Flint sips his water, eyeing me. Is he wondering if he does in fact give a shit? “How did you meet Alex?”
Just as I go to speak, our waiter comes back for our order. After we give it to him, I slide off my jacket and second guess saying no to a glass of wine. Talking about Alex is a conversation that requires at least a glass of wine, if not an entire bottle of vodka.
“Alex and I met in high school.”
“High school sweethearts?” Flint shoots me a raised brow of surprise.
“Yes.”
“That’s … sweet.” He grins.
“Yes, so sweet. He was sweet. And outgoing. And everyone loved him. He was fun and adventurous. Our first year of college, when he asked me to marry him, I knew our life would be the grandest of all adventures.”
Flint nods. “And was it?”
I drum my fingernails on the table. “Yes.” I find a small smile to share in spite of the pain. “I don’t regret anything. If I had it to do over again, knowing the outcome, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Wow … I’ve never said that out loud. I’m not sure I’ve even thought those exact thoughts until now.”
“How’d it end?”
I grunt. “Tragically. He tried to conquer a mountain, but the mountain won. He and his buddy got trapped in the debris of an avalanche. Alex got out but decided to go back and look for his friend. By the time he found him, his friend was dead and Alex had severe frostbite. They had to remove part of his hands. It left him with a thumb on one hand and two fingers on the other.”
“I’m sorry.” He frowns.
“Me too. It’s interesting how our self-worth is so dependent on our capabilities—how little confidence comes from within. And I don’t mean that in a judgmental way at all. I say that because I watched my husband’s spirit die, leaving behind a man I don’t know. And it hit me pretty hard because I thought if it could happen to him, it could happen to me.
“If someone cut off my hands, how would that affect me? And not just the physical part. How would I see myself? My purpose? My dreams? Can I be good at my job without hands? Can I be a good friend who helps someone move into their new apartment if I don’t have hands? Can I be a lover to my husband if I don’t have hands? So those sacred wedding vows, ’Til death do you part?’ They’re a little more complicated than that. I will love Alex until I die, so in that regard, I’ve kept my vow. The sickness and health is where it gets sticky.”
“So you left?”
“No.” I laugh, but it’s really the most painful laugh ever. “I stuck around for two years. I would have stuck around for the ’til death do us part,’ but he didn’t want me there. I was a reminder of what he was, what he lost, and who he would never be. He didn’t want to be touched. Not a kiss. Not a hand stroking his hair. Eventually, even a smile pissed him off. Depression turned into verbal abuse. I took all the hard licks of his words, and they bounced off this protective shield I’d built around myself, waiting for my Alex to come back to me.”
“Divorce papers?”
“Yep. On our anniversary no less. Gotta hand it to him, he’s always been a bit poetic with his timing. On our first anniversary after the accident, we watched our wedding video. He asked me to go get his wedding band, and before I could react, he said, ‘Oh, that’s right. I don’t have a fucking finger to put it on. Maybe it will fit around my dick. I’m pretty sure it’s atrophied from lack of use.’ So I got served papers on our second anniversary, and two days later, when I refused to sign them, he had a friend come help him throw all of my stuff out onto the yard.”
He flinches. “Did you sign them?”
“Ha! I hate that you have to ask that, but I know you’ve seen the stubborn side to me. Yes, I signed them.”
“And he was calling you last week?”
“Yes. He’s tried several times. I’m not going to talk to him. All the awful, cruel things he said to me finally settled into my conscience and my heart after I moved to Minnesota. I owe him nothing. His parents still live around here. I think my dad still has coffee once a month with his dad. If Alex had an emergency, my dad would’ve called me.”
“Maybe he wants you back.”
“Maybe he just needs a verbal punching bag.”
The waiter brings our food, and we don’t talk about Alex again.
*
Flint
“Did you grow up in this house?” I ask, pulling into the driveway of the two-story, beachfront home with a wraparound porch. It’s a great house—and far from cheap.
“No. We lived in Providence.” She gets out. “Brr …” She jogs to the porch, trying to open the door. “Of course it’s locked. Come on …”
We wind our way around to the back, lights from a string of houses reflect off the water.
“How the hell did he pass out in the yard, but all the doors to the house are locked? I’d bet money that he locked himself out.” Ellen yanks on the door.
“We’re locked out?” I ask.
“Here.” She hands me her purse. “No.” Bending down onto all fours, she crawls through a doggy door.
I chuckle, shaking my head. The porch light flicks on, and she opens the door. “Where’s the dog?”
“He’ll be here tomorrow. He’s my grandparents’ dog.”
“This is quite the retirement home for a tailor.” I step into a large kitchen of cherry wood, white granite, and stainless steel.
Ellen flips on a few more lights. “It’s been in my dad’s family for three generations. After my mom died, he moved here to renovate it … and fish.” She smiles, slipping off her jacket. “My grandparents stay here most of the summer. This is where I spent my summers when I was younger. But to answer your burning question, my great grandmother was the daughter of a wealthy man who happened to own a lot of land—the kind that was rich in petroleum. She and my great grandfather moved from Oklahoma to Providence. Shortly after my grandfather was born, they built this house.”
I follow her around the main level of sprawling wood floors beneath scattered oriental rugs. She flips on the light to the master bedroom. It’s immaculate.
“I’m wondering what you were worried about. This place looks spotless.”
“Lori …” She mumbles, poking her head in the adjoining bathroom. “She and Forrest look in on my dad. I bet she tidied up earlier today. I hope she didn’t come across his nudie-girl magazines.”
I raise a curious brow.
Ellen shrugs. “He’s a guy. Don’t all heterosexual men like looking at naked women?” She moves toward me in the way that I’ve come to expect—maybe even need.
I have no tie, but she’ll find something about me that requires her little adjustments.
“I’ve not taken on the role as spokesman for all heterosexual men, so I’m going to decline comment.”
She starts with my collar, making sure it’s folded just so … then her hands slide down my shirt. “I’ll rephrase, counselor. Do you like looking at naked women?”
Her hands ease around my waist and slide into the back pockets of my jeans, leaving her breasts pressed to my chest.