Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (3 page)

From the time I was five until I was seventeen, I had spent summers with my grandparents on Martha’s Vineyard. My grandfather
was an architect, as my father had been as well, and he could work from his home. My grandmother Isabelle was a homemaker,
and she was gifted at making our living space the most comfortable and loving place I could begin to imagine.

I loved being back on the Vineyard, loved everything about it. Gus and I often went to the beach in the early evening, and
we sat out there until the light of day was gone. We played ball, or sometimes with a Frisbee for the first hour or so. Then
we huddled together on a blanket until the sun went down.

I had negotiated for the practice of a general practitioner who was moving to Illinois. We were switching lives in some ways.
He was going to Chicago just when I was exiting city life. My office was one of five doctors’ offices in a white clapboard
house in Vineyard Haven. The house was more than a hundred years old and had four beautiful antique rockers on the front porch.
I even had a rocker at the desk where I worked.

Country doctor
resonated with a wonderful sound for me, like recess bells of an old country school. I was inspired to hang out a shingle
that said as much:
SUZANNE BEDFORD —COUNTRY DOCTOR —IN.

I began to see a few patients in my second month on Martha’s Vineyard.

Emily Howe, seventy, part-time librarian, honored member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, hard, steadfast, and
against everything that had occurred since about 1900. Diagnosis: bronchitis; Prognosis: good.

Dorris Lathem, ninety-three, had already outlived three husbands, eleven dogs, and a house fire. Healthy as a horse. Diagnosis:
old gal; Prognosis: will live forever.

Earl Chapman, Presbyterian minister. General Outlook—always his own. Diagnosis: acute diarrhea; Prognosis: possible recurrence
of what the Lord might call getting even.

My first patient list read like a who’s who of a William Carlos Williams poem. I imagined Dr.Williams walking the streets
of the Vineyard on his appointed rounds, an icy wind blowing from the distant hills, milk frozen on every landing, the famous
wheelbarrow soldered into the winter mud. There he’d be, making a late-afternoon call on the boy who fell off his sled and
broke an arm along with his pride.

This was for me. I was experiencing a fantasy that was a million miles away when I lived in Boston.

But, in fact, it was just down Route 6 and across the water.

I felt I had come home.

Nicholas,

I had no idea that the love of my life was here— just waiting for me. If I had, I would have run straight into Daddy’s arms.
In a heartbeat.

When I first arrived on Martha’s Vineyard, I was unsure about everything, but especially where to settle. I drove around looking
for something that said “home,” “you’ll be okay here,” “look no further.”

There are so many parts of our island that are beautiful, and even though I knew it in some ways, it sang out differently
to me this time.

Everything was different because
I
felt different. Up Island was always special to me, because this is where I had spent so many glorious summers. It lay like
a child’s picture book of farms and fences, dirt roads, and cliffs. Down Island was a whirl of widow’s walks, gazebos, lighthouses,
and harbors.

It was a turn-of-the-century boathouse that finally stole my heart. And still does. This truly was home.

It needed to be fixed up, but it was winterized, and I loved it at first sight, first smell, first touch. Old beams—which
had once supported stored boats—crisscrossed the ceiling. Upstairs I eventually put in corner portholes to let the sun come
in hoops of light. The walls
had
to be painted robin’s egg blue because the whole downstairs opened to a view of the sea. Big barnlike doors slid port and
starboard to bring everything that was once outside,
inside.

Can you imagine, Nicky, living practically right on the beach, like that? Every part of me, body and soul, knew I’d made the
right decision. Even my practical side was in agreement. I now lived between Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs. Sometimes I’d
be working out of my home or making house calls, but the rest of the time I’d be at Martha’s Vineyard Hospital or the Vineyard
Walk-In Medical Center in Vineyard Haven. I was also doing some cardiology rehab at the Medical Center.

I was alone, except for Gus, living a solitary life, but I was content for the most part.

Maybe it was because I had no idea what I was missing at the time:
your daddy and you.

Nicholas,

I was driving home from the hospital when I heard a funny noise. What’s that?
Shhhhh... bump shhhhh... bump shhhh... bump.

I had to pull over onto the shoulder of the road. I got out of my Jeep to take a look.

Shitfire and save matches.
The right wheel was as flat as a pancake. I could have, and I would have, changed the tire if I hadn’t taken out the spare
in order to make room for all my other stuff when I was moving.

