All You Could Ask For A Novel

THE HIKE TO CATHEDRAL Lake came highly recommended. Everyone in town suggested it for something scenic and challenging but reasonable for two in-shape women who aren’t accustomed to hiking at an elevation of eleven thousand feet.

On the first day we tried something shorter, as a warm-up, climbing up a dusty mountain trail called “Smugglers,” covered in rocks and patchy grass, with a view of the town that grew more spectacular as we ascended. From the peak we hiked across a pass and into a gorgeous meadow, bursting with sunflowers and grass as high as your waist, then down a challenging trail that crisscrossed over a roaring stream called “Hunter’s Creek.”

On the second day, we hit the mountain.

We had new boots, new backpacks, new water bottles, new sunglasses, and good attitudes as we drove the twelve miles up Castle Creek Road to the bumpy, rocky turnoff, right up to the trailhead. It was a few minutes after seven when we began, and we agreed to each go at our own pace and meet at the lake. The mountain air was cool and dry as sandpaper, but the sunshine on my face warmed me to my toes. When I reached the steep section of the climb, with eight switchbacks coming in rapid succession, I was in a full sweat. It felt good. Better than good, it felt wonderful. Even the ache in my back didn’t bother me, at least not nearly as much as it had been. It is one thing to perspire alone in your apartment, or in a dingy, crowded gym. It is another entirely to be out in the fresh air doing something that makes you sweat.

An hour into the hike, I was in love. I loved the rich green of the pines, the powdery white on the trunks of the aspens, the pale blue of the cloudless sky. I loved the way the air smelled, like sugar, if such a thing is possible, or buttermilk, sweet and fresh and clean. At first I had my earbuds in but I soon took them out and stashed my iPod in my backpack. The sounds of the rustling beneath my feet and the birds flying past and the chipmunks scurrying across the path were more than enough. It took a little less than two hours to reach the lake. It would take longer than that to fully describe it to you. The stillness of the water left my mouth agape. I suppose I have become accustomed to oceans and rivers, where there is a current and a rhythm, where the water has a sound. This water made no noise, it had no rhythm, it was stunningly, achingly still. I longed to throw a stone into it, so I did and then watched the ripples extend slowly as far as my eyes could see. And the color was unlike anything you could imagine. It was described to me as “emerald green,” but that is underselling: it was far richer than that, more vivid, a color so intense I could almost taste it. I could certainly feel it. You know a color has moved you when to see it is only the beginning of the experience.

Then there was a rustle and I remembered Marie. She came over by me, dropped onto her butt, and took a long sip from her water bottle.

“So,” I said, standing over her, “what do you think?”

“I’m spent,” she said. “Give me a minute to recover.”

That made me feel even better. Marie has got to be twelve or thirteen years younger than I, and in great shape, but there she was, on her ass, while I stood over her feeling strong.

“Let’s eat,” I said, and flopped down on a rock.

The serenity of the lake and the distant peaks, including Cathedral Peak at almost fourteen thousand feet of elevation, were blissful.

We had gorgeous lunches in our backpacks: gourmet sandwiches, vinaigrette potato salad, chocolate protein shakes, and oxygenated water. The food was like fuel, healthful and nourishing. When I was finished, I felt satisfied and strong, the way food is supposed to make you feel but almost never does. I need to spend more time at the tops of mountains, I thought. Food feels better up here. It tastes better, too.

When we had finished eating and were zipping the remains of our lunch into recyclable trash bags, Marie said, “Katherine, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I said, though I didn’t care for the tone of her voice. She sounded apprehensive, and I was in no mood to have my blissful state interrupted.

“Why don’t you have a man in your life?”

My heartbeat, which had slowed in the serenity of the mountains, resumed its New York rate. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

“Who’s to say I don’t?”

“I know you don’t,” she said. “And I always wonder why.”

Absently, I started digging about for flat stones. I used to be pretty good at skipping stones on a lake when I was a camper, I was pretty sure I could still do it.

“You know, things just have a strange way of working out,” I said slowly. And then I decided to be honest with her, because it felt wrong to be dishonest in the presence of the lake and the mountain, so I said, “I tell myself that my career makes it impossible for me to carry on a real relationship. But that isn’t actually true. I could if the circumstances were right. I guess they just haven’t been for a very long time.”

