“Anne? Wow—uh, hi,” Patrick stammered. He’d never been the world’s most articulate person. “Yes. I mean, of course. It’s… really good to hear your voice.”
“I’ll see you in twenty,” I said, exhibiting a firmness I never had in our marriage.
I ordered a bottle of sparkling wine while I waited at a window table, watching people pass by outside. A little girl stopped and waved to me, and I waved back, noting her darling smile and her obviously DIY haircut.
I wondered if her mother had committed that crime against her bangs or if that pixie had sneaked into the bathroom with a pair of scissors. Probably there was a funny story about it.
As a photographer, I’d spent so much time focusing (no pun intended) on people’s looks: on the way a bride squinted in direct sunlight or how a groom’s boutonnière complemented his bowtie.
But what if I started really paying attention to people’s words?
It had begun to seem like everybody had an incredible story—whether or not it was happy or if they ever even wanted to tell it.
And here I was, revisiting the plot of Patrick’s and mine.
What if I could collect those stories—into some kind of a book? It was a crazy idea. But then again, so was moving to an island I’d only been to once before. And that had worked out beautifully.
At least it had until two days ago.
I was busy contemplating this possible new project when Patrick breezed into the restaurant, wearing a slightly rumpled shirt and a pair of obviously expensive blue jeans. I felt the same flutter of nerves I had when I first met him near the 79th Street entrance to Central Park.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he sat down across from me. His eyes were as blue as ever.
“Flatterer,” I said. My smile was genuine. I really was happy to see him, despite everything. Honestly, this surprised me a little.
“What in the world brings you to E.C.?” he asked.
I poured some brut into Patrick’s glass. “You,” I said simply.
He looked slightly alarmed, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“I’m not here to ask for you back if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured him.
He ducked his head. “I wasn’t worried,” he said.
I shrugged. “I think I just want to know what happened. I mean, besides the obvious.”
The obvious was that I’d found another woman’s underpants in the laundry, mixed in with the towels. They weren’t hot pink satin or crotchless lace—nothing dramatic like that. Their only distinguishing feature was that they weren’t mine.
Patrick gazed into his wine. “I guess I got scared,” he said finally. “About what marriage meant.”
“You mean the bit about until death do us part?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Aha,” I said. “So instead of death, it was Claire’s panties.”
He flushed and nodded again, almost imperceptibly this time.
I leaned forward. “Do you think you were the only one who was scared? Did you think it was easy for me, standing up in front of all those people in that church and basically saying ‘I, Anne McWilliams, have been wrong about many, many things in my life, but this one thing I am not wrong about’?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not.”
“How is Claire, by the way?” I asked—not that I particularly cared.
“You’d have to ask her,” he said. “She’s in Atlanta now.”
Well, that was interesting news.
Patrick leaned forward. “You know what, though, Anne? You’re up there on your high horse like I’m the one who screwed everything up. But you have some responsibility here, too. You could have been willing to try to work it out. I wanted to, remember? But you wouldn’t do it. You just left.” He shrugged. “You think I’m the one who threw everything away,” he said quietly. “But maybe that distinction belongs to you.”
I sucked in my breath sharply. This was a new interpretation of events. And maybe, just maybe, there was some truth in it.
What if, in the end, I’d been the one who was truly scared of commitment? And how had I never figured that out before? I just didn’t know what to say.
“I have something to show you,” Patrick said. He pulled out his wallet, dug around in it, and then extracted a small envelope, which he placed on the table between us.
When I opened it, I saw the engagement ring he’d given me, with its rose-gold band and its bright, tiny diamond. I’d wanted a ring from him so badly.
Or at least I’d thought I had.
“Are you giving this back?” I whispered.
“No. I assumed when you threw it out the window and into the yard that you didn’t want it anymore. I just wanted to show you that”—he stopped and shook his head, as if he needed to clear it—“that I carry it around. That it still means something to me.” He looked up at me. “And so do you.” He reached for my hand. “I made some mistakes,” he said.
No kidding, I thought. But then again, I’d clearly made some, too.
“We all do,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me too.”
As I held Patrick’s warm hand, I suddenly seemed to remember everything: the surprise snow on our wedding day, the epic dinner parties we hosted, the crazy road trip to Glacier National Park, how he sang “Hey Jude” when he shaved, the way he always put his arm around my shoulders as we walked.
What if I could have it all back, just like that?
It was so very tempting.
But it wouldn’t work, I knew it. We were too different, too stubborn—maybe even too damaged. But, I hoped, we were on our way toward healing.
Patrick’s fingers gently stroked mine. “So what do we do now?” he asked quietly.
I smiled at him. “We order dinner,” I said.
“And then?”
“We kiss each other sweetly,” I said. “And then we go our separate ways.”
This was how a lovely French meal became the epilogue to the story of Patrick Quinn and Anne McWilliams.
They might live happily ever after, I could write, just not with each other.
Chapter 7
THE FIRST pictures I took on my digital camera were of my ex-husband as he walked away down the lamp-lit street, under the green boughs of an elm tree. It felt achingly sad, but somehow fitting, too—a way of closing one door and opening another.
But what that new door led to—besides no longer living in the photographic dark ages—well, I didn’t really know. I had no job and no home, and not very many prospects, either. On the bright side, though, I had a credit card and a book idea. Was that enough to carry me forward?
Tomorrow I’d start driving to Iowa City, where my best friend, Karen Landey, lived with her husband and the daughter I’d never met. It was nearly fourteen hours away, and Karen had told me to hop on the next flight. But I had Beatrice, my plant, and way too much luggage to stuff in a 737 overhead compartment.
I told her I wanted to take the slow route anyway, though, because of my crazy new idea. Seatmates notwithstanding, it’s hard to gather stories when you’re soaring thirty-five thousand feet above anyone who might tell you one.
After a good night’s sleep on a cushy feathertop in an overpriced Ellicott City inn, I bought the world’s biggest coffee and hit I-70. I cranked the radio up as loud as it could go and opened all the windows to let in the late August air. With my big black sunglasses and bright red lipstick, I felt freer than I had in ages.
When, sixty miles up the road, a Neko Case song came on the radio, I sang along like I was trying out for The Voice. “Let this be a warning says the magpie to the morning. Don’t let this fading summer pass you by.”
I didn’t care that Beatrice could barely hit sixty-five miles per hour without overheating. I had time. The weight of my failed marriage had lifted and so had my spirits. In the rushing wind, my spider plant’s leaves were like green fingers, waving: Adios amigos!
“I will not let this fading summer pass me by, Spidey,” I said, and I didn’t even feel stupid for talking to the thing.
I was so happy that I didn’t notice my speedometer had crept up to nearly eighty. I didn’t notice the trucker motioning me to pull over. But I did hear the deep, bellowing honk of his horn. And I couldn’t miss the smoke that suddenly came pouring out from my hood.
Chapter 8