As Good as It Got (10 page)

Coming here was a mistake. How the hell was she supposed to get better if after the first hour of the first day she already felt ten times worse?

Chapter 7

Dear Kevin,

At first I thought this exercise sounded stupid, but I
find I like writing to you, because I can imagine you
at your desk in your office upstairs reading this, and
if I try harder, I can imagine that I’m actually talking to you. I miss doing that. It’s funny knowing you
probably won’t see this letter. Or maybe someday I’ll
show it to you, if Betsy lets me have it back. Betsy is
the camp leader. I’ve always heard talk about this
or that person being “centered,” and never understood the term. Before I met Betsy I thought it meant
people who didn’t tip over easily, ha ha ha. She’s the
way I imagine a mother superior in a convent would
be, not that I ever had a shot at entering a convent to
know for sure. Not once I laid eyes on you.

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Anyway, people are nice for the most part. I have
three cabin-mates: Dinah, who has been married three
times, can you imagine? I don’t see how anyone can
fall in love that many times. Then there’s Martha, who
doesn’t say very much at all. I can’t figure out if she
has a fascinating internal life or if she’s just weird. And
then finally there’s Ann, who I think you’d like. In fact,
I think you probably should stay away from her, because she’s probably exactly your type, ha ha ha.

I’m taking tennis so you and I can play at the country club without me embarrassing you. I’m also taking
archery because it makes me think of my mom and her
camp. Archery was one of her favorite sports. There’s
no swimming because the water is too cold, but there is
kayaking. Also all kinds of spa treatments, but I want
to keep this place special for things I can’t do at home.

Oh, and guess what? They put me in a baking
class! I can see you rolling your eyes from here. Talk
about something I can’t do at home!

It’s beautiful here. I haven’t been able to sleep, but
that means I’ve been able to do lots of star-gazing. You
wouldn’t believe how many stars you can see away
from city lights. Though I suppose you’ve seen them
somewhere on all your travels. The shooting stars
are clear as day, sometimes crossing half the sky in
a sudden streak. It’s disappointing knowing they’re
lumps of rock heating up through the atmosphere and
not real stars. Sometimes I think too much knowledge
is a bad thing.

The weather has been gorgeous and the air smells
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better than just about anything I’ve ever smelled,
except you when you’re dressed up to go out. I think
we should take a long weekend here sometime soon,
after we patch things up.

I’ll be home in a couple of weeks!

Your loving wife,

Cindy

Cindy walked a little apprehensively up the narrow trail toward Betsy’s private cabin, set a short way up the gentle slope above the lodge, its dark green door flanked by uncertain roses on one side and an apologetic lilac on the other.

Cindy caught herself being surprised, as if Betsy should have been able to look the plants right in the petals and inspire them to grow and thrive. Maybe the Maine coast wasn’t the best place for every kind of blooming.

She’d been summoned right after her pottery class this afternoon, which had gone much better than her tennis lesson after group therapy. Cindy had managed to give the patient, earnest tennis instructor a bloody nose with a mis-hit ball.

Nearby players rushed to offer tissues dug out of pockets, but Cindy had been rooted to the spot by shame, like the time she broke her mother’s vase when the heavy wet crystal slipped out of her hands and shattered in the sink. She hadn’t been able to move then either, even with blood flowing from a cut on her forearm. When her mom came in and found Cindy crying, she’d been exasperated. Why the fuss? It wasn’t the first time Cindy had been clumsy, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last.

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Laura had been awfully nice too, about having her nose bloodied, as if it happened all the time, which Cindy was pretty sure it didn’t. Unable to shake off the horror, she’d gotten through the rest of class by lobbing careful shots against the backboard, which didn’t have a nose. Tennis might bring her and Kevin closer, but at this rate it wouldn’t do much for her emotional, spiritual, or physical progress at camp.

