“I’m not gonna let you do all the cooking, Tess. I’m not one of those guys.”

   A noble sentiment. What it actually meant was this: on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday he went through the strenuous effort of opening a can or two, and sometimes a box, for the microwave; on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday he pushed vegetables and broiled chicken or fish around his plate with his fork, looking at me like I was Judas Iscariot. Our only night of refuge was Friday. That’s when he treated me to supper at Zeke’s. Things finally came to a head when I came home one warm Thursday evening in the middle of June to Spaghetti O’s and fish sticks.

   “You like fish.”

   “This isn’t fish.”

   He grabbed the box from the freezer and looked at the ingredients.

   “Okay, Brian, this is ridiculous. We need to start doing our shopping together so we can get some food we both like.”

   Saturday, late afternoon. Small town market. Narrow aisles. Customers who appraised us with expert eyes and laughed. Because we couldn’t even agree on hot dogs.

   “I’m not eating tofu.”

   “They’re not made from tofu. They’re organic, but they’re still made with meat. See...” I pointed to the package.

   “Chicken hot dogs?”

   “Look. Yours have nitrates. These don’t.”

   “What the hell is a nitrate?”

   “They’re...it’s...I don’t remember,” I admitted irritably. “But I know they’re bad for you. And besides, they use real meat in these. Those hot dogs are just made from--”

   “I really don’t want to know what they’re made from.”

   By the time we made it to the deli we both needed a break. I left him to fend for himself while I soldiered onward with the cart. I wasn’t too worried. I’d been through this kind of thing before. I’d managed to get Jason to quit smoking, so getting Brian to start eating healthier would be a breeze.

   I stopped in Health and Beauty to examine a jar of eye cream that I’d seen advertised on TV. It was guaranteed to minimize the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. I read through the list of ingredients then put it back on the shelf. It may very well have been a miracle product, just like the teenager masquerading as a thirty-something-year-old woman in the commercial claimed, but it was full of chemicals whose names were too long and had too many consonants for comfort. And when I looked up from the shelf I saw a mass of blonde curls coming at me that was too familiar for comfort. It was Ashley. I seemed to run into her everywhere I went. And today, of course, she’d hit the jackpot.

   “Hi Tess.”

   I nodded and looked at her outfit. Short shorts. Tight t-shirt.

   She didn’t have to be. She was young and thin and cute and blonde and had pretty clear green eyes. And no wrinkles. But it really was stupid to be jealous of a little girl, so I smiled and managed to sound friendly as I asked her how she was doing.

   She was doing great. Life was great. She’d just got a raise at work, her second one in six months. Her mother’s new boyfriend had given her his old computer, which was very, very exciting, because she could surf the web at her apartment now instead of having to go to her mom’s house to do it. She had tickets to some concert, and it made me feel like a grandma because the band’s name sounded only vaguely familiar…

   She rambled on and on, from one inane topic to another. It was more than just polite conversation and I knew it, but I let her ramble anyway; surveyed her cart while she did. It was filled with beer and chips and just about every kind of liquor imaginable, and it made me wonder just what kind of raises they gave out over there at that insurance company. It might be time to raise my rates.

   Finally, the moment she’d been waiting for. It was almost amusing to see her expression undergo its startling transformation as she caught sight of him. Her eyes lit up, her smile widened--in fact her whole face seemed to jump up and holler ‘Yee haw!’ And I did the only thing I could do. Which was nothing. Except stand there and watch.

   Brian was mercifully oblivious to the hell he was walking into, because his head was bent over several deli packages. “The lady back there said these are all full of nitrates too, but--”

   The transformation on his face as he saw her was startling, too, but not at all amusing. Surprise, of course. Then embarrassment. Finally, there was shame. And that told me everything I needed to know.

   He glanced quickly at me, wondering what, if anything, I knew. I just grinned. Then he looked away and tossed the lunchmeat into the cart. Ashley gave her curls a toss and got the ball rolling.

   “How have you been, Brian?”

   “Great.” He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “You?”

   “I’ve been okay.” She dragged the last syllable out until she hit nearly every note in the key of B flat. Then she brightened up. “Today’s my birthday.”

   He nodded, examined the contents of her cart, then finally looked up at her. “Rachel’s not twenty one yet. She’s not even twenty. You know that, don’t you, Ash?”

   “Yeah, I know. Rachel was a year behind me in school. Remember?”

   And she’d be there anyway. She’d get plastered or high or both. Then she’d go home with some guy. And there was nothing he could do about it.

   But Ashley had a suggestion.

   “You can come, Brian. If you want. That way you can keep an eye on her.”

   He didn’t even miss a beat. “Nope. We already have plans.”

   She looked at me and I gave her an eyebrow.

   And there it was, the secret to eternal youth: Jealousy and pettiness. I’d gone from grandma to ten year old in less than five minutes.

   She shrugged and turned her attention back to Brian. “If you change your mind feel free to pop in. You know where I live.”

   Ah. Well, at least it hadn’t happened in his bed.

