a shower, I stand in my room having a full-on clothes crisis: jeans, a linen shirt? Too hot. A floaty skirt? Better. Not with the linen shirt, though. A silky tank? Yes. Necklace? Too much. Smaller necklace? Still wrong. Gold hoops. Perfect. He’s tall, Abigail’s son, or so she said, so I could wear wedges. But I hate wedges. I only bought them because there was a fantastic sale in Russell & Bromley and I fell in love with them, even though I couldn’t walk in them.
No.
Flip-flops.
Yes. That’s it.
I am excited. I shouldn’t be, I know that being excited is only a recipe for disappointment, that having expectations of any kind is pointless. But it’s not really about meeting this man and truly thinking we both might be struck by a bolt of lightning; more about dressing up, about the possibility, the realization that after all this time, all these months and months of hoping that Jason and I might find a way back together, I might actually be ready to meet someone new.
Those moments when I think Jason might still have feelings for me are just that, I realize: moments. He probably still does have feelings for me—you don’t spend years with someone, have a beautiful baby together, know almost everything about the other without having some feelings for her, surely.
At least, in our case. It wasn’t like I had an affair, or he did something awful, so one of us decided to hate the other forever and ever. My alcoholism was awful, but the one thing I absolutely believe to be true is that Jason never saw it as my fault. It’s the first thing you learn when you get sober. Alcoholism is a disease, a sickness. You can love the person without loving the disease, and this is how it was for me and Jason. More so, I think, because he’s a recovering alcoholic himself.
(A more successful one than I, clearly.)
Those moments when our eyes lock, or when I feel my heart flutter, I know he has separated the woman I am from my behavior, my drinking. I just don’t know that he’ll ever be able to forgive me. And I don’t blame him. I have made my amends, but with Jason it is a living amends. I have to show him I’ve changed by how I raise my daughter, how I interact with him, the choices I make every second of every day.
But until this relationship with Cara, I thought, hoped, if I behaved well enough, if I proved to him just how much I had changed, we would get back together. It seemed so simple.
I didn’t want to meet anyone else. I didn’t want to be with anyone else. But suddenly the possibilities have opened up. For the first time since my marriage ended, I could imagine myself with someone else.
We’re not talking marriage here. Not even dating. Well, maybe dating. But sex! My God! Suddenly, in the sunshine, it is as if my libido has been switched back on. Who knows what the son is like, but really, does it much matter? If he’s cute and sexy and fun, maybe I’ll have a summer fling! Maybe he’ll remind me what it feels like to be young, single, and free.
I call Sam and Annie, and we three troop out to the car.
* * *
Abigail greets me at the door of her quaint shingled house and gives me a proper, tight hug before turning to Sam and doing the same thing.
She takes the sparkling cider and the flowers, and ushers us into the kitchen, as we admire the coziness of her cottage.
“I’ve been here forever,” she says. “Almost everything you see is from the Take It or Leave It Pile.”
I fling my hands up in the air. “Okay. You got me. What on earth is the Take It or Leave It Pile?”
“It’s at the dump. Everyone on the island leaves anything they want to get rid of there. It used to be a tiny little thing, but now it’s a barnful. Sofas, tables, beds. There’s not a day I’ve been when I haven’t found something useful.”
“What did you find yesterday?”
“This stool.” She points to a small wooden stool with flowers painted on it. “Can you imagine someone getting rid of that? Isn’t it lovely? Ah well. Their loss is my gain.”
I peer hopefully around the small cottage, wondering where the son is. Then the back door opens and in walks a tall man, and I find