The Idea of Love (5 page)

The streetscape was dark that night. Thick cloud cover. No moon. She knew the way to the construction site at the end of the cul-de-sac. She had listened to the backhoe and jackhammer for months now while a neighbor renovated his house. The hideous Dumpster, red and black with graffiti she couldn't read, squatted right in the middle of the driveway.

Destroying those cards—tearing some, tossing some in the Dumpster, setting light to others—had been more fun than she would admit to anyone. The way the cards caught the wind and fluttered like birds, the precision with which a few of them slipped under the Dumpster like they were hiding. She ripped a handful in half without looking at the names and photos of the players she obliterated. She threw one on the ground, digging her heel into it until she made a hole in Roy Campanella's head.

If she'd asked herself in the moment why she was doing it, which of course she didn't—reason can't interrupt revenge—she would have said that she needed Sims to experience something of the ugly pain he had caused her, that he needed to lose something that meant everything to him, even if it was just some cold statistics on a set of cards.

But the thrill hadn't lasted. By the time she'd walked home, she was sick with what she'd done.

“Where are they, Ella?” Sims had asked in a broken voice. He was standing at the front door, cell phone in hand.

“In the Dumpster at the end of the road.”

Sims ran into the house and grabbed the monstrous industrial flashlight, the one they used when storms knocked out the power. He bolted to the end of the road and called Betsy to come help him.

The police came the next day, and with them, the restraining order. Her outburst—the Debacle—came under the heading of malicious damage to valuable private property. Since her name wasn't on the deed (nice one, Sims), she could actually be “kicked out.” Ella didn't even know this was a thing, being kicked out of your married home. Now she knew. If your name wasn't legally part of it all, you weren't the “owner.” And if you weren't the owner, you could be removed. She could get a lawyer and fight the inequity of it all. And she would. Seven years of married life was worth something in the courts, after all. But that would have to come later. After the humiliation. After Crumbling Chateau.

*   *   *

When she was younger—much younger—she would have thought this apartment to be a romantic place. Plaster walls and a tiny kitchen, vintage appliances and crooked hardwood floors … she would have loved it. In her twenties she liked shabby chic. Function? Safety? Who cared? Now she wanted the stove to work and the floors to be level and the air conditioner to exhale frigid air instead of dust. Hell, she'd be happy if the rain didn't seep in under the warped windowsill.

There were so many things she'd believed when she was younger—like how she'd have children by now. But that hadn't happened. They still didn't know why—Sims said he didn't want to know why; he didn't want to place the blame on either of them. We're in this together, he'd said after years without a pregnancy. No blame. We have a great, great life.

Now alone in the apartment, she checked her cell phone again. It was old habit, looking to see if Sims had texted her. Of course she wouldn't hear from him. He was in love, the very real kind of lasting love. Or so he said. As if the love they shared had been some sort of knockoff.

There was only one text. Her father.

Hi, bunny. Just checking in. How are u?

I'm great. How are you?

Been fishing. Now for a nap. Just wanted to say love you.

Ella wanted him to stop calling her “bunny.” That was her mom's pet name for her. But how could she tell him to stop? He'd lost his wife and then his only daughter went and moved away and never looked back. They carried on with their relationship with perfunctory texts. Her dad didn't even know she was in this apartment, alone. He didn't know much at all because Ella had moved away and stayed away, an ember of blame burning just below the surface of their relationship. Hell, he'd been on that boat: couldn't he have saved her?

Ella had never discussed these things with her dad because to do so would be futile—what happened had happened and there was nothing new to be done about it. Her dad had married after six years as a widower, moved on with his life, and Ella was trying to do the same. Obviously not doing so well at it at the moment.

Ella tried to force herself to stop thinking about her mom, about how much she needed her. But it was like trying to slow a hurricane. Even ten years later, Ella still felt the acute emptiness of her mom's absence. Ella needed to find distraction; she moved from the couch to the kitchen, where a folding card table with wobbly metal legs was set up. Its faux leather top was dotted with pen marks like moles on skin, and it had a hole in the top right corner that she'd patched with duct tape. She spread her wedding dress sketches across the table.

As a child, Ella designed new wardrobes for all her paper dolls—not one of the outfits they came with was good enough. Even then, as now when she was drawing, Ella would find a calm she couldn't access at any other time. Sometimes she would start to work on a wedding dress and her hand would fly across the paper as if compelled by some unknown force. Not today. She drew for more than an hour without coming up with anything. Nada. Zip. Nothing. Still, she sketched and scribbled, until a little figure became clear on the corner of her page. It was a funny-looking character and he was wearing a deer stalker of all things. Like Elmer Fudd when he was hunting Bugs Bunny. A hunter. Hunter.

She laughed.

What had she been thinking? She would not pick up when Hunter called. If he called, that is. Because … why would he?

But
if
he called, she would tell him the truth. Listen, she'd say, “I made up a few things. I'm not who I said I was and if you need information about the town, you should stop at the visitor's bureau.” That is
exactly
what she would say.

She glanced again at her cell phone but the screen was blank except for her screensaver: the Eiffel Tower. Then she did exactly what she'd told herself she wouldn't do anymore: she read old text messages from Sims. The good ones. The
I love you
s
. Home soon. I miss you
. She kept those texts. She'd deleted the others, the ones that in hindsight were so obviously cover-ups.

Crisis at work, home late.

Meet me an hour later than planned?

Sorry, something's come up. I'll explain later.

The sadness came again, a punch to the heart. There was nothing to be done, just ride it out. Just cry, like she'd been doing for months. God, this grief felt so heavy. Who knew sadness had such a weight to it?

