As Good as It Got (4 page)

Martha got to wallow in the devastation all by herself, in eye-swelling, face-contorting, all-out grief, over and over again. Eldon could be replaced in the political world. No doubt his frigid wife would make a fine senator in Montpe-lier. She’d meet someone else whose needs suited hers and would live happily ever after, as she had always been destined to live. But no one could replace Eldon for Martha.

He’d been her true love, best friend, sometimes her only friend, her entire adult life.

A soft knock sounded. She tamped down the burst of As Good As It Got

27

adrenaline—when would she stop hoping it was him?—

unfolded her legs and ambled numbly toward the door.

It was Ricky, his skinny six-year-old body swallowed up by worn hand-me-downs from one of his brothers—or both of his brothers. “I brought up your mail.”

He handed her the bundle, eyes down, shoulders hunched.

A streak of dusty gray swooped across one pale cheek. She was glad to see him. She needed to focus on something other than the void inside her. “Thanks, Ricky. You want to come in? I think I have a bag of Snickers bars that needs eating.

You know, before they go bad.”

He looked up at that, and in spite of the beginnings of a smile, she could see he’d been crying. Either his selfish parents had been fighting again or his brothers had ganged up on him. “I’ll help. Overripe Snickers are terrible.”

Same joke every time, and they both still enjoyed it.

Sometimes she wanted to petition to adopt him on the grounds that his parents were idiots. She’d been considering talking to Eldon about what they could do for Ricky the day before Eldon’s stroke. She knew the answer was “Nothing,” but at least she’d felt good acting as if rescue were possible, and felt good planning to talk to Eldon.

She always felt good around Eldon, even when she was just watching him on TV or standing anonymously in the crowd at one of his public appearances. He had the kind of powerful personality that made people believe he could fix everything and everyone. It didn’t seem possible she’d never feel good with him again, so she’d believe instead that he was going to wake up. All she’d have to do was wait. After twenty years of making do with the bits and pieces he could give her out of his manic schedule, sometimes no more than 28 Isabel

Sharpe

his special wave on TV, seen by thousands, meant only for her, Martha understood how to wait.

She ushered Ricky in, happy that her spare, too-brown, three-room apartment could be her constant gift to him, a place he could feel safe and cheerful. She took the pile of mail from his grubby fingers, paused over one handwritten envelope with no return address, and set it aside on top of her TV to open when he left. The rest, the usual bills and junk, she’d toss onto her bed when she passed the doorway.

“So, now. The Snickers.” She led him into the kitchen, shawl jingling, and reached into the cabinet—cheap wood stained to look like cherry—where she kept her stash of comfort. “Miniatures today. Peanut Snickers, Almond Snickers, and Snickers Cruncher. Two of each?”

“How about three.”

“Two to start.” She counted out six bon-bon-sized candy bars for each of them.

“Got any news?” His voice barely sounded through caramel, nuts, and chocolate. “You know, important stuff?”

“What do you think?”

He shrugged, but when he looked up again, his eyes were bright and hopeful.

“Well.” She couldn’t help smiling. “I did hear something.”

He swallowed eagerly. “Yeah?”

“I heard . . . that the Snickers orchards had a par-
tic
-ularly good growing season this year. Which was a relief after the
disaster
that nearly happened last year.”

He giggled. “What disaster?”

“You don’t know? Well . . . ” She opened her eyes wide, spread out her shawl, and let her mind reach out to the collective unconscious in search of plot possibilities, relieved As Good As It Got

29

not to have to think about her troubles for this short while.

“It involved the evil witches and wizards of the Twilight Magic Candy Company, and their head wizard, named Bal-dezaar, who had a part-
tic
-ularly nasty and aggressive sweet tooth . . . ”

For the next several minutes, she spun out the story, careful to add one of the drawn-out gory battles Ricky loved, but also swirling in descriptions of a sweeter nature. She ended, of course, on a moral high note, with the evil witches and wizards all but banished and the candy season saved.

Another knock on the door, this one loud and insistent, accompanied by a shout. “Ricky, you in there?”

