*
Six o’clock on Westminster Mall is full of men in business suits, women in high heels, shoppers laden with shopping bags pushing through the revolving doors of Shepard’s and The Outlet and Gladyings. I’d read in the Evening Bulletin that some politicians wanted to demolish the pedestrian mall and open it to automobile traffic. They wanted to enter the 1970s with an all-new Providence. But standing there on a warm April evening and watching life pass by me, I couldn’t believe that anyone would let that happen. A policeman forced two long-haired college students in ripped jeans and T-shirts, holding signs that said Hell No, We Won’t Go! to move along. Not for the first time, I found myself thankful that when I went to college, students still dressed for class—boys in ties and girls in skirts and sweater sets. We combed our hair and took baths and loved our country.
“You look deep in thought,” Fred Lancaster’s voice interrupted my silent rant.
I pointed to the two boys still lingering near The Outlet.
“I was reminiscing about my own college days,” I said.
Fred smiled down at me. Had he always been so tall? I felt small beside him.
“We had our heads in the sand,” he said, linking his arm in mine. “This generation is exciting, isn’t it? They’re thinking, questioning—”
“If we’re going to have a pleasant dinner,” I said, “maybe we should change the subject.”
“Ah! You’re one of those,” he teased. “Please don’t tell me you voted for Nixon.”
“I think I’ll take the fifth,” I said, trying not to concentrate on the way our hips bumped pleasantly together as we walked.
“I seem to remember that you weren’t quite such a straight arrow in college.”
My cheeks burned, and I hoped he didn’t notice.
“The night on my friend’s boat,” he said, as if I didn’t remember.
“Well,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“And that weekend in Maine.”
“Was that Maine?” I asked. “I don’t think I saw anything except the inside of a bedroom.” I could play this game too.
Fred stopped walking.
“The wallpaper had bluebirds on it,” I said, flirting.
Without any warning, he tipped my chin up and kissed me full on the mouth. It was as good as I remembered. Only Fred could make my knees wobbly with one kiss.
“Cardinals,” he said, his face still close to mine.
“What?”
“The wallpaper had cardinals,” he said. “There was a red and gray and white–striped Pendleton blanket on the bed, and scratchy sheets by some Scandinavian designer.”
“Marimekko,” I said, remembering it all in one hot rush. Fred naked beside me, inside me. Kissing so much that my chin got red and chafed. Eating peanut butter on crackers so that we didn’t have to leave that bed.
“We’ll go to Maine again,” Fred was saying. “This time I’ll take you for lobster at this place right on the wharf—”
“You promised me that last time,” I chuckled.
“Lobster is overrated,” Fred grinned. “I’d probably not let you out of bed this time either.”
“Except this time I’m married,” I reminded him. Glancing at the wedding ring on his finger, I added, “You’re married.”
“Luau Hut or Ming Garden?” Fred asked. “Mai tais or chicken wings?”
I didn’t answer.
“We go to the Luau Hut and have mai tais,” he said, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
I thought of Jim back home in the dark living room. Funny, that room was anything but alive. It was death. It was Michelle’s pictures on the mantle. It was the smell of bourbon and sweat and grief.
I said, “Luau Hut then.”
I said, “And you’d better keep your promise to misbehave.”
*
Pressed against the side of Luke’s Restaurant after too many shared mai tais served in fake coconuts, I gave myself over to something I’d forgotten ever since the morning that Michelle died: pleasure. Upstairs from Luke’s, the Luau Hut glowed. Against the wall, Fred kissed me in that way I’d forgotten people kissed. I found myself pressing against him too, meeting his tongue, whispering into his mouth, “Don’t stop.”
“Where can we go?” Fred asked, pulling back from me just enough so that our lips almost still touched.
“Your car?” I suggested.
I was drunk and stupid on mai tais and the promise of love. So much so that I forgot I hated Fred, forgot how he’d broken my heart twice, forgot my husband sitting in the dark crying.