“Were you ever married?” Marie asked.

“Nope.”

“Ever close?”

I stood up, five or six smooth stones in my hand. “What’s with the third degree?”

Marie held up her hands, as if to pacify me. “I’m sorry, Katherine. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s just that you told me we’re staying here until we figure out the meaning of life and that sounds pretty complicated. And while I know you really well, in some ways I don’t know you at all. For example, I didn’t know if you were divorced or anything.”

I guess I asked for this. “No, not divorced. Never married. Proposed to, once. Wasn’t the right man. Had the right man for a little while, then he decided I wasn’t the right woman and that was pretty much it for me.”

“You loved him?”

“Oh, god, yes.”

She smiled. “Now this is interesting,” she said. “He broke your heart?”

I tossed a stone. It skipped nicely across the top of the water. There was something very soothing about watching the ripples drift farther and farther away.

“Yes, he did,” I said, watching the water, my back to Marie. “He broke my heart.”

She paused. I could hear her breathing behind me.

“Go ahead and ask what happened,” I said. “I don’t mind telling you.”

And so she did, and I did. For the first time in the nearly twenty years since Phillip became Phil, I told someone besides a psychiatrist what happened, the insecurities and the lies and finally the night it ended. I never looked at Marie, I just kept skipping stones into the lake. When I was finished, I turned around and saw she had tears in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she said softly.

“Yes,” I said. “It rather sucked.” I took a few steps toward her and dropped down onto a rock. I put my arm around her shoulders. “But wait,” I said, “I haven’t told you the best part yet.” Marie looked right into my eyes, and I said, “I haven’t told you his name.”

“He’s someone I know?”

“Yes.”

Now she sat straight up. “Do I know him well?”

“Not as well as I do.”

She leaned in close and put her hands on my knees. “Oh my god, Katherine, who is it?”

I smiled. “Phillip Rogers.”

It took a second. No one ever called him by his full name anymore, even me. Then she got it and her eyes bugged out so wide I thought they might pop out of her head. She was blinking crazily and nodding and shaking like I’d just told her she’d won the lottery.

“You’re talking about Phil?”

“That’s right.”

“Our CEO?”

“That’s right.”

“Pardon my language,” she said, “but are you shitting me?”

“I shit you not, my friend,” I said, and stood up and brushed the dirt from my butt. “I shit you not.”

Marie sat in silence for a while, and finally she said, “It must be so hard for you in the office every day.”

“Sometimes I think it’s too much,” I said. “Sometimes I think I need to leave. I almost have, several times. He’s moved mountains to keep me, I’m not exactly sure why. I’d like to think it’s because he believes he can’t afford to lose me, but sometimes I think what happened back then has something to do with it, like he can’t let go, or he feels guilty. Or a little bit of both.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

I laughed. “Well, maybe one of these days I’ll just up and get the hell out. Move back to Connecticut or maybe here.”

“You can’t do that,” she said, in a serious tone. “It would kill us all.”

“I’m sure the bank would survive.”

“I don’t mean the bank. I mean all of us. The women who work there. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Most of them hate me.”

“No, they do not,” she said, punctuating her words sharply. “They love you, because the men fear you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever met that men are afraid of.”

She meant it. I could tell. “Well, that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I’m sure it’s tough,” she said, “but we need you, boss.”

I strolled around a bit, looking at the earth, at the blue-gray stones, at the soft grass, at the shadows cast by the giant pines, at anything other than Marie. Then I looked up into the sky, took off my sunglasses, and let the golden sunlight warm my face. “Well, that feels good,” I said, my eyes closed. “I’m not sure it makes life worth living, but it feels good.”

BROOKE

I DIDN’T GET TO show him the pictures.

Not right away, at least. He attacked me before I could show him, before I could even mention them, before I could say anything at all, and that was fine. We’ve been married a long time; at this point our best communication is nonverbal. Like if we’re at a party and he glances at me and I give him that look that says: I’m done here, time to go home. Or if we’re with the kids all day and they’re bickering and Scott shoots me the glance that means: I need a half-hour of peace or I am going to have to sever one of my own toes. I know him, he knows me, our eyes can usually say every bit as much as our lips, sometimes more.