“Dad
.” Ricky hopped off the chair and ran to the front door.

Martha turned the corner to see Jim Spangler, skinny like his son, barely out of his own childhood at twenty-four or

-five at most, squatting down, arms open to receive the little body, which stopped a foot away.

“You and Mom done fighting?” This from Ricky in a sulky superior tone.

“Yeah.” His father touched his son’s shoulder, uncomfortably guilty. “Sorry, little man. Your mom and I get pissed sometimes.”

“No
kidding
.”

Martha moved forward. She wanted to tell this boy-father about spiritual centeredness, about deep breathing and positive karma, about learning to control angry impulses, about treating people you love with respect and compassion. But all he’d see would be a fat, middle-aged woman lecturing.

Her words would bounce off him and scatter on the floor, sound waves from a tree falling alone in the forest.

30 Isabel

Sharpe

“Ricky was upset.”

Jim barely glanced at her. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to come down here, Ricky. You can—”

“Martha told me another really cool story, Dad. This one was about wizards and witches and candy trees and—”

“That’s great. You want to go get ice cream with me?”

“Sure! Yeah! Okay!” He gave his father a high five and followed him toward the stairs, turning to wave at Martha.

She closed the door on his happy face disappearing down the building steps. Ricky wasn’t her problem to solve. He loved his parents, even if his dad was an immature horse’s butt and his mother was a self-absorbed brat. He’d grow up and be who he was going to be no matter what Martha did.

What did she think, that thirty years down the road he’d be accepting a Nobel prize, saying he’d have been a failure without Martha Danvers’s Snickers stories?

A few steps into her apartment, breathing too high and too rapid, which would only lead to pain and panic, she stopped and forced her inhale-exhale down low and slow. All day long, over and over, the same cycle. Ahead of her, stretching out as far as she dared let herself imagine, more of the same desperate emptiness. Unless Eldon woke up.

The flash of white on the dull metal top of her TV caught her eye as she moved past. The envelope. She peered at the postmark, from Maine, and tore it open eagerly.

Once upon a time a good man loved a good woman
so deeply, he faked a stroke in order to escape the
punishment of public life and the chains that bound
him to a heartless and icy female. No longer could
he stand living the lie. As soon as he was free, on the
As Good As It Got

31

wild, beautiful island he’d bought for them in Maine,
he wrote to her, begging her to join him so they could
put their years of isolation behind them forever . . .

Instead, a brochure.
Camp Kinsonu for Women. Stronger
Every Day, Stronger Every Way.
And a note.

Hello, Martha. A donor who wishes to remain anonymous has secured a place for you at Camp Kinsonu
for the early August session, starting on the 4th. Please
look over the enclosed and let us know as soon as
possible if you will be attending. We look forward to
being able to share with you the healing process that
has helped so many other suddenly single women.

Sincerely,

Betsy Spalding

Martha went over the note three times, heart rate shooting up higher with each successive reading.

There was only one person besides her who knew she was suddenly single, not counting the Cold One. And only one person she knew well who had the kind of money to send her to a place like this. And only one person who would care enough to want to help her through this pain. A person the media claimed was unable to speak and think for himself for the last month.

Eldon Cresswell. Her Eldon.

Chapter 4

Cindy stood back and surveyed the room that would be hers for the next two weeks, already in love with the ale-colored knotty pine walls and exposed beams. The bed was twin, good quality and comfortable, though she’d brought her own pillow from home, because she never slept well on other people’s pillows. Next to the bed stood blue-shaded white lamps that complemented the blue and white bedspreads. Watercolors enlivened the walls, seaside landscapes mostly, and cute braided rag rugs softened the floors.

The staff had put a basket on the table by her bed with home-baked cookies, an apple, and some hard fruit candies.

On the tastefully battered dresser, a bouquet of white fuzzy flowers had been arranged in a gray-blue pottery vase etched with ferns. Nice touches that gave the impression of luxury without detracting from the casual charm of the place.

