Escape (4 page)

Determining to work on actually tasting my food, I glanced at the watch that wasn’t there, then at the low-slung sun. Guessing it was eight, I bought several magazines and, back at the motel, stretched out by the pool with
Women’s Health
. I was just getting into an article on vitamin D when a couple arrived with two cranky toddlers. They were followed by a pair of families with eight kids between them, splashing and shrieking as they played in the pool.

No reading here. Closing the magazine, I went back to my room and undressed. And there was Jude’s letter, stuffed in my back pocket.

Coming home? What was I supposed to do with
that
?

I tried to read and failed. I dozed off, only to bolt up moments later, disoriented. The bedside clock read 11:04. It was another minute before I got my bearings.

Wondering if James had come home and seen my note yet, I watched the clock until I couldn’t bear the suspense a minute longer. I turned on my BlackBerry. It was midnight.

What do you mean
,
you need a break?
he had texted.
Where are you?
He had left an identical voice message, then a second text.
This isn’t funny
,
Emily. Where the hell are you?
All three had come in the last half hour, which meant he had worked pretty late.

He hadn’t said he was worried. What I heard, in my vulnerable frame of mind, was
Cut it out
,
Em
,
I don’t have time for this
.

Disappointed, I turned off the BlackBerry.

Only then, knowing that James knew I was gone, did I feel the shock of what I’d done. But not regret. His response clinched it. I needed a break.

The sounds outside now were adult—drunken whoops and hollers, the shudder of a diving board, the explosion of water. For a split second, I wished I’d brought my iPod. But covering one noise with another wasn’t the answer.

Wondering what was, I drifted into a fitful sleep, but I was up
before dawn, waiting for the sun. Dressing warmly then, I walked into town for a newspaper and breakfast. The newspaper was a mistake—not much happy news—but by the time I realized that, my eggs and toast had disappeared, inhaled like so much else of what I ate.

Vowing
again
to work on that, I returned to the motel to change and, a short time later, hit the beach. The ocean air gradually warmed, but along with the strengthening sun came families, boom boxes, and volleyball. Seeking peace, I walked far enough off to be able to hear the gulls and the tide, but when sand gave way to rocks, I had to turn. I stretched out on my towel again and ate a hot dog at the beach bar for lunch, but by mid-afternoon I was antsy.

This wasn’t fun. It wasn’t where I wanted to be. I had traded one noise for another—city sounds for pounding waves, shrieking kids, blaring boom boxes.

Returning to the motel, I packed and checked out. Then I sat in my car trying to decide where to go. I thought of continuing to Provincetown, which was the practical choice, since I was already on the Cape.

Rejecting practical, I considered heading up to Ogunquit. My mother lived an hour from there, making it the safe choice.

The safest choice, of course, would be to head south to New York. If I did it now, I could be back with no one but James the wiser. Much longer, and the consequences would grow.

Oh yeah, New York was definitely the safest choice, but safe choices were what had done me in. Right now I was a rebel, and this was still my escape.

Aiming west, I breezed back over the Sagamore Bridge toward the Mass Pike. Traffic was light; weekenders were already where they wanted to be. The farther I went, the more the land opened, the meadows greened, the woods thickened. Daring the radio, I found a classical station that soothed, and set the volume only high enough to feel the effect.

By the time I reached the Berkshires, the shadows were long. Wanting quiet, I avoided Stockbridge and Lenox, instead following
signs to a lesser town whose name I knew. There was only one place to stay, an inn that would likely cost a lot, but for this night, that was fine. There was no sign indicating a vacancy, and the parking lot was full, but I was here, and it was worth a shot. Finding a sliver of space at the back, I eased the car in and shouldered my bag.

The inn was a rambling affair whose main attraction was a wraparound porch with rocking chairs, but the people in those chairs and the ones walking inside for dinner looked to be young professionals like James and me. Most had kids.

Letting a party of six pass, I followed them in. The clerk at the front desk was older, more starched than the guests, and reluctantly—
Well
,
we do usually have a two-night minimum
—gave me a room. It was over the kitchen, but the noise of pots and pans was mild, and the smell of sizzling tenderloin so tempting that I ordered it for dinner. I ate at the bar, which was quiet and dark. No one bothered me, and I actually tasted the beef.

My senses were returning, which was nice. Along with it, though, came my conscience. I was starting to feel guilty. And sad. This was the first Saturday night I’d been without James.

I figured it had to be ten. I wondered if I should call just to say I was okay.

But what if he was working? He often did on Saturday nights. If he didn’t answer his phone, I might worry that he was with
her
—and if he did pick up, he would want to know where I was and when I’d be back. But I couldn’t go back yet. I had barely begun to relax.

Bent on doing that, I settled on the porch and rocked for a while, then borrowed a book from the little library in the living room and headed upstairs. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of James. Wondering if he was thinking of me, I turned on my BlackBerry.

You took my car! Where ARE you? Please call
, he had typed earlier that afternoon, and barely an hour later,
Why did you take so much money?

You maxxed out my credit card
, I typed,
so I’m using cash
.

That’s a lot of cash for the weekend
, he replied.
My firm dinner is tomorrow night. You’ll be back by then
,
won’t you?

He was worried. I considered giving in. I truly might have, if he had asked how I was or what was wrong. I surely
would
have, if he’d said that he loved me or missed me. But I saw none of those words on the screen.

I’ll let you know
, I replied and, feeling a profound sadness, turned off the BlackBerry before James could text back. I might hate electronic wizardry, but it was my ally now. I could use it or not, could respond to James or not, and with my calls simply showing “New York” on his caller ID, he had no idea where I was.

