Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(56)

with force,

tore green life away,

broke

the sun of the flower,

discarded it.

“Not this,” she said.



The next day, a frail, green

shoot

rose up in that same spot.

The roots,

intact, would not be dislodged

could not

be dissuaded or discounted.



We do not want what

thrives

where it chooses, what

sends roots deep,

what will not be denied,

demands

its belonging.



What we call a weed

is what most wants to grow.

Theo sat with his pen poised over the page, looking for lines to rework. The whole thing had come out in a rush, almost without pause at all. Since then, he’d rewritten it five times, finding new line and stanza breaks, finding patterns in the words and rhythms. He considered everything he’d done today, all the rewriting and lining out, to be part of the first draft. Not until he came back in a day or so, with a fresh eyes and mind, would he consider what he was doing to be ‘revision.’ But this was good. He could see the worthiness of this draft and knew it would grow into something of value. He felt the truth in it.

He’d been a pathetic sack since August because there was so much truth in it. What he felt for Carmen was rooted now. It didn’t want to give up.

His phone sat on the table; Jordan had called earlier while he was writing. Now, Theo picked it up and scrolled through his messages. He had two from Carmen, sent weeks ago—months ago—which he’d never returned. He’d been angry and hurt—not to mention drunk—and had stared at them when they’d come in, deciding then that he couldn’t face any more drama. She wanted to be done, so done they would be.

Now, so long after, was too late to respond.



oOo



Three days before Thanksgiving, Theo stared at his Mac, his head a disorienting muddle of gloom and glory. The holidays were upon him, Thanksgiving was looming, and he was alone. The French did not celebrate Thanksgiving; it was just a Thursday here. Jordan was spending the day with friends, and Eli and Rosa were leaving Brooklyn on Wednesday to spend the Thanksgiving weekend in Quiet Cove. Eli seemed to be worming his way into the midst of Carmen’s family, and it burned Theo to know that he would always be in just enough contact with her to miss her.

That was the gloom. The glory was that he was finished. He had a manuscript.

He read over the page he’d just written. The Foreword: I sit here in Paris on a crisp day just before Thanksgiving. My task upon arriving in the city months ago was to write a story about the beginning of my life with Maggie. I’ve already written about its end, in my first memoir, Orchids in Autumn. On this late-autumn afternoon, I’ve just finished writing what I was meant to write here, in the beautiful city in which Maggie and I honeymooned many years ago.

I have finished writing what I was meant to write, not what I was supposed to write.

What Maggie and I had was not a fairy-tale romance. We were two young people who fell in love in the usual way and had a marriage that was loving and successful in the usual way. We were good and loving partners, good and loving parents, in the usual ways. Our story is not remarkable. The most interesting thing about our life together was its end.

So what follows is not the story of the beginning of my life with Maggie.

It is the story of the beginning of my life without her.

He needed to set the manuscript aside for a couple of days and read it over again, and then again, before he sent it to his editor. But one thing he could say for heartbreak—it was the thing that made him write best and hardest.

Now the question was whether his editor, and Hunter Anders, would be satisfied with the book he’d written.

He poured himself a drink. Nothing he could do about that. He’d written what he’d needed to write. The only thing he could write. Literally.



oOo

Theo went out for his (almost) daily run in the evening on the day before Thanksgiving, a little later than usual. Despite the drinking, he was trying to stay at least a little bit healthy. If nothing else, running made his brain work in a straight line. It was good for writing and general problem-solving alike. Most runs, his sweat smelled of booze and he came back thinking there was a fifty-fifty shot he’d keel over dead, but he was getting in at least three a week. That he could run gave him some justification for his contention that he was still scrabbling at the slippery slope and had not yet fallen on his ass.

Justification, rationalization…tomayto, tomahto.

He did about eight kilometers—he’d started thinking in the metric system months ago—and was wet and exhausted when he got back into the apartment. Before he could get to the kitchen for his chilled bottle of water, his phone started rattling on the table by his Mac.

He checked the screen and saw he had four texts from Eli: Dad—you there?

Need to talk ASAP.

Checking again—you there?

Get on Skype soon as you get this. I’m up and waiting. Don’t even text.

He was too sweaty to sit on Hunter’s upholstery, so he took his Mac to the kitchen and sat there, grabbing his water before he opened the screen.

True to his word, Eli was there waiting when Theo got on Skype. “Hey, son. Are you okay?”