She was going to love it here. The air smelled so sweet, and the hushed lapping of the ocean would make her sleep, As Good As It Got

33

she was sure of it. She hadn’t done so well sleeping over the last few weeks, not with Kevin off all the time with his new girlfriend and with no Max to comfort her. She’d told Marjory about his latest, and then told her parents. Predictably, they insisted she file for divorce immediately. She didn’t see the point. He’d be back soon enough and they could go on.

She probably shouldn’t have told Mom and Dad this time.

Why give them more fuel for their belief that Cindy failed at everything she tried?

In the meantime, she had a nice distraction up here, which Marjory and Mom and Dad all agreed would be good for her, and eventually convinced her as well. Even though she hated that it was Mistress Patty who had found Camp Kinsonu, she was glad to be here now. Compared to moping around at home, this felt like freedom.

In a file next to her bed lay the sheaf of papers she’d gotten at registration in the lodge. The camp director, Betsy Spalding, who had to be the nicest lady on earth, greeted each woman with a huge long hug. Cindy felt sort of stupid hugging someone she’d never met, but three seconds in Betsy’s strong arms left her feeling that this woman knew everything about her, understood it all, and would help her get through every shred of pain or die trying.

That probably sounded over the top, but it’s exactly what she felt.

Now, sitting on the firm mattress, Cindy leafed through the file. One paper invited her to a bonfire talk and sing-along that night, and another laid out her schedule with all the activities she’d chosen. Archery, hiking, art class—she hadn’t painted since she was a girl!—tennis, so she could play with Kevin and not embarrass herself . . . and one mandatory 34 Isabel

Sharpe

class she hadn’t signed up for. Baking. Ugh. The only thing she knew how to bake was burned lumps of cement and raw lumps of goo, but Betsy said campers could only change the classes they picked themselves, so Cindy was stuck with that, and with group therapy and the special trip to one of the islands in the bay the last day, which sounded fine.

As for the rest, she couldn’t wait to get started. Her mom had gone to a camp in Maine when she was a girl, and this seemed so much like her stories. Except Mom’s camp didn’t have massages and other fancy spa stuff. Cindy could get all that pampering back home. When things weren’t going well, she liked to keep moving.

She put the file aside, clenched her fists and beat a light rhythm on her thighs. Tum-da-da-tum. Tum-da-da-tum.

The cabin would hold four women. Maybe the others would be here soon. She jumped up and strode through the small common area, comfortably furnished with navy and olive couches lightened with floral throw pillows, and a wooden lobster trap covered by a clear acrylic top for a coffee table. An attractive arrangement of shells had been glued to one wall, and on the opposite wall a pretty cloth showing different types of local wildflowers hung between windows that faced the sea.

Out the door, across the screened-in front porch whose sturdy wooden chairs looked perfect for reading in, she followed the path past the largest building, the lodge, also shingled with dark green shutters, where she’d registered and was told that meetings and some activities would be held, up through spare clumps of birches and firs toward the parking lot, where she thought some of the others might be arriving.

She was in luck! a car had just pulled in, a silver MerAs Good As It Got

35

cedes with Massachusetts plates. She stood by the edge of the grassy lot until the car stopped, then moved toward it, brimming with excitement. Maybe she’d make a new friend.

Maybe this woman would be one of the other three in her cabin.

A dark head showed above the car’s roof, then the shoulders of a sage-colored suit jacket that looked like linen. Cindy kept walking, conscious of her denim wraparound skirt, her simple cotton shirt, and her pink sneakers with ruffled white ankle socks, which she wore in somewhat joking defiance of fashion rules.

The woman turned. She was beautiful, with the kind of dewy skin that didn’t show age, a nose that didn’t dare bump asymmetrically, and a strong chin that wouldn’t tolerate any sagging under it. Right now she was breathing the beautiful clear sea air as if it were a delicious gift.

“Hi there.” Cindy drew closer, hand outstretched, drinking in the style and beauty of the new arrival the same way the new arrival was drinking in the pure air. But then this kind of woman wouldn’t be thrilled to meet someone like Cindy. “I’m Cindy.”