Lunch, a delicious vegetable soup—and how nice not to mind hot soup in August—restored her. She’d spent her pottery class blissfully producing a thick wobbly bowl that even a kindergarten mom would hesitate to display. But what fun.

A lot of the other women had obviously worked the wheel before, but Cindy was determined not to feel inadequate so she didn’t. The activity was just the outlet she needed after group therapy and tennis turned out to be difficult. Bloodied nose in one, bloodied spirit in another. She was getting tired of people acting as if she were too stupid to know her own husband.

After pottery class, Patrick had come into the art room, and his eyes picked her out from among the others, which gave her a silly thrill. He was so handsome, it was hard not to react, even knowing he wouldn’t react back, not to her or any of the women, even one as beautiful and classy as Ann. He was the kind of man Cindy would probably have had a crush on in grade school, her bad boy type, until she got smart and chose someone solid and . . . well “dependable” was a poor concept in retrospect, but that’s how she’d felt about Kevin at the time. Her parents adored him at first, thrilled that Cindy had finally gotten something right. Then the cheating started.

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Anyway, Patrick led her out of class into the late morning sunlight and stared intently with those gorgeous gray eyes and told her she had a nonemergency phone call from Lucy, her daughter. She was grateful he’d said nonemergency, because immediately on hearing that Lucy called, she started imagining Kevin having a heart attack while humping his girlfriend. Or worse, suffering cardiac arrest on his way to ask Cindy to come back to him.

Anyone wanting to reach guests at Camp Kinsonu had to call the main number and go through the formidable though admirably centered Betsy. Conversation with the men they were here to get over was absolutely forbidden. That had tickled Cindy, imagining Kevin being told he couldn’t speak with her. Kevin wanted what he wanted when he wanted it, which was why his wanting her so many years back had been so thrilling, after so many years of feeling wanted by practically no one. When told he couldn’t talk to her, he would jump the next flight to Bangor and show up in person to haul her back. Gave her goose bumps just thinking about it. However, it would take more than a few days for Kevin to realize his mistake with Patty. Next week, probably, he’d be here.

She knocked on the door, and after Betsy’s welcoming

“Come in,” opened it and couldn’t help exclaiming because Betsy’s cabin was exactly the kind of place she wanted, only she hadn’t known until she saw it. Sailing posters, plants, bookshelves, rugs—and the best part, a window seat covered by a cream cushion, with green and blue throw pillows that evoked the sea and matched the navy rug with blue-green flowers on the pine floor. A wood stove took command of the opposite corner, black as nighttime in these woods. She 86 Isabel

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couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than sitting on those cushions, reading with a view of the sea, fire crackling in the stove, maybe a fragrant loaf of cinnamon bread in the oven and a cup of tea at hand, maybe a new Max beside her.

She also couldn’t imagine Kevin here. He’d be claustrophobic, antsy, wanting to be out doing and meeting and making things happen. So her cabin would have to stay in her daydreams.

“Hi, Cindy.” Betsy sat behind a simple blond wood desk with rounded corners, peering over a pair of black half-glasses perched midway along her nose. The effect was scholarly and chic at the same time, and Cindy almost rued her own perfect vision, which would prevent her getting a pair. “How was your class this afternoon?”

“Oh, wonderful. Though . . . ” She grimaced comically.

“The pottery world won’t be lining up outside my door anytime soon.”

“It’s the process that matters, Cindy. Not the end.” Betsy’s eyes held her over the half-glasses, light from the window flashing the lenses opaque. Her gaze seemed to pour inside Cindy, bolster her up, assure her she could make it through with flying colors until Kevin came back. “If your child did something badly the first time, what would you say? ‘The world will never line up outside your door, honey’?”

“Oh. No. Of course not.” She laughed uncertainly, not expecting to have to defend a comment she’d meant as a joke, and gestured around her. “I adore your cabin. It’s just the type of place I wish I lived in.”

“Why don’t you?”

Cindy blinked. “I’m sorry?”

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“Why don’t you find a place like this?”