She'd read all the self-help books.
After the Affair
.
Women Who Love Too Much
.
Codependent No More
. Whatever.
Take care of yourself
, they all said. Righto. This was the time friends should surround her, but silence was all she heard. She understood, sort of—most of them had grown up with Amber, Sims, and Betsy. What were they to do? Call her, that's what. Take her out, bring her a bottle of wine, offer a kind word. Something. Anything. Be a friend.

Finally her cell phone buzzed to interrupt the latest cry fest—Hunter.

Lunch?

What about it?
She texted back.

 

Let me try again. Can I take you out to lunch in an hour?

Sure. But I can't go for long. Work is crazy busy.

Got it. Where should I pick you up?

I will meet you at the same place in an hour.

k

This would be the last time she'd meet Hunter. There was no reason to keep talking to him, but one last time couldn't hurt, right?

*   *   *

Blake wanted to see where Ella lived, but he didn't want to push it. He'd never spoken to a single woman on this journey more than twice. He knew his limits, he always had. Until now.

He must have lost count of his JD the night before. His mouth tasted like cat litter, or what he imagined cat litter to taste like. His head felt too big, too wobbly on his shoulders. God, he hated hangovers—they ruined entire days. He could still act young. (Or so he told himself.) But the day after, he felt all of his forty-nine years and more.

His cell phone buzzed and his assistant's name appeared over and over as if his phone was in a spasm.
Ashlee. Ashlee. Ashlee
.

“Hello, baby,” he said, the words sliding off his tongue. He'd never called her baby before.

She laughed too loud for his hangover. “You're silly,” she said. “What's up with the cutesy name?”

“Don't know,” he said. “It just came out. So what's up? I only have a second.”

She sighed, long and loud, exasperated he knew. “You always only have a second. That sucks so much,” she said.

“You sound five years old. You know I'm busy out here trying to get…”

“I know. I know. I just
missss
you.”

“You, too.”

“You know that story idea from Newport Beach?”

“I get my cities mixed up,” he said.

“Well, the one about the woman who was pregnant with her husband's brother's child and she didn't tell him, and then the baby saved their marriage and…”

“Stop.” Blake rubbed at his temples and squinted against the almost-too-perfect day. “I know that one.”

“Well, I've really started to dig into that idea. You know, I started writing it.”

“You started writing it?” He wanted to moan.

“Yep. I thought, why not? Maybe when you get back you'll like where it's going and we'll have less work to do.”

“Ashlee, honey, I don't think I want to write that one. I think … this one is better.”

“Which one?”

“The one here in Watersend. The one I dictated to you yesterday. That one.”

“Oh. Well, I like the other one.”

“Okay. You do whatever you want. I'll be home in two days.”

“I thought you were coming home tomorrow.”

“I need another day.”

“But we have that party. We worked so hard for that invite and now…”

“You can go without me,” he said.

“No, it says Blake Hunter and guest.”

“Ashlee, I have to go.”

The sidewalk ended and Blake found himself staring at the bay. He never understood why they called it a river here. The water looked alive like the current had a heart and was beating fast and hard. He sat on a bench, to write that down—“the river has a heart”—when he realized that maybe he didn't have one at all, a heart that is.

His Moleskine was damp on the edges from a glass of water he'd spilled the night before. He dug around for a pen at the bottom of his leather satchel, worried he'd lose the thought, that it would disappear into his hangover, where he'd never retrieve it again. And it seemed important, like it had something to do with the story of this woman, Ella.

He had to trust that it would come together. Until recently, it always had. He scribbled in his notebook and then stood to walk toward the caf
é
, texting Ashlee:

Sorry for the disconnect. I lost service. Xo More later.

Blake adjusted his glasses (he was glad he remembered to wear the fake glasses for their second meet), and walked toward the caf
é
. He glanced around with what he hoped was panache. There was Ella sitting at an outdoor table and looking straight at him. Damn. He hated the thought of someone catching him unaware.

She was even cuter than he remembered. Her hair was in a ponytail, curled at the edges in a flip that bounced in the slight breeze. Her bangs were pinned back with a bobby pin. She looked like a teenager. She smiled, but it wasn't a full smile. She didn't stand or speak as he approached her table, and for a terrible moment he thought she might not remember him.

“Hi, Ella,” he said.

“Hello, Hunter.” She motioned to the chair across from her. “How are you?”

“I slept like hell. How about you?”

She laughed. “I'm good. I guess you must be sick of hotels by now.”

“The sad part is I'm getting used to them. But I'll be home in a day or two.” He sat across from her. “Thanks so much for meeting me. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

“No problem.”

The same waitress, Dana or Dylan, he couldn't remember, approached their table.

“Morning, Darla.” Ella stood and hugged her friend. Blake couldn't help but feel slighted. He'd received only the vague finger wave and a motion to sit.

“Omelet?” Darla asked, and looked to Blake.

“Perfect,” he said.

They sat in silence. Blake, who was never at a loss for words, felt off-center, his mind padded and spongy.

Ella spoke first. “You're really lucky. This is one of the most beautiful springs we've ever had.”

“It is lovely.”

“Doesn't spring always seems so glorious after the bareness of winter? When it bursts open, I always think it's the best we've ever had.”

Damn, he wished he'd been taping her.

She shrugged. “Guess I'm rambling. Tell me what you really want to know. I don't want to waste your time, either. I can point you to the tourist office and there are some really wonderful horse-drawn carriage rides that you can take. We like to call ourselves the Front Porch of the Low Country.”

“Yes, I saw that on a billboard. But I'd rather talk to you.”

“Okay,” she said, “but I don't really understand why.”

“Because you seem like you
are
the city.” He was amazed at his ability to lie. It was a skill he hadn't realized he'd cultivated.