only part of that magical story I could claim was that I had enjoyed a night (in my case, two nights) of bliss. I had successfully charmed a prince, only the prince was a midwestern corn-syrup salesman. A married corn-syrup salesman.
Mama was at work when I got home, despite the holiday, and I was momentarily relieved. Now I’m locked in my room, writing this down, because supposedly “getting it out” is a kind of catharsis. I have an hour left to get ready before I have to go back to Caneel, where I will work and pretend that everything is just fine.
February 23, 2006
I’ve decided that Bluebeard is an appropriate name for the yacht that delivered Russ to me and then took him away.
He was a pirate.
He stole my heart.
March 30, 2006
Mama was the one who noticed that I looked peaked and that I wasn’t eating much. When had I ever said no to her blackened mahi tacos with pineapple-mango salsa? Never was the answer. But they just didn’t seem appealing. Nothing seemed appealing.
She said, “Do you want to come to the clinic at lunchtime tomorrow and I’ll slide you in?”
I couldn’t tell her that I was suffering from a broken heart, and there’s no cure for that except time, and for all the technological advances going on in the world, no one has figured out how to speed time up or slow it down—or stop it. Whoever figures out that trick is going to be rich. “Nah,” I said.
“No, but thanks for offering,” Mama prompted.
I retreated to my room. I needed to put less energy into pining for the pirate and more into saving money so I could get a place of my own.
Then, a couple of days ago, I woke up feeling dizzy and nauseated and I thought, Damn it, I really am sick. I had planned to go to Salomon Bay—the best thing for me to do was get back into a routine—but it looked like it would be the clinic instead.
I raced to the bathroom and puked into the toilet. I heard Mama knocking on my bedroom door, asking if I was all right, and then I heard Huck say, “LeeAnn, leave the poor girl alone, no one likes to be bothered when they’re praying to the porcelain god.”
And Mama said, “You’re right, handsome. I’ll leave her be. She’ll be okay as long as it’s not morning sickness.”
Morning sickness, I thought.
It was off to the Chelsea drugstore for a test, but I had to wait until my mother’s friend Fatima left for lunch because Rosie Small buying a pregnancy test would win Fatima a gold medal in the Gossip Olympics.
I hurried home, praying, praying, and then I peed on the stick.
I’m pregnant.
April 30, 2006
Today a package addressed to me was hand-delivered to the house. The package contained ten thousand dollars in cash.
I’m being bought off.
There wasn’t a note but I don’t have to be a wizard to know the money is from Todd Croft. But has Todd Croft told Russ that I’m pregnant?
Let me go back.
When I found out I was pregnant four weeks ago, all I could think was that I needed to tell Russ. I was pretty sure he would offer to help. And by help, a part of me was thinking he would leave his wife, move to St. John, and raise this baby with me. It was a long shot, I knew, but not impossible. Maybe instead of making Russ’s marriage stronger, the weekend affair (I’m shying away from the word fling) had been a breaking point. Maybe Russ would say yes to the job and goodbye to Irene and start a whole new life. The boys were teenagers; the older boy was headed to college in the fall and the younger one was only a year or two behind, so they were nearly out of the house. If anyone was poised for a second act, it was Russ.
Or so I let myself momentarily believe.
I called Iowa City information and asked for the phone number for Russell or Irene Steele.
“Irene Steele,” the operator said. “Hold for the number.”
I hung up the phone. The listing was under Irene’s name. She paid the bills. She was in charge of the household. She intimidated me—indeed, scared me—even from afar. I would never call the house, I decided. I wasn’t that desperate.
I had to somehow circumvent Irene. I needed an e-mail. I knew there was probably an e-mail attached to the room reservation at Caneel. I