Love Anthony (30 page)

Her remote residence is also the perfect excuse, her refuge from dreadful air travel, unbecoming jealousy, and eternal damnation. No, she’s not going to Georgia for Thanksgiving. She’s staying home on Nantucket, grateful to be here.

She arrives at her mailbox, opens the door, and pulls out a
small stack of mail. As she turns around, she sees a woman and her black dog walking along the side of the road. Olivia pauses with her mail in hand, realizing the woman and her dog are walking directly toward her. It’s Beth Ellis.

“Hey!” says Beth, smiling. “You live
here
?”

“Yeah, I’m on Morton.”

“You’re kidding. I’m on Somerset. We’re neighbors. How could we not know this?”

Olivia shrugs. Beth’s dog sniffs Olivia’s shoes and jeans for a few seconds before turning its feisty attention to her crotch. Beth pulls on its leash.

“Grover, no! . . . How long have you lived here?”

“Since March.”

“Really? Tough month to move here.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you married?” asks Beth, not finding an answer on Olivia’s gloved hand.

“Divorced.”

Olivia watches Beth digest this bit of information as she opens her own mailbox and retrieves a thick stack of catalogs and envelopes.

“Do you have kids?” Beth asks.

“A son.”

“Oh, how old?”

“Ten.”
He would be ten
.

“Same age as my Gracie! Is he in fourth grade with Mrs. Gillis?”

“No, he doesn’t live here.”

“Oh.”

That ended the inquisition, but Olivia can sense the additional questions tumbling in Beth’s mind.
What can that mean? Does he live with his father? What kind of mother doesn’t live with her child? Where is he?
Before she can verbalize any of them, Olivia changes the subject, hoping Beth will follow.

“Funny, I was just about to e-mail you. Your pictures are ready. Sorry it took so long.”

“Oh, good! I was getting worried. I can’t wait to see them. I want to use one of them for our Christmas card.”

“I’ll e-mail you the link as soon as I get home. They’re great. You’re going to love them.”

The two women begin walking.

“I think my book is almost done,” says Beth after an apprehensive silence.

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“But I’m not sure. This might be a stupid question, but how do you know when it’s done?”

Endings are difficult. Wrapping everything up in a tight, elegant bow. Leaving the reader with a satisfying
The End
. Saying good-bye.

“It has to have all the essential elements, a beginning, middle, and end. You just feel it. It’s intuitive, I think. When you’re done, you know.”

“I don’t know what I know. I’ve read it so many times now, my eyes skip over the words. I can’t see it anymore.”

“Maybe take some time away, then go back to it with fresh eyes.”

Beth nods as she walks.

“I’d still like your feedback if you’re still willing.”

“When you’re ready, I’d be happy to read it.”

“Thanks so much,” says Beth, smiling. “I’ll put it in your mailbox when I know it’s perfect.”

“Don’t aim for perfect. Aim for complete.”

Perfection is an unattainable illusion
.

“Okay,” says Beth, uncertainty in her voice, as if she doesn’t quite understand the difference. “I will.”

They pause, facing each other at a fork in the road. Beth is staying straight, and Olivia is turning right. Beth waves, smiling, then walks away.

Olivia gets back to thinking as she walks home. She thinks about Beth and her novel. She wonders what it’s about. She forgot to ask. She thinks about endings and intuition. She thinks about her marriage, how she and David both knew it was over, how they both saw their ending spelled out long before they arrived at the final page. She’s thinking about the last time she saw him, lying under the stars and holding hands, when she reaches her front door and thumbs through the mail in her hand.

Tucked between the electric bill and a newsletter from the library is a letter from David.

CHAPTER 30

B
eth is sitting in her seat in the library, holding the printed pages of her novel in her hands, reading. She thinks it might be done, but then again, whenever she approaches this thought, an itch flares up inside her chest, nagging her from within like a burning-hot rash. Something’s not quite right. Even if she doesn’t aim for perfect, only complete, she can’t declare her book finished.

Today she’s reading what she’s written, enjoying the story, but she’s yet to identify what might be missing. She’s on Chapter 10 now, the one about the Three Little Pigs.

I love when my mother reads the Three Little Pigs book to me. I love Three Little Pigs, but it’s not the story about a wolf and pigs that I love. I’m not “obsessed” with pigs, and I’m not afraid of that big bad wolf. It’s the music of my mother’s voice, singing in threes. There are perfect threes all over that story:

Lit-tle pig. Lit-tle pig.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

Let. Me. In.

One. Two. Three.

Even the title makes me smile. Three words AND the number three.

My mother reads Three Little Pigs, and I feel the big drumbeats inside those words thump-thump-thumping. I jump to the sound of the book’s drum, thumping in perfect threes:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

One. Two. Three.

Jump. Jump. Jump.

My mother reads Three Little Pigs, and she sings a waltz. I spin and dance to her beautiful song.

Not by the

Hair on my

Chinny-chin-chin.

Then I’ll huff.

And I’ll puff.

And I’ll blow

Your house in.

My mother finishes the story and closes the book. I jump and squeal and flap my hands, begging her to sing it again. She says she’s tired of the Three Little Pigs book. She says I’m getting too old for this story. She wants to read something else.

