiffened in her chair. As though he had taken her gesture as a personal rebuke, Michel took on a more formal demeanor. “It’s nice to see you again, Madame Logan. I’ll send a waiter over with the menus shortly. I hope you enjoy your meal.” He nodded at the two women, and after bowing his head, walked off to another table.
There’s something wrong with me, Laura thought. Other than not being able to have children. Other than I’m having wild fantasies about the most wretched man in the world, even though I’m engaged to the most wonderful man in the world. Why is it that everywhere I go, I seem to tick someone off? I can’t go through life alienating people this way. I can’t go through life pretending that people don’t have children.
Cassie instantly picked up on Laura’s frame of mind. “Did you see him bow?”