   She strolled merrily away. It hadn’t gone too badly after all. And that meant that we’d have to do it all over again some other time. I studied my list. Crossed out three items I’d already crossed out. Looked at the cart and then my list again. I finally felt confident enough in my ability to speak. “What kind of toothpaste do you want?”

   No answer. I looked up. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and his face was tense with what appeared to be defiance. I countered with a blank stare. Finally, he reached over, grabbed a tube of toothpaste and threw it into the cart. I tossed the eye cream in on top of it.

   He drove us home in silence. More silence while we split the groceries and took turns putting them away; first his cupboards, then mine. We ate a silent supper in my apartment, a Brian-friendly meal of hot dogs and macaroni-and-cheese and a salad, and by the time we were finished he’d finally had enough.

   “You’re just gonna sit there all night not saying anything about her?”

   “What’s there to say? It’s none of my business what you did before we got together.”

   What I meant, of course, was who you did. And he knew it.

   “Haven’t you ever done something stupid before?”

   “Of course. That’s why I’m not gonna say anything about her.”

   He nodded, but he was still irritated. He cleared the table while I brushed my teeth, then he helped me with the dishes. And after the final fork was safely tucked away inside the silverware drawer he said:

   “Let’s go out tonight.”

   “Sounds good.”

   “There’s this dance club in Westville--”

   He knew better than that.

   “Oh, come on, Tess. Live a little.”

   “I can’t dance.”

   He didn’t push it. Even though he wanted to. “Okay. A movie then. I’ll even let you pick it out.”

   It seemed a little strange that it was our first time out, our first actual date. I chose an action flick that was a sequel to a movie I knew was one of his favorites. Car chases and explosions and very bad acting. A sex scene that showed the girl fully naked and the hero only shirtless, didn’t even show his ass, which wasn’t fair. It was still pretty hot. Then there was the inevitable breakup followed by the inevitable shootout. The bad guys all died and the hero walked away with only a few scratches. And, of course, he patched things up with the girl. As we walked out of the theater I wondered if she’d be back for the inevitable part three or if they’d find the aging hero a newer--and even younger--love interest.

   It was a perfect June night. Starry and warm and not muggy at all. He unlocked the truck door and opened it up for me. Before I got in I stood up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, told him he should pull around to the side of the building where it was dark and deserted. Because, I said, the sex scenes had made me horny. And because of the novelty of doing it in a vehicle in a public place. And, I didn’t say, because of the other thing.

   I didn’t have to ask twice, and it was even better than the sex in the movie. When I came he covered my mouth with his, and I could feel his own muffled groans echoing against mine. It was almost midnight by the time we got home, but neither of us was tired. We lay in my bed in the darkness, wide awake and silent, but not still. He fidgeted. Tapped his feet and hands on the mattress, along to some beat that only he could hear. Rolled over onto his side, then his stomach. Onto his back again. Finally he hopped up, switched on the overhead light and ceiling fan, jumped back onto the bed, and tickled me till I begged for mercy. Then he rolled off me, snuggled in close and, before I’d even caught my breath, said:

   “Tell me something about you I don’t know. Something real.”

   I didn’t have to think too hard. The list was long but most of the items on the list weren’t open for discussion. So I nodded towards the living room and said, “I painted all the pictures hanging on the wall out there.”

   He shook his head and started tracing invisible circles around my belly button with his index finger, in sync with the shadow of the fan. “I knew that already.”

   “How did you know that?” They were all signed, of course, but the signatures were all deliberately illegible.

   “Maybe because I’m not an idiot.”

   “Oh.”

   “They’re really good, you know. Have you ever sold any of your paintings?”

   “Actually…” I could feel my face burning, even though the breeze from the fan was chilly. “I put one in a gallery a few weeks ago. Over in Hallowell.”

   I didn’t tell him that I knew the guy who owned it. I’d had a quick fling with him right before Jason and I got together. My last fling. He was a nice guy, the kind you could settle down with, and someone had. He was married now--at least as married as the law allowed--to another nice guy. Because despite my best efforts I wasn’t able to turn him.

   “Really?” He smiled. “What’s the painting of?”

   “The orchard that used to be out back.” I braced myself, because I knew, from his beaming face, what was coming next.

   “Let’s go there tomorrow so I can see it.”

   I dropped my gaze, focused on his chest; on the dark, curly hair. “It sold already.” I looked up at his face again to see his reaction.

   “Oh.” He tried to look happy, and mostly succeeded, but his voice sounded a little hurt. “What made you decide to sell it?”

   “Well...I needed the money. My house cleaning jobs are the only ones that aren’t behind and my savings was getting low--”

   It had all but run out. There had only been twenty-five dollars left, the minimum amount to keep the account open.

   “--and I didn’t think it would sell. At least not that quickly. But I figured it was worth a shot and...anyway.”

   He waited a moment, then ventured, “If you need money, Tess--”

   “No. Let’s not go there.”

   “Tess--”

   “Look, I’m okay now. The checks are finally starting to roll in for work I did back in March and April. I should be fine from now on. You know how billing cycles and payment cycles work.”

   “Yes I do. But...” He sighed. “I think it’s awesome that one of your paintings sold. I’m not surprised, because I think you’ve got a lot of talent. But I hate that you only did it because you were broke.”