“I . . . well, because . . . I live in Milwaukee. My husband’s job took us there.”

“I see.” Betsy said this as if she couldn’t see at all, which was sort of a funny coincidence since she was taking off her glasses while she said it. Cindy fidgeted, feeling as if she should start apologizing for where she lived. Betsy had that effect on her. “One should always live somewhere that feeds the soul.”

“Right.” Cindy nodded. “Yes. One should. Always.”

She was going to say,
I’ll get right on that,
but it would sound sarcastic and rude. She didn’t mean to be rude, but after being required to defend her life over one lame joke and one compliment to Betsy’s taste, at this point she’d just like to know what Lucy wanted.

“Your daughter called.” Betsy leaned on her elbows, hands in prayer position, tips of her fingers pressed to her chin.

“How do you feel about speaking with her?”

“Oh, I’d like to. Lucy stayed in Princeton for the summer to work for a real estate firm. She probably misses me. Or maybe she has a message from her father.” Cindy’s voice lifted hopefully, even though she knew it was too soon.

Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly.”

“Or maybe she needs advice. Like about cooking. Or men.”

She’d rushed to deflect the topic of conversation away from Kevin, then realized her reputation as someone to consult about matters of the heart had already been irreparably tar-nished. “Or something.”

“You don’t think she’ll upset you or impede your progress here at camp? ”

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“Oh, no.” She shook her head, trying not to wonder what kind of progress could be impeded when she’d barely been here twenty-four hours. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Then I’m sure it will be too.” Betsy broke out her reassuring smile and gestured to a door on Cindy’s left, closed with a black iron latch. “The phone is through there. Have a good talk with your daughter. All I ask is that you please check in with me on the way out. If I’m not here, I’ll make sure Patrick is.”

“Yes. Okay. Thanks.” She strode toward the door, eager to sink into a familiar relationship and remind herself the world was still out there to go back to. Not that she was in a hurry to escape, because there was still so much to explore and do here. In fact, even after the disasters today, she sort of hoped Kevin
wouldn’t
come back for her until next week. Camp was so fun. She should have gone as a girl, when her mom and dad wanted to send her, instead of moping all summer under their displeasure at her cowardice.

Inside the pretty little bedroom, she dialed the familiar number, hoping her daughter wasn’t too busy to talk, and couldn’t help the warm swelling in her heart when Lucy answered.

“Hi, sweetheart, it’s Mom.”

“Mom. Hang on.” A rustling, then her daughter’s muted voice talking to a coworker, so mature and professional that tears sprang to Cindy’s eyes. She and Lucy had spoken only once since Kevin made his little pronouncement about being in love and leaving, and Lucy had been very upset, but more philosophical than Cindy expected. As if she’d seen this coming. As if she was almost relieved finally to have to deal with it instead of having to dread it.

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Sometimes Cindy felt as if she lived in a different dimen-sion than most of the people she knew.

“Mom, what the hell is dad doing?”

Cindy’s tender maternal tears stopped in a hurry. “What?

I . . . don’t know, what do you—”

“He moved his bimbo into our house.”

Cindy’s gasp could probably be heard down by the water.

“What?”

“She’s living there.” Her daughter’s voice cracked in out-rage. “She answered the freaking phone when I called last night.”

“But . . . she . . . I mean she can’t be.”

“Mom.” Impatience in Lucy’s voice. She’d never been a patient child, not from infancy. Give her something new to try, if she failed the first time, instant hysteria. “I just
told
you she is.”

“But I mean . . . ” Cindy closed her eyes, feeling as stupid as she sounded. Shocks like this were getting very, very old.

She wanted life back the way it was supposed to be. “If she happened to be there when—”

“Living there. Li-ving. Moved in. Given her landlord notice, for all I know.”

“But he . . . ” She opened her eyes, unable to stand the darkness in her own head, and fixed on a jumbled modern landscape hung over the twin bed across the room. “He never told me—”