All You Could Ask For: A Novel (18 page)

Marie walked up behind me and started to knead my shoulders, and I laughed.

“That wasn’t a request,” I said. “It was a suggestion. Let’s go back to the hotel and book massages, my treat, one for you, one for me.”

“I’ve never had a massage,” she said. “Is it weird?”

“It is weird that you have never had a massage, yes. But having one is not weird at all. In fact it is rather wonderful, and the perfect way to complete an afternoon spent climbing up and down a mountain.”

“Do I have to be naked?”

I took a long swig of water. “On this trip, darling, you don’t
have
to be anything.”

She seemed to like that.

I looked up into the sun, toward the distant peaks, watched an eagle sail lazily across the horizon. “My god, I love it here,” I said. I feel like I’ve come home.”

“Just like John Denver.”

I almost did a spit take. “What’s that?”

“From the song ‘Rocky Mountain High.’ He says he came home to a place he’d never been before. It was here he was singing about; he lived in Aspen.” Marie smiled. “My mother
loved
John Denver. We listened to him all the time when I was growing up.”

“Really?” I said, amused. “You grew up in Brooklyn listening to cheesy country music?”

“First of all,” Marie replied, insulted, “John Denver was not a country singer, he was a folk singer, and he was a poet and he was brilliant. He wasn’t cheesy. If you love hiking in the woods you would
love
John Denver, that’s what all his songs are about.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, relenting. “I’m sorry I said that. Tell you what. Let’s go take off all our clothes and hire two handsome men to rub us down, what do you say?”

She smiled. “I don’t know if Adam would like the way you said that, but it sounds good to me. And I’m going to make you listen to John Denver while we’re here, and I
promise
you’re going to like him.”

I stretched my aching back, got behind the wheel of the car, and gunned it back into town. I was looking forward to a massage, a steak, a bottle of wine. I didn’t expect John Denver’s name would come up again, not on this day, this trip, or ever again.

I was wrong about that one.

OUR FIRST WEEK IN Aspen was blissful, nothing short of that, and that’s not a word I throw around. I rose with the sun every morning and did not, I repeat did
not,
say “fuck him.” There seemed no reason to say it. Maybe it was the altitude, or the way the sun glowed as it rose above the mountain, or the way the food tasted, the air smelled, the wind sounded. I got into the car only to drive to the more distant hikes; everything else was within walking distance or easily reached on a bicycle. I even got Marie on horseback. She sat with her eyes glued shut as an aging mare named Tank moseyed around a field at the base of Buttermilk Mountain.

It was on our seventh day that word about Phillip reached us.

It reached Marie first; she had her BlackBerry on the table as we shared granola and yogurt and multigrain pancakes at an adorable breakfast spot called Peaches. The phone reverberated so fiercely it shook the silverware beside it, and Marie absently picked it up to look.

“That’s a text,” she said. “I’ll just make sure it’s not an emergency.”

Then her already-wide eyes bugged out cartoonishly, and I became scared that it
was
an emergency, except she didn’t look upset. She looked enthralled. She looked as though she had watched an entire suspense thriller in a quiet movie house and just now found out who the killer was.

Then she looked up at me and smiled. “What is it?” I asked.

She looked once more at the BlackBerry. “I have no idea how you’re going to feel about this,” she said. “I’m just going to show you.”

She handed it to me, gingerly, as though I might drop it if she were not careful.

“What the hell is it?” I asked, before I looked. “You’re making me nervous. Is this bad news? Am I going to be upset? You know I have no interest in being upset out here.”

“Just read it,” she said. “You won’t be upset.”

So I did. And I wasn’t upset.

BROOKE

WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I wanted to be a clown.

Like in the circus. I always loved the clowns, because I loved the makeup. I have always loved makeup; sometimes I think I may have missed my calling, that I should have gone to Hollywood and been a makeup artist. I think I would have had the best time with that. I would have loved transforming a handsome actor into a werewolf or a zombie, or even the less dramatic stuff, just making the actresses look as pretty as they could. That sounds like fun.

As a girl, I thought makeup was so glamorous. Probably because Mother wouldn’t allow me to wear any, none at all. Not to church, not to school, not to sleepovers, not even alone in the house.

“That’s for women,” she would say, when I fingered her brushes or lipstick. “You are not yet a woman. Be a girl. You’ll have plenty of time to be a woman.”

I haven’t followed that path with my daughter, not at all. I had Megan playing with makeup when she was three years old. I bought her lip gloss and eye shadow and blush and let her play with them to her heart’s content. So I take great pleasure in seeing my daughter in makeup. But never more than today.

As I lounge on my bed, curlers in my hair, champagne in an ice bucket on the end table, I’m watching as Edith does Megan’s face. Edith is my stylist; she’s been doing my roots and blowouts for five years, usually at the salon. This is the first time she’s been in the house. But special occasions demand special accommodation, and it doesn’t get much more special than this.

Megan’s eyes are so bright, wide like mine, but the lucky girl got her father’s turquoise sparkle. I watch Edith apply just the gentlest dash of mascara, a splash of color on the cheekbones, a hint of eye shadow. Nothing garish; there is an appropriate amount of makeup an eight-year-old girl can handle and Edith knows exactly what it is. She and I spent an hour on the phone making that clear so that today I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Today I don’t have to worry about anything. I awoke alone in my bed. Scott had spent the night in a hotel. The groom isn’t allowed to see the bride on the wedding day, even the second time.

I walked on my treadmill for forty minutes while Scott took the kids to the diner for breakfast. They had pancakes, I think, though he promises me he made them eat scrambled eggs as well. I’m not sure I believe him; Scott would eat a shoe if you put maple syrup on it, and that unfortunate appetite has been handed down, but today isn’t the day for fighting over that. Let them eat chocolate bars if they want—I’m in too good a mood.

I worked out and then took Lucy for a long walk into the woods. That’s heaven for a golden retriever. It was one of those spring mornings that promise to get hot in the afternoon but at nine
A.M
. you need a light sweater. Lucy and I tramped in the woods for about half an hour, then came back to the house where a massage table was waiting in my bedroom.

I had the massage and then Edith arrived and brought the champagne, and we drank it together and spent about an hour on my hair. And now I am lolling in bed, watching my angelic daughter being made up so she can be her mom’s maid of honor. She looks as happy as I feel. And why not? Half her friends’ parents are divorced, and two more separated within the last year. I was afraid the kids might be embarrassed by the idea of their parents renewing their vows, but to my delight I see they take it as what it is: a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

Jared is downstairs with his father. Proud, too, like his sister; eight years old and his father’s best man. That was the first thought I had: this time the kids could be part of it. It’s corny, I guess, but it’s perfect.

It’s not a wedding like our first one, more like a cocktail party with a minister on the guest list. Six couples, just our closest friends, and Mother. Fifteen in all if you count the kids. Seventeen if you include Scott and me. And the pastor makes eighteen for dinner, if he stays. We told him he was welcome, he said he’d play it by ear.

Now Edith has finished with Megan and my daughter looks more beautiful than I have ever seen her. “Edith, it’s perfect,” I say, and get back in the chair myself so she can finish my hair. It’s almost time. We will be married again at six, have cocktails for an hour and then enjoy a lovely dinner. Everyone is already here, hopefully enjoying the hors d’oeuvres. Who doesn’t love shrimp wrapped in bacon? And smoked salmon over cucumber slices? And lots of champagne.

I will join them all in about twenty minutes. Megan will go down before me and announce that it is time. There will be no music or anything like that, no marching down the aisle. Everyone will just take a seat and I will meet Scott in the center of the room and he will take my hand, and the kids will be by our sides, and Reverend Walsh will say a few words about how refreshing it is in this day and age to perform a second marriage for people who aren’t divorced. And everyone will have a nice laugh at that, because if you think about it it’s rather a funny line. Then he’ll say something about how special it is for the children to be present, special for them and special for us, and if I’m going to cry at all today, that is going to be the time. But that’s all right, because Scott will probably tear up then too, and even if he doesn’t, Pamela will be bawling on the sofa, so I won’t be alone. And then the reverend will simply ask if Scott and I promise to spend the rest of our lives together, and we’ll say we do, and then we’ll all have steak and sea bass. And it will be perfect.

“This,” I say to Edith, raising my glass as she puts the final touches on my hair, “is the very best day of my entire life.”

SAMANTHA

I HAVE NO IDEA why I decided to pack.

The race is tomorrow. I won’t fly to New York until the day after that, or the next day. I haven’t even looked into flights yet. For all I know I won’t be able to get back to the mainland for a week. And yet, for some reason I felt the need to put my things together tonight.

Maybe it’s just the nervous energy; I’m doing something for the simple reason that I
need
to do
something
. I remember this feeling well, because I used to be a jock. I guess I still am, but I used to be a jock with goals rather than just an outdoorsy chick, which is what you could call me now. I used to play matches, I used to train, practice, have teammates, count wins and losses. I loved that. I loved the feeling I used to get in my stomach before a big soccer game. I also played lacrosse, field hockey, a little basketball, but what I really loved was soccer, mostly because of the running. Basketball was about the dribbling, lacrosse was about the stick. Soccer was about the running, and I’ve always loved to run. When I was in high school, I was the best soccer player in Greenwich, and before our games I couldn’t sit still, I had to fidget with something all the time, pace the floors, run in place, and that’s how I feel now. I can’t sit still, I can’t keep my hands at my sides, so I’m packing my suitcases tonight even though I’m not ready to go anywhere.

It’s funny to see some of the things I brought with me. This was, after all, my honeymoon, at least it was when I packed. Thus the lingerie. God, it all looks so uncomfortable. Lacy camisoles, frilly undies, sexy thongs, plus three pairs of heels and fancy jewelry to sparkle over candlelit dinners. I haven’t worn any of it, not once. I’ve worn nothing but sports bras, tank tops, running shoes, and shorts. I wear jeans to dinner. Haven’t worn a dash of makeup, absolutely nothing, not even the night I had dinner with Eduardo. All the clothes and the jewels and the makeup look old to me, like ancient artifacts from a life that existed long ago but is now extinct. Who was that girl? What did she think? What did she want? Where is she now?

And where is she going?

That’s the question that really matters. I can remember who she was, and what I remember best is that she really didn’t know what she wanted. She liked her work but that wasn’t what her life was about. She wanted a man, and found one, and he turned out to be the wrong one, but even if he hadn’t he still wasn’t the answer. As I think hard about her now, I realize the girl who wore these clothes didn’t know what she wanted, mostly she was going about her life hoping that what she wanted would find her, and I realize now that was a mistake. You can’t just close your eyes and hope everything turns out all right. That’s a fine strategy for jumping out of an airplane, but it’s no way to conduct your life. In order to get anywhere you must first know where it is you want to go. Then you can figure out how to get there. So that’s my next move. Finish the race, go back home, then figure out where I want to go and make a plan of how to get there.