That knowledge didn’t help me sleep. I kept waking to the strangeness of what I’d done and a disconcerting sense that I was treading water. And then came the coyote dream, which had to have some sort of message, I knew, though I couldn’t figure out what it was. I brooded for most of the night.

Respite came with the sun in the form of the smell of fresh-baked bread, wafting up through the old oak floorboards from the kitchen below. I hadn’t smelled fresh-baked bread in months—and bread was only the start. By the time I reached the dining room, the cook was adding breakfast meats and waffles. I filled my plate with eggs, a scoop of hash, thick slices of bacon and banana bread, and ate slowly, chewing deliberately between sips of joe. The coffee was dark and rich, its mug warm in my hands.

Other families had drifted in by now, leaving tennis rackets and golf gloves by their chairs as they went to the buffet. There was no talk between tables, but I was used to this. People weren’t unfriendly, simply minding their own business, which was what we urbanites generally did, and these folks were from the city, no doubt about that. They might have been my neighbors, attending a week of tennis or golf camp now that their kids had finished school for the year.

Wondering why I was sitting in a room with the same people I wanted to escape, I swallowed the last of my coffee and, skirting
Mountain Buggies on the porch, went off to see the town. For a sophisticated place, it was little more than a crossroads, a modest mix of small Colonials and cottages, private homes and shops. I did my antiquing, browsed through a closet-size art gallery, even stood at the window of a yarn store and watched the women inside. A latecomer invited me to join them as she opened the cranberry door, and though I envied them their friendship, I didn’t knit.

Consoling myself with the quiet, I walked on. I was free, but I couldn’t feel the rush of it. I sat for a while on a bench where the road forked. But euphoria didn’t come.

Discouraged, I returned to the inn, took newspaper and pen from the front desk, and sank into an overstuffed chair in the library. Crossword puzzles were a distraction, though I had never been terribly good at them. After an hour, I gave up and went out to the gazebo to think about freedom. But thinking about freedom made me think about Jude, and I didn’t want to do that.

So I followed the other guests when they headed in for lunch. After waiting in line, I fixed a sandwich from the make-your-own at the buffet table, and settled in a rocker on the front porch, but the families around me made me think of my own. Taking the BlackBerry from my pocket, I checked for messages from my parents. There were none. My sister made up for it. She had sent multiple notes and wanted to know why I wasn’t answering.

Fearing she would make trouble if I didn’t act, I shot her a quick reply.
No time now. I’ll write later in the week
.

Walter Burbridge had sent a slew of e-mail. I didn’t read Friday’s batch but, rather, allowing him time to cool off, read the one he had sent late yesterday.
Tessa said you were sick
,
but it isn’t like you not to respond. What’s going on?
And then, earlier this morning,
Are you all right? Let me know if I can help
.

He actually sounded concerned, but I wasn’t fooled. Working weekends at Lane Lavash was optional, but there was nothing optional about Mondays. If I didn’t head back soon, I wouldn’t be at my desk
in the morning. Walter would be pissed. Word would spread. My job would be at risk.

First, though, came James. There were lots of missed calls from him, with no messages left, and his texts were brief.

This dinner is important
,
babe
.

Then,
Please answer me. I know you’re seeing this
.

Then,
If you’re having a nervous breakdown we can deal but you have to call. I’m starting to worry
.

Then,
WHERE ARE YOU?

He sounded frantic, and I almost did call. But I knew how persuasive he could be. What was it they said about the difference between a lawyer and a bucket of crap being the bucket? James was a brilliant negotiator and, though barely thirty-five, had already made a name for himself.

I didn’t trust myself to talk with him. He would have me back there in two minutes flat. But when I pictured driving south, everything inside me backed up again.

I pulled in a slow, painful breath that must have opened a window of thought, because, sitting on that porch with the remains of a half-eaten sandwich and a once-promising life, I realized that this wasn’t about James. It wasn’t about work or Manhattan or my sister, Kelly, and it wasn’t about having fun. It wasn’t even about Jude. It was about me. Where I was headed. Who I wanted to be.

But I did owe James, and texting wouldn’t do. So I steeled myself and called his cell.

He answered with a worried “Where are you?”

“I won’t be back in time, James. I’m sorry. Just tell them I’m sick.”

“Where
are
you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I need to think, and I can’t do it there.”

“Think about what? You’re my wife.”

“I need time.”

“For
what
? You’re giving me a heart attack here, Emily. What happened? You were fine Thursday night.”

“Was I?” I asked, thinking of all the times I’d floated the idea that I wasn’t fine at all. “I’ll call once I know where I’m at. I’m sorry about tonight, James, I really am.” I disconnected before he could say anything else, and turned off the BlackBerry with a sense of relief. I was glad I’d called. With all the wrong things I’d done, this was right.

Returning to my room, I restowed the few things I’d taken from my bag. The Berkshires were an improvement over the Cape, but both were way stations. If the point was to figure out who I was, I had to go back to the place that had set me on this course. That place wasn’t New York.

I started the car. With each mile, the consequences loomed, but they were in my rearview mirror. I was headed north.

Chapter 3
 

By the time I left I-91 for the back roads of New Hampshire, the hills were higher and the woods more dense. Gradually, those hills became mountains that blocked the sun, dimming the route. But I didn’t need bright sun. My memory held a vivid picture of these roads—and of the small town where I was headed. Nestled in a valley in the center of the state, Bell Valley was quintessentially New England, with a covered bridge on the approach, a town green ringed by historic houses, and a church spire sticking up through the trees like an eager finger saying,
Me
,
see me
,
here I am!
There were neither motels nor hotels, just a single bed-and-breakfast. If it was full, I would camp out in the gardener’s shed at the back. Lord knew, I had done that before.