My One and Only(105)
On Monday, I kissed Coco, made sure she had her bunny and enough chew toys to occupy her and drove to work. No bike today. Though I’d missed the Vineyard during time away, I barely saw the bayberry bushes and rock walls as I drove toward Edgartown. The sun beat down, the breeze was gentle, the smell of coffee wafted down the street from the bustling little café. It was a beautiful day, I noted automatically. Just wasted on me.
“Well, well, well, look who’s back!” Theo thundered as I walked into the old captain’s house that housed Bain-brook, Bainbrook & Howe. “Wonderful to see you. Did you really have that much vacation time coming? Don’t ever leave us again. Did you know I had to talk to a client last week? I haven’t done that for years!” He gripped me by the shoulders and gazed happily into my face. “Well. Nice chat. Back to work!” He did a little soft-shoe back into his office and his beloved indoor putting green.
“You good?” Carol asked, handing me a sheaf of messages.
“So good,” I lied. “You?”
“Never better.”
“Great.” So much for all the gushing and catching up. “Carol, see if you can get Judge McMurtry’s new clerk on the phone, okay? I’ll also need the Denver file. “
“Yes, master,” Carol replied. “Anything else I can do? Wipe your ass? Chew your food and regurgitate it so you don’t have to work so hard?”
“That’d be super,” I said. “But first the call and the file, Carol.” I went into my office, and the fake good cheer I’d summoned slipped away.
My office was very pleasant. Diplomas on the wall. Flowers delivered each Monday. A landscape by a local artist in soothing colors, meant to ease the battered hearts whose owners sat here, weeping or furious or numb…the walking wounded who chose poorly, or couldn’t figure out how to compromise, or how to commit to a relationship, or how to accept love…or give it.
Well. Back to work, helping once-happy couples split up. Speaking of, I needed to check in with Willa and see if she wanted to file for divorce. Crap. Maybe I should let her tough this one out on her own.
I also had to see BeverLee. I’d called her twice over the weekend, but my father had been present both times—I could tell because Bev was overly chipper, booming her colloquialisms into the phone. Willa was staying there for the time being, and Bev had her hands full comforting her daughter. So Bev and I hadn’t really talked, and we needed to. But the same swell of panic that thoughts of Nick inspired…it happened when I thought of BeverLee leaving the island, too.
IT TOOK ME A COUPLE of days to really get back in the swing of things. I had lunch with Father Bruce one rainy afternoon, back at Offshore Ale, since the good father liked to have a beer with his burger. He mercifully stayed silent when I told him Dennis and I had parted ways; just nodded, patted my hand, then went on to tell me about the seven couples he had in the pre-Cana class.
“Maybe I could swing by,” I found myself offering.
“Like the angel of death?” the priest suggested, taking a sip of his pale ale.
“Voice of wisdom, I was thinking.” I paused, toying with my straw. “You know. Give them a little insight into why so many couples…don’t make it.”
“And why do you think that is?” he asked gently.
To my surprise, there were tears in my eyes. “I have no idea,” I whispered. “Really?”
“Well, I thought it sounded better than ‘People are f**ked up,’ you being a priest and all.”
He smiled. “Everyone’s messed up,” he said. “Note my editing, as I am a man of the cloth and only swear on special occasions. Speaking of that, I have to run. Giving a talk on the priesthood as a vocation.”
“And best of luck with that,” I said. “I’ll get the check, since you’re facing Mission Impossible and despite the fact that the Catholic church is the wealthiest—”
“Oh, stop. I’ve heard it all before,” he said, patting my shoulder as he slid out of the booth. “Thanks for lunch, Harper. Let’s talk soon.”
When I got back to work, where I’d been logging some serious hours since my return (much to Theo’s unadulterated delight), Tommy was standing in front of my desk like a kid about to be caned by the headmaster.
“Hey,” I said, hanging up my trench coat. “How’s it going?”
Tommy didn’t look at me. “I’d like you to handle my divorce,” he said.
I froze. “But—”
“She’s still sleeping with that guy. The night I came to your party, she hooked up with him. I’m an idiot, and I’m tired of it. So handle my divorce, okay, Harper? Because I just can’t take this anymore.”
And even though I knew this had been coming, even though I never had any faith in Meggie, even though I knew Tommy would learn from this and grow and hopefully find someone who deserved him…even so, my heart broke.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I hesitated for just a second, then went over to him and hugged him. “I’m so sorry, Tom.”
For a long time, I patted his back as he cried, as if he were a little baby, even if he was six-foot-four and I was anything but maternal. All my lines—the heart needing time, the head knowing, the euthanization of a dying relationship—they just weren’t enough. Tommy had loved his wife, and she didn’t love him back the same way, and all the logic in the world didn’t make that feel better.