The Light of Hidden Flowers (26 page)

“That’s a crappy story,” Joe said. “I’m sorry.”

“It shouldn’t mean much, but here I am—all these years later, and I can still recall it like yesterday.”

“That’s why I worry so much about Kate.”

“It’s probably worse on you,” I said. “Just like it was worse on my dad. As a dad, you’re helpless to make things better.”

“Dads are supposed to fix things.”

“My dad used to think he was helpful when he said things like, ‘You’ll come out of your shell,’ but it wasn’t helpful. I cringed every time he said it because it just seemed so critical to me . . . like he was suggesting that there was a better version of me inside the one that was on the outside.”

“He never felt that way,” Joe said.

“He didn’t. You’re right. The thing is, he was partially right. When it came to the social scene in middle school, I was in some measure responsible for my unhappiness. I
did
need to come out of my shell—not to change who I was, but to participate.”

Joe considered this, then sighed. “I just can’t stand seeing her in pain. And of course I worry about her hurting herself. I don’t think she would, but it’s there, in the back of my mind.”

“Just make sure she’s involved in things she truly loves. Even if it’s some solitary activity, like writing poetry, try to encourage her to join a club—poetry club, or a teen writing program at the library. Just so she has contact with someone. And obviously, make sure she knows that you’re there for her—totally open, with no judgment.”

Joe sucked on the milk-shake straw until he heard scraping sounds. “Guess I killed this guy,” he said. We studied the table and saw that we had powered through both of our sandwiches, fries, and milk shakes. “I forgot you were such a good eater.”

I picked at a burnt end of a french fry.

“What about you?” Joe asked. “Tell me about your life.”

“There’s not a lot to say.”

“Are you kidding?” Joe said. “It sounds like you’ve been crazy successful in business. And now you’re off gallivanting around the globe—Italy to India. What’s that all about?”

“All that’s new,” I admitted. “All post–Frank Fletcher. And it’s a bit of a departure from my actual history.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know how to explain myself,” I said, then faltered, tapping at the plate with my burnt french fry. “People want an
accounting
of what you’ve been doing, you know? If you’re married. How many children you have. In what school district you live.”

“That’s just standard conversation,” he said. “People don’t know what else to ask.”

“To the outside observer, it probably looks like I haven’t done much.”

“How can you say that?” Joe asked.

“Because I don’t have the
things
that matter.”

“The things?”

“You know . . . a husband, kids.”

“But—”

“But I’ve been happy—content, at least. And there’s a lot to say for that. It wouldn’t be many people’s choice, but I don’t regret for a minute that I stayed near my father, that he and I built a business, that I cared for him while he was sick. All that was meaningful to me.”

“Missy, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. I’m not looking at you like you’ve wasted your life.”

Behind Joe our waitress moved between other tables, topping off ketchup bottles.

“It just went so fast—five years, then ten, then fifteen.”

“You’re sounding like you’re looking at your life like it’s winding down, instead of in the middle of a continuum that started when you were born. Who’s to say, Miss? Maybe you’ll live to be a hundred. Maybe this point on your time line is just the beginning.”

“Maybe,” I said, and though
maybe
was just a two-syllable word, I took my time with it, because all of a sudden my heart was creeping into my throat and my hands were sweaty with anticipation.
Who’s to say this isn’t just the beginning?
Was Joe intimating that he and I might have a point, a series of points plotted further down my time line?

Our waitress brought the bill. Joe handed her three twenties and asked if we could hang around for a while.

“As long as you’d like, sweetheart,” she answered, whisking herself away toward the cash register.

“What happened with you and your wife?” I asked quietly. “If you want to tell me. You certainly don’t have to.”

Joe’s face twisted in consternation, just as it had years ago when he would work a tricky trig problem. “Lucy is a good woman, a good mother. But all of these years she’s been a military wife—a marine wife, to boot—and there is a lot involved in that. Moving, getting settled, and then moving again. She’d make good friends, have a network of people she could count on, and then we’d have to do it all over again. It’s hard. Military spouses give up a lot.”

“What happened?”

“I was gone a lot. She was home dealing with the kids. Her mother was ill at the time. And when I came home from my second tour, she thought it was for good. She had been itching to go back to work.”

“Did she?”

Joe fiddled with the box of Splenda and sugar packets. “She was getting ready to—but then I deployed again. The surge in Afghanistan forced many of us to deploy unexpectedly, far sooner than we ever thought. Lucy was furious, for so many reasons. I guess there was already a lot of tension between us.”

“And then you came home with one leg,” I said.

“That was pretty much the straw that broke the camel’s back,” he said. “Because as an officer, I should have been safer than some. Wrong place, wrong time. Lucy was angry, but she shoved it down and rolled up her sleeves and got me through the tough times. Learning to walk, function. Those weren’t easy days, and I was a lousy patient—depressed, withdrawn. My lost leg was the least of my problems. I also had a broken arm, which complicated matters tremendously, and a ton of aches and pains. By the time the cast came off my arm, my bruises had healed, and I was accustomed to living with one leg; by the time I was ready to reconnect with ‘the living,’ Lucy already had one foot out the door.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“There was a lot of recuperating involved, a lot of rehab. Lucy felt obligated to stay, yet every fiber in her was screaming for her to leave. She got me through the tough times, and then one day—when she sensed that I was fine—she started going out on job interviews. She landed a great job as an event planner for an international law firm.”

“What has that meant to the kids?”

“It means that she’s gone a lot of the time. She goes on these trips with the lawyers—business trips and reward trips. She’s kind of like the on-site concierge. Last year she was gone over two hundred days. So the kids are with me.”

“Doesn’t she miss them?” The words left my mouth without thought. Of course she missed her kids.

“She needed a break from it all. She needed to find out who she was, other than a marine wife.”

I couldn’t judge her. She and I were doing the same thing, trying to figure out who we were after years of being someone else.

“Our divorce is final,” Joe added. “Officially.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say. Then, “It’s getting late.”

“Let’s get you home,” Joe said, sliding out of the booth and up onto his two mismatched legs.

“You look great, Joe,” I said. “I can’t tell you how good you look.”

The ride home was quiet except for my navigation instructions—
turn left here, you’re going to veer to the right here, at the second light turn again. That’s me, straight ahead, the second town house on the left.

Joe shifted into park and turned off the car, then turned to me. “This has been an amazing day.”

“What now?” I asked.

“I have a room booked at the Hilton. I’ll drive back to Jersey tomorrow.”

I reached for his hands. “I want to see you again.”

“I want to see you again, too,” Joe said.

I looked at my town house, thought about the rooms inside, the lifeless existence I had been living in that space. My wretched imposter of a life. I thought back and wondered what I was doing at the exact moment when Joe was in the fight of his life, when his leg was blown to bits and he was evacuated alongside his fallen comrade. What was I doing then? Watching
Jeopardy!
and eating gelato?

I looked at him. I’d never wanted anyone or anything more in my life. “Can we?”

“You’re in Virginia—”

“And you’re in New Jersey.”

“And last I heard, you were engaged to be married—”

“And you’re very recently divorced.”

“Yes, I am,” Joe said.

“Still.” I leaned over into his space, settled in there, and let my mouth curl around his pillow of a neck.

At the door, Joe hefted my suitcase through the threshold. “I just wanted to see you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I overstepped . . .”

“You didn’t!” I said. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“But . . .”

“But it’s complicated.”

“We should probably settle the open items in each of our lives before we consider something else,” Joe said.

I nodded. I thought of Lucas, what I needed to do.

He nodded, and we stared at each other. Wordlessly we gazed into each other’s truths, the thousands of steps that had brought us to this point.

“Okay,” he said.

He walked down the few steps and I watched him smoothly manipulate his legs into his van, held my breath until he drove away.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
I whispered, over and over. Words I hadn’t yet given to Lucas.

I thought of Dad, recalling again his wisdom. “Lovey,” he said. “You’re one hell of a money manager, but every now and then—in life, in love—you need to ride it to the top. All the way to euphoria.”

Joe was my euphoria.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The first morning light sprayed in through the cracks in the blinds. Still awake, my emotions were taking me on a ride. The certainty I’d felt about Joe last night had been tempered by fear and anxiety. That I loved Joe was a given, and probably always would be. Still: I had loved him from afar all these years, but what was the reality? The truth was that Joe was an amputee war veteran, a brand-new divorcé, and a single dad to three children. How could his life have space for me? And what could I possibly add to it that would be worthwhile? I was Missy Fletcher, unmarried yet engaged, childless, kind of jobless, a woman who had never had a serious relationship in her adult life. How could I possibly have significance in Joe’s life? His children would despise me because I would be the person occupying their father, attempting to replace their mother. And who was I joking about Joe wanting me as badly as I wanted him? Sure, he said last night that he’d like to see me again. Sure, he drove down from Jersey to meet me. Sure, the two of us together found the perfect rhythm in our conversation, a seamless fit in our touch, a flawless understanding of each other’s situations. But still—how would it work?

The confusion I felt regarding Joe was the polar opposite of the certainty I felt concerning Lucas. Dear Lucas—good-looking, sweet-and-kind, tax-attorney Lucas. My mirror. My male counterpart. My safety-police partner. My risk-averse, nothing-wrong-with-staying-in-Virginia, who-needs-to-eat-raw-fish, crossing-borders-can-only-lead-to-trouble boyfriend-fiancé. He was a great guy, a man I would be proud to introduce as my own. A guy any girl would be honored to call her husband. But he didn’t bring me to euphoria, and for that matter, I didn’t think I brought him to euphoria, either. And for that alone—Joe or no Joe—we had no business staying together.

At seven o’clock, I texted Lucas. I asked him if he could come over for coffee—though
coffee
was mere shorthand, as I knew that Lucas would show me his water bottle and tell me he was fine, thank you.

An hour later, Lucas knocked. “You’re back,” he said, reaching for me, pulling me into a tight hug. “How was it?”

I hugged him and inhaled his scent, because Lucas was a good man and I was about to hurt him, and I wanted to create a scrapbook in my mind of the affection I felt for him, just in case this got ugly.

I spent a few minutes detailing the trip, the progress Reina and I had made with the local governmental officials, the paperwork we’d filed, the women we’d spoken with who were interested in teaching. Then I got down to business. “Lucas, we need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “You’re not going back to India again, are you?”

I took Lucas’s hand and led him to the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”

“This sounds ominous.”

“I want to be totally honest with you,” I began.

Lucas dropped my hands and scooted away from me, pushing his back into the corner of the sofa.

“Do you remember once I told you about my friend Joe from high school?”

“You dated, right?” Lucas said warily.

“We dated. And then we went off to separate colleges. He got married, had kids, etc. We’re friends on Facebook, so I’ve kind of kept up with his life.” I went on to tell Lucas how I’d sent Joe a message when Dad was sick; how it had been important to me that he knew, because Joe and Dad were close. “From there, we began a correspondence—just friends, of course.”

Lucas began to fidget. I eyed his hands opening wide and then balling into fists, a vein in his temple bulging. I watched him swallow hard, as if the involuntary act had become a difficult exercise.

I reached out and put my hand on his knee. “As it turns out,” I went on, “Joe’s a veteran. He served three tours. He actually lost one leg in his last tour. When I landed last night, I thought Jenny was going to pick me up, but instead . . . Joe picked me up.”

Lucas sprung from the sofa and began to pace. “Whoa—wait, what? At the airport? Does he
live
here? Did you ask him to come?”

“He lives in New Jersey. And no, I didn’t ask him to come. But—”

“But what?”

“It was great seeing him. He knew my father so well. We shared a lot of memories.”

“Melissa, what’s this
about
?” Lucas gasped for understanding. “Is Joe just an old friend? You said he was married?”

“He is, was—well, he’s recently divorced.”

“What the hell does that have to do with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just explaining why he came to see me.”

“Why
did
he come to see you?”

“Lucas,” I said. “Calm down, okay?”

“Are you breaking up with me for this Joe guy?”

I looked across the room while my brain absorbed the absurdity of Lucas’s words. It was an absolutely ridiculous thought that I would be breaking up with Lucas because I saw Joe
one time
!

“Not exactly,” I said.

Lucas didn’t believe me. “Then what?”

“You know the Sir John Templeton maxim: ‘Bull markets are born on pessimism, grow on skepticism, mature on optimism, and die on euphoria’?”

“I’ve heard it,” he said.

I stood and took a step in his direction, but he backed farther away. “You and I, Lucas—our relationship—it’s maturing on optimism. We’re a great couple: we share the same interests, we’re worker bees, we believe in playing it safe. But Lucas, lately—in India—I’ve tasted euphoria. The girls at the orphanage? They were so happy to see me, and when I saw them, I couldn’t remember ever feeling such pure joy. Feeling that way, like my heart would explode? It leaves you breathless. The excitement of not sleeping at night because you’re so eager for the next day to come. The thrill of building something that might actually change the lives of children for the better. The exhilaration of knowing that knowledge plus money plus sheer will and determination could save lives. I don’t think I’m the same girl anymore. I don’t think I’m the play-it-safe, stay-in-Virginia, work-ten-hour-days girl anymore.”

“And Joe?” Lucas asked, clearly annoyed. “Does he leave you breathless, too?”

My heart raced. “I have no idea what will happen with Joe. I’ve only seen him once in fifteen years and I have no clue if our lives belong together, and if he would even want it.”

Lucas laughed, a little maniacally. “You want it, though.”

“If not with him, with someone else.”

“But not me.” Lucas’s face had flushed bright-red, the vein at his temple throbbed.

“Don’t you want it, too?” I asked. “Don’t you want to be left breathless?”

Lucas headed for the door, then turned to glare at me when he reached it. “I kind of like
breathing
, Melissa,” he said, pulling it open. “I kind of thought us breathing together was a pretty good thing.”

“Lucas, wait!”

“For what?” He stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. What was Dad saying from his perch?
You did it again, Missy. You blew another relationship. Here you are again—alone, same as before. You let a good one get away.

Or was he proud of my decision, to give up Lucas for the miniscule hope that Joe might someday want me? All of a sudden, the rationale for the arbitrage I’d just committed seemed insanely weak. I’d sold my position in a solid blue chip—an established, money-making, dividend-paying stalwart—and bet it all on the mere idea of a start-up, a concept that wasn’t even a thing yet.

Yet I couldn’t deny it. The relief in saying good-bye to Lucas was palpable. It was time to take some risk.
Who am I to think that I can have greatness?
the old me would have asked.
Who am I to think that I can’t?
I now pondered.

It was time to go big or go home.