The Golden Couple(11)
These boxes represent another layer of clearing away; they’re filled with Paul’s academic awards, old letters, photographs, and Lana’s childhood artwork.
“Take anything you want,” I tell Lana.
She sinks onto the carpet and crosses her legs. But she doesn’t reach into the top box.
I study her face. “You okay, sweetie?”
She sighs. “I just miss him so much.”
If Lana were one of my clients, I’d open the box myself and hand her the first item. But instead I hug her. “If you’re not up for this, we can do it another time.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” She sucks in a deep breath, then lifts up a flap and pulls out a big padded envelope filled with loose photographs. She begins flipping through them: Lana sitting on a spotted pony; blowing out six blazing candles atop a pink-frosted cake; standing in between her parents; beaming through a mouthful of braces at what must have been her junior high school graduation.
My eyes linger on that photo. It was taken shortly before I met Paul; neither he nor his ex-wife is wearing a wedding ring in the picture. Paul’s hair was still a riot of dark curls back then, with just a few strands of silver glinting in the temples. He was tan and fit; strong enough to scoop me up in his arms and carry me to bed on our wedding night.
So different from the frail man who I held in my arms as he took his final breath, eight months ago.
Maryanne, Lana’s mother, stands on the other side of her daughter, looking as if she smells something sour—an expression I’ve come to associate with her.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, the same.” Lana’s eyes flit away from mine. Maryanne and Paul separated long before he and I met, but Maryanne never liked the idea of him with someone else—let alone someone who was nearly two decades younger. Years after he and I wed, Lana confessed to me that her mother still referred to me as her.
Deeper in the box are first-edition copies of Paul’s three books—all bestsellers. I’ve saved copies for myself, too. Lana flips open his debut, titled You, Me, and the Couch, and stares at the dedication: For Lana, my precious daughter.
She runs her fingertip over the words, and we both blink back tears. The sight of the book is transporting me back to the first time I ever glimpsed Paul. He was standing behind a podium, microphone in hand, enthralling the crowd that filled every seat in the Politics and Prose bookstore. I was twenty-four, attending grad school at George Washington University to get my master’s degree in social work, and I walked in late for Paul’s reading. I wasn’t good at setting boundaries back then and I’d allowed one of the clients at my internship to overstay his session. Paul’s gaze met mine as the door closed behind me. Sorry, I’d mouthed.
I’d read a few of his articles, and I admired his insights into the complexities of the human mind as well as his dexterity with language. But I was unprepared for his physical magnetism.
His eyes, still holding mine, crinkled as he spoke his next words: “That’s when the police came rushing in to arrest my patient, who tried to hide behind me. As if a rumpled psychiatrist was any defense against a SWAT team. Bloody hell, did he think I’d whack at them with my reading glasses?”
That accent. His fierce intelligence. His graceful movements and the elegant yet strong-looking hands that gripped the pen when he signed my book: To Avery, I can already tell you’ll make a brilliant therapist.
I emailed him a week later—it was easy to find his contact information through his office, and I had a legitimate question about one of the cases he’d described in his book. At least that’s what I told myself. We fell into a correspondence that felt natural and exhilarating. I instinctively knew I had to be the one to ask him out because of our age difference. So, one night after a couple glasses of wine, I carefully crafted a note suggesting we meet for coffee or a drink. I closed my eyes as I pressed the key to send it.
Our first date was twenty-four hours later. Within six months, I’d moved into his home, located in a comfortable, eclectic neighborhood not far from the National Zoo.
Lana sets down her dad’s book, breaking my reverie. I take a sip of coffee while she looks through old letters she wrote to Paul from sleepaway camp, reading aloud a few funny bits.
I’m about to suggest that we make lunch together when her phone rings. Her face lights up: “Sorry, it’s this guy I’ve been seeing—”
“Take it!” I get up to go into the kitchen to give her privacy. I check the contents of my refrigerator to see what I can cobble together, but the items aren’t inspiring: a half dozen eggs, baby carrots, a bottle of Dom Pérignon, slightly wilted lettuce, and leftover quesadillas from my favorite Tex-Mex place.
“Avery?” Lana pokes her head in as I’m suspiciously sniffing a container of hummus. Her voice is different—higher and airy. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. Greg got off work early and I need to pick him up.”
“Ooh.” I give her a playful poke in the ribs. “Who’s Greg? Come on, tell me while I help you pack up your car.”
As we load the boxes into the trunk of her Honda, I learn Greg works at the hardware store a few doors down from the pottery shop, and they met on a lunch break last week. “We both ordered the same veggie sandwich!” she exclaims as she hops into her car.
Her eyes are now sheened with excitement instead of tears. At the moment, picking up a guy she’s just met has eclipsed everything else of importance to her.