   “It’s not like it’s gonna be a habit. I don’t paint to make money. I just do it because I...well, not for money. Not usually, anyway.”

   It was the first time I’d sold one of my paintings. I knew it was supposed to feel like an accomplishment. Validation. But it only made me feel dirty.

   “I’ve been doing some new sketches lately, if that makes you feel any better.”

   “Actually, it does. What have you been sketching?”

   I smiled. “Our lake.”

   He smiled back. I thought he was going to ask if he could see what I’d done so far, and I prepared myself for having to let him down again. I couldn’t let him see the sketches; not yet. I wasn’t at all happy with them. As he’d predicted, the summer people had taken over the lake. It was constantly abuzz with motors which made it impossible for me to capture it with any accuracy. Heat and sadness and love and connection…

   But he didn’t ask to see them. Instead he brushed my bangs out of my eyes and said, “Tell me about Kineo.”

   “Kineo?”

   “Yeah. That Kineo painting.”

   I shrugged. “There’s not really much to tell. It’s a painting of a mountain and a lake.”

   “Bullshit. There’s more to it than just that.” He propped himself up a little higher on his elbow and, for the first time since I’d known him, struggled to find words to express himself. “There’s something about it, Tess, and I don’t know what it is. I never saw a place that looked like that before. It’s almost like the mountain is...like it’s weeping. It’s like a heartbreak or something. I don’t even know how you do that with just a brush and some paint. Were you sad, or depressed or whatever, when you did it?”

   “No. I wasn’t.”

   I’d painted it during my first summer with Jason. Summer of Love. We’d gone to Moosehead Lake for a daytrip and had a great time. Mount Kineo was supposed to be the highlight of the day because neither of us had ever seen it. It was a beautiful, oddly shaped mountain. Narrow at the bottom, cresting high above the lake, then ending suddenly flat on one side, in high, flinty cliffs. At first glance, from a distance, it had reminded me of the whale from Pinocchio, and we had laughed about that.

   “I wasn’t depressed. But when I was up there I heard this story...a legend about a--” I pulled the sheet up and started playing with it, making little accordion folds. “It sounds stupid now, but it was about an Indian princess. Her husband went out on a hunting trip and he never came back. She waited and waited, for a long time, but...nothing. No word from him, not anything from him. He was just...gone. She was so...heartbroken that she jumped off the cliff and into the water, and killed herself. It was...it...I don’t know. I guess it sort of stuck with me.”

   It had done more than that. The woman who had told us the story--she was a waitress in a restaurant a few towns over from where the mountain stood--had done so very matter of factly. It was obvious she’d told it a thousand times, and it didn’t really mean anything to her other than as a minor point of interest for tourists. But it had scared the hell out of me, so badly that I couldn’t eat my lunch.

   Are you feeling alright, Tess?

   It was after sunset when we drove past the mountain again on our way home. It looked different somehow. Lonely. Forbidding. Rising out of the water like a haunted headstone.

   We got home late, exhausted from the day and the drive, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for hours watching his peaceful, sleeping face. I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman--who had probably never really existed--waiting for her husband to return. Sick with worry. Going over every horrifying possibility of what might have happened to him. Had he been killed in the forest by an animal? Come across a member of an enemy tribe or stumbled upon a white settlement? Maybe his canoe had capsized and he had drowned in the lake…

   Or maybe he had just run off. Got bored or restless. Or fell out of love. And just...left her.

   I shot out of bed, shaking so badly that my teeth actually chattered, pulled out my easel and poured everything out onto a fresh canvas. Dark, frantic, heavy lines. Foggy. Black and grey and dark, dark blue. But I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t depressed when I painted that picture. I was scared out of my fucking mind. Scared of losing that feeling I had only just discovered, for the first time in my life, of being in love and having someone love me back. Safe and completely, truly happy. Most of all I was scared because I could imagine, for a brief, fatigue induced moment, why that Indian princess had climbed to the top of the steep, woody mountain. Looked over the edge. And jumped. Landing hard on the water.

   Brian touched my cheek and I jumped, startled back to reality.

   “All that stuff you’re feeling right now? You got that all on the canvas, Tess.” He ran his finger gently underneath both my eyes. I hadn’t realized I was crying. “But I’m gonna make sure you never feel like that again.”

   I nodded, blinked back a few more tears, then gave him my best smile. It didn’t fool him but he didn’t say anything.

   “It’s pretty late you know,” I said. “And you need to get up early in the morning.”

   “Nice try. Even I don’t work on Sunday.” He brushed my cheek gently with his lips. Then he whispered softly in my ear, “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

   Just like that. Even though I’d already known it. So I said it back. “Yes I know. I love you, too.”

   He fell asleep with his arm wrapped tight around me. He was so close that I could actually feel his breath, warm on my shoulder, his heart beating against my back. It was telling me that everything was okay again, that I was safe and loved. But I stayed awake all night anyway, shivering. Because I’d felt that way before. And I knew, even if Brian didn’t.

   Flying. Falling. Landing hard.

Chapter 12

Chapter 14

Table of Contents

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