I called the gas station from my cell phone, mad at myself for having to call a garage. A guy answered and condescended to
me a little;
another
guy would come to fix the flat. It made me feel like “such a girl,” and I hated that. I knew how to change a tire perfectly
well. I pride myself on self-sufficiency and independence. And good old-fashioned stubbornness.

I was standing against the passenger-side door, pretending to admire the beautiful landscape and making it seem to passing
cars that I had pulled over for that reason, when a car pulled up right in back of mine.

Clearly it wasn’t from the gas station.

Not unless they’d sent a forest green Jaguar convertible.

“You need some help?” a man asked. He was already walking slowly toward my car, and honestly, I couldn’t take my eyes off
him.

“No, thanks . . . I called the Shell station in town. They’ll be here soon. Thanks, anyway.”

There was something familiar about this guy. I wondered if I had met him in one of the stores around the island. Or maybe
at the hospital.

But he was tall and good-looking, and I thought that I’d have remembered him. He had a nice, easy smile and he was kind of
laid-back.

“I can change the tire,” he offered, and somehow managed
not
to be condescending when he said it. “I know I drive a fancy car, but I’m not really a fancy person.”

“Thanks, but I took my spare out to make room for more important things like my stereo and my antique candlestick collection.”

He laughed . . . and he was
so familiar.
Who was he? Where did I know him from?

“I’m flattered, though,” I continued. “A man in a shiny convertible willing to change a tire.”

He laughed again—a nice laugh.
So familiar.
“Hey, I’m vast. . . . I contain multitudes.”

“Walt Whitman!” I said—and then I remembered who this was. “You used to say that
all the time.
You quoted Walt Whitman.
Matt?
”

“Suzanne Bedford!” he said. “I was almost sure it was you.”

He was so surprised—bumping into me like this after such a long time. It must have been almost twenty years.

Matt Wolfe looked even handsomer than I remembered him. At thirty-seven, he had grown up very nicely. He was slender with
closely cropped brown hair and an endearing smile. He looked in great shape. We talked on the side of the road. He had become
a lawyer for the Environmental Protection Agency as well as a fine-arts dealer. I had to laugh when he told me that. Matt
used to joke that he would never become an
entremanure,
as he called businesspeople back then.

He wasn’t surprised to learn that I was a doctor. What surprised Matt was that I wasn’t with someone, that I had come back
to Martha’s Vineyard
alone.

We continued to catch up on each other’s life. He was funny, easy to talk to. When I had dated Matt, he was eighteen, I was
sixteen. That was the last year my grandparents had rented for the summer on the Vineyard—but obviously, I never forgot the
island or its many treasures. I’d been having dreams about the ocean and beaches on the Vineyard ever since I could remember.

I think we were both a little disappointed to see the bright yellow Shell tow truck pull in behind us. I know that I was.
Just before I turned to go, Matt mumbled a few words about how nice this was—my flat tire. Then he asked me what I was doing
Saturday night.

I think I blushed. I know I did. “You mean a date?”

“Yes, Suzanne, a date. Now that I’ve seen you again, I’d like to see you
again.
”

I told Matt I would love to see him on Saturday. My heart was pounding a little, and I took that to be a very good sign.

Nick,

Who the heck was sitting on my porch? As I drove up late that same afternoon, I couldn’t really tell.

It couldn’t be the electric guy, or the phone guy, or the cable guy—I’d seen all of them the day before.

Nope, it was the painting guy, the one who was going to help me with everything around the cottage that needed a ladder or
an outlet or a finish.

We walked around the cottage as I pointed out several of the problems I’d inherited: windows that wouldn’t close, floors that
buckled at the door, a leak in the bathroom, a broken pump, a cracked gutter, and a whole cottage that needed scraping and
painting.

What this house had in cute, it lacked in practical.

But this guy was great, took notes, asked pertinent questions, and told me he could fix everything by the millennium. The
next millennium. We struck a deal on the spot (which gave me the distinct feeling I’d made out pretty good).

Suddenly, life was looking a lot better to me. I had a new practice that I loved, I had a house-painter with a good reputation,
and I had a hot date with Matt.

When I was finally alone in my little cottage by the sea, I threw up both arms and shouted hooray.

Then I said, “Matt Wolfe. Hmmm. Imagine that. How terrific. How very cool.”

Nick,

Just about everybody has an occasional fantasy about somebody they really liked in high school, or maybe even grade school,
coming back into their life. For me, that person was Matt.

Who knows, maybe he was a small part of what drew me back to Martha’s Vineyard. Probably not, