He looks shocked for a moment and then he smiles and revs up the charm machine.
“Ah, guilt! It’s a terrible thing when guilt gets in the way of fun, isn’t it? But here’s what I think. We shouldn’t feel guilty because in the grand scheme of things, you and me having sex is not taking anything away from your boyfriend. I’m no threat to your relationship because, one, I’m a known quantity and, two, I’m screwed up and can’t maintain a decent relationship. You’re his, as far as I’m concerned. This is all recreational. Look at it this way: I am strictly for fun.”
“I don’t work that way, unfortunately,” I say.
“Yes, you do. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing, having fun. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry I ever started. So please respect my wishes on this.”
He gives me a sideways look. I know I’m sounding weird—so stiff and formal, but I can’t help it. I’m still shaking. He goes over and opens the refrigerator, stares into it, and finally gets out a beer. I know he’s playing for time, waiting to see if I come to my senses. When I don’t say anything else, he finally lets out a big breath, takes a swig of the beer, and says, “Okay. Have it your way. I’ll respect your wishes, and we’ll chill on the sex, but I have to stay here until the semester’s over.”
“No. I want you to leave.”
“Marnie! Fuck! What is this?”
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, shaking my head, standing my ground. It feels like Blix and everybody who loved her is standing right there alongside me.
“No. I can’t have you here. You have to leave.”
He stares at me, and for a moment I think he’ll challenge me, or refuse, or even throw a fit. But then he laughs, takes another big drink of beer, and shakes his head as though this is the most insane request he’s ever heard. He picks up his backpack and goes downstairs. I hear the shower running. Soon after, there’s the sound of drawers banging shut, and his footsteps in the hallway, and then the front door slams. I watch from the window as he heads down the street, talking on his phone.
That night I take the book of spells down to my room and lie in bed, anxious to get back to Blix’s journal. I love how she filled pages with stars and filigrees and comets. I love the stories of little glimmers she felt as she watched people falling in love around her. She wrote that she sometimes sent out messages and energy through the atmosphere and saw people turn in surprise when they got zapped with love.
She was a person like no one I ever met.
Then I smile, remembering the engagement party and how we surrounded a red-haired woman with white light. And for a moment, I feel her there with me in the room.
I read lists of things she was grateful for: the random heart-shaped leaves on the sidewalk; the pigeons who talked to her from the windowsill; her kantha quilt; Patrick’s sculptures with their grace and power; the way she and Houndy would sit by the fire pit on snowy nights, curled up together under fleece blankets; Sammy’s smile.
How important it was to add to every spell, “For the good of all and free will of all.”
And then, in the very back of the book, on the very last page, she’d made a list, called “My Projects.”
JESSICA AND ANDREW.
LOLA AND WILLIAM.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
I close the book very carefully and place it on the floor.
Patrick?
Patrick is the one she thought was for me?
It’s so impossible as to almost be laughable. Patrick is so locked up in himself, he’s so unreachable and . . . and . . . what did she think I was supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life writing to him on my phone? We could gradually work up to love notes in our texts! Maybe after twenty years of me texting I love you, he might let me actually touch him.
Oh, Blix. Maybe you got some things right, but this was so very, very wrong.
THIRTY-FIVE
MARNIE
The next day, I’m at Best Buds texting the news to Patrick that I’ve asked Noah to leave, when I look up to see the elderly man coming in the door. The one who wasn’t ready. This time, however, he masterfully strides over and picks out calla lilies, roses, some baby’s breath, some gerbera daisies, and some greens.
“Gerbera daisies are my very favorite flower,” I tell him when he brings them over to the counter.
This seems to please him. He has a sweet face, lined and gentle.
“I am about to do a very brave thing,” he says. His eyes are shining. “Braver than anything I did in the war, that’s for sure. I am going to ask a woman to marry me.”
“Really!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Is she going to be surprised or does she already know?”
“It’s a surprise. Actually, do you have paper so I can write a note? It occurs to me that it might be a very good idea to include a little note, convincing her.”
“Oh, boy. You’re going to propose marriage on paper?”
He stiffens a little. “I am.”
“No, that’s cool. I get it. Do you want some help?”
“I have to do this myself,” he tells me sternly. “This has to be all me. Though it’s been years, you know, since I had to . . . well . . . convince a lady that I’m worth investing in.”
“Of course. Here, you can sit over here and take your time.” I lead him over to a little white table in the back. “Can I get you some water? Or maybe a thesaurus? Or a romance novel?”
He laughs at that.
He sits for a long time, chewing on the end of his pen.
Patrick texts back:
Great! Did he go peacefully into that good night? (Did you see what I did there?)
Ha! He did go peacefully. So far, at least.
The man turns, clears his throat, and says, “Maybe I could use a little help, if you have some time.”
I put down my phone. “I love doing this,” I say. “Tell me something about her. And you. I’ll see what comes up.”
He sighs. “All right, maybe that would work.” He closes his eyes and begins: “So I’ve been seeing . . . this lady. I drive from New Jersey to visit her. Been doing it for about six months now. Every chance I can. Every chance she’ll let me.”
Little sparkles are dancing around in front of my eyes. Oh my God. This is him!
“And . . . well, she’s the widow of my best friend. She doesn’t know I want to be more than a friend to her because I haven’t wanted to scare her off. But we only talk about our dead spouses. And current events. Weather. Plays. She doesn’t know I have . . . feelings. She’s very proper with me.”
I clear my throat. What are the ethics of this situation? Should I say, Hey, you’re William Sullivan, and I know your whole story. Let me tell you what the lady in question has said to me about you!
Instead I go with, “But is it the kind of proper like ‘keep your distance’ or is it the kind of proper like ‘I don’t want to assume this man loves me’?” I really do want to know which one it is.
“Now how would I know that?” he says. “That’s why I’m going to propose marriage—to see what she says.” He gets a mock serious look on his face. “I am, as they say, taking the plunge.”
Ohhhh. Lola is going to break his heart. This is not going to go well.
“Yes,” I say. “But . . . if . . . I mean, won’t it be too sudden? It might put her on the spot, you know. Why plunge when you could wade? Tiptoe in, test the waters.”
“No. Absolutely not. When I asked my wife to marry me, that’s what I did, and it worked out just fine. I asked her while we were getting some ice cream—popped the question, and she dropped her ice cream cone on the ground she was so surprised. And then she said yes. I had to buy her another cone. Best money I ever spent.”