She pulls two books that are not Three Little Pigs from the bookcase and shows me their shiny covers. But I don’t want to hear those books that are not about the sounds of three.

My mother sighs and puts those books I don’t want away. She opens Three Little Pigs and reads again:

Lit-tle pig. Lit-tle pig. Let. Me. In.

One-two-three. One-two-three. One. Two. Three.

My mother reads my favorite story, and my world sings.

CHAPTER 31

“S
o why aren’t you writing today?” asks Petra.

Beth and Petra are sitting at a corner booth at Dish, splitting a heaping plate of sinfully rich and fattening lobster mac-n-cheese. It’s early afternoon on a Wednesday in November, and the restaurant is dead. The two people who came in for lunch left an hour ago. This is how it goes midweek in the restaurant business on Nantucket in November. Petra will limp along until Christmas Stroll, then close down until April 1.

“I think it might be done,” says Beth.

Petra’s eyes widen, excited.

“Really? You finished your book?”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure. I’m taking some time away from it so I can see it clearly and then decide if it’s really done.”

Petra mutters a laugh through a mouthful of lobster and macaroni.

“What?” asks Beth.

Petra swallows.

“What you just said. Are you talking about your book or your marriage?”

Interesting. Beth wonders if the two are in any way related.

“I have this homework assignment from our marriage counselor that I haven’t touched that I should’ve done like two months ago. I made Jimmy cancel our next appointment because I didn’t do it yet. I don’t know what my problem is.”

“Maybe you’re afraid of what you’ll discover.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably.”

Petra looks straight into Beth’s eyes, straight into Beth in a way that most people never do. Her gaze is focused, unrushed, unafraid to stay there, and kind.

“I think I’m scared he’d cheat on me again.”

“He might.”

“If I take him back, I’d wake up every morning and think, ‘He could cheat on me today.’”

“He could, but that was true before he actually did, you know. Every day is a commitment and a choice, for both of you.”

“I know, but he chose to cheat. I’d worry after every little fight that he’d be off with someone again. Every time I see him, I think, ‘You slept with another woman.’ And I picture them together. It’s disgusting, and I can’t help it. I feel obsessed about it. I wish I could erase it.”

“Do you still love him?”

“Yeah, but I hate him, too.”

It’s true. Beth loves him, and she hates him. She misses him and never wants to see him again. She’s disgusted by the thought of him, yet she can’t stop thinking about that night on the kitchen floor.

Petra sighs.

“I just wish I knew what to do,” says Beth.

“Do what you’re doing with your book. Take some time away from thinking about it, guilt-free. Then go back to it with a clear mind and fresh eyes when you’re ready.”

Beth nods. She discovers a big hunk of lobster hidden in the creamy cheese and stabs it with her fork.

“But what do you think?” asks Beth.

“About what?”

“Jimmy. Do you think I should take him back?”

“Only you can answer that.”

“But what would you do?”

Petra scrapes a crusty, caramelized section of macaroni and cheese from the side of the dish and eats it. She drinks her water and wipes her mouth with her napkin. Beth waits. Petra smiles with her lips closed.

“Petra? Really, I want your advice.”

Petra raises her eyebrows and says nothing.

“That’s what I’d do,” she finally says. “Stop all the chatter. Stop looking outside yourself for the answers. Get quiet and still and ask yourself those homework questions you’re so afraid of. Whatever you find in that space, that’s the truth. That’s your answer. That’s what I’d do.”

Beth sighs, disappointed but not surprised. She should’ve known that Petra wouldn’t do her homework for her.

“You’re too wise to be single.”

Petra laughs.

“That’s exactly why I’m single! No, I’d love to share my life with someone, have a family. I will. I just haven’t invited it yet. I’ve been so focused on Dish and all these people who need their jobs and taking care of my mom and dad. But someday. Someday, I’d like to have what you have.”

“Had.”

“And have. I’d be lucky to have what you have.”

Beth smiles, grateful for the reminder. She has three beautiful, healthy girls, a lovely home, great friends, and a possibly finished first novel. She has so much. She checks her watch.

“Oh my God, I have to go! I have to pick up the girls.”

Beth wraps her bright purple scarf around her neck, grabs
her bag, and hugs Petra good-bye. “Thanks for an amazing lunch.”

“Anytime,” says Petra, hugging her back. “So good to see you.”

“You, too.” Beth rushes for the door, not wanting to be late.

“You’ll figure it out,” says Petra, but Beth is already outside and doesn’t hear her.

IT’S TUESDAY EVENING
, the week of Thanksgiving. Beth and the girls have just finished eating macaroni and cheese for dinner, but Beth doesn’t feel at all satisfied. Petra’s lobster mac-n-cheese has probably ruined the Kraft version for her forever. She browses the refrigerator for something else, maybe something sweet, but nothing appeals to her.

All three girls are in the living room. Sophie has the remote control and is in charge, scrolling through the On Demand movie options while Jessica and Gracie yell out different titles. They have no school tomorrow and nothing going on tonight—no basketball practice, no play rehearsal, no home-work. Beth is grateful to have a relaxed night with no schedule and no one to drop off or pick up, and, if they can ever make a decision, a movie to watch with her daughters.