So tonight Scott came home to a surprise. I’m sure he expected the usual birthday treatment, which is a house decorated with homemade signs and a cake baked and frosted by the loving hands of his children. He has never complained about any of that; in fact, I recall last year after a lovely birthday dinner, just the four of us, he raised his glass of wine and said: “What more could a man possibly ask for?”

Even the kids, then seven years old, understood how nice that was. To me it was like music, because I feel the same way. So many women I know want so many things, they spend more time and energy thinking of what they do not have than enjoying what they do. I try not to be that way. I have a good man who loves me, I have beautiful, healthy children, what more could a woman possibly ask for?

So I know that Scott would have been perfectly satisfied to come home to the usual warmth and clutter of his twins and their mom, but tonight was going to be different. Tonight he was coming home to his wife, not his kids’ mother. On the table where he leaves his briefcase, I left a note, written in fiery red ink on white-and-pink stationery. It said to open the bottle of champagne he would find on ice in the dining room, then to take off his tie and his shoes and come upstairs. It said he did not need to lock the door.

I first heard him when he turned the knob and came in the bedroom. The bottle was under his arm, the glasses between his fingers, and the note between his teeth. He didn’t see me. He could have, if he was looking the right way, but he was not, he was looking toward the bed. I was on the chaise. When the designer who helped me put together the bedroom described the chaise, she said it was meant for having sex on. I laughed when she said that but she was serious. That was seven years ago, and tonight I would find out if she was right.

Scott’s eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dim lighting yet. I could see him squinting, reaching out with his free hand to find the bureau, to keep from banging his knee.

“Brooke?” His voice was uncertain. I took a deep breath, let it out.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” I said.

Scott spun sharply, the glass flutes clinking between his fingers. He still couldn’t see so well. He stepped toward me carefully.

“Can’t you see me?” I asked breathily.

“I can’t.”

I snapped on the lamp behind me.

“How’s this?”

I was stretched out as long as I can go on the chaise, my right leg crossed over my left, my hair falling down my back, curled for him the way he likes. I was wearing a satin robe, cinched high enough that you couldn’t see what was beneath it. I had one hand resting gently on my stomach and the other on top of the end table beside the chaise. Under my hand was the pink velvet box. Inside the box were the pictures.

“Would you like champagne?” he asked. His voice was deep but I could tell he had to work to get it that way.

“I’d love some,” I said.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me, standing right over me. He put the bottle down on the table, right beside the velvet box. Then he knelt beside the chaise so his face was equal to mine. His eyes said everything. They said he loved me and wanted me. They said no man could ever want more than he had right now.

I smiled. “Happy fortieth birthday,” I said, and clinked my glass against his.

We both drank a little. The champagne was light and sweet and fresh.

“I have a very special gift for you,” I said.

I don’t know if he heard me or not, I’m not even sure if I got all the words out, because then he was kissing me so hard I couldn’t move. He pressed his lips against mine and my head went back into the soft chaise and I was pinned. I could feel him shaking, I could feel his heartbeat. He pulled away quickly and downed the rest of his champagne in one bubbly gulp, then he placed the glass on the floor.

“I need you . . . right . . . now,” he said.

My hand was still on the velvet box. I had envisioned giving him the pictures first. But it didn’t much matter if that waited until afterward. The pictures were meant to make him excited, and I’m not sure how much more excited he could possibly have been.

I lay back and felt him land on top of me. It felt good, even if some of it didn’t. He was breathing hard, right into my ear, I could feel the heat of his breath, the wet of his tongue.

“Kiss me,” I said.

And he did.

After, when I had caught my breath and he was still searching for his, I put my hand back on the velvet box.

“So, it’s time for me to give you your present,” I said.

“That was the best present I could ever have asked for,” Scott said, still panting a little.

“But it isn’t all you’re getting.”

He put his hand on my tummy, very tenderly, and looked right into my eyes.

“Actually, Brooke, I was thinking about that today. I think I know the one thing I really, really want for my fortieth birthday.”

I smiled and waited for some extreme, perverted sexual suggestion; Scott likes to joke around that way. But then he told me what it was he wanted, and I saw in his eyes he wasn’t kidding. And I put my hand on top of his and squeezed it hard as the tears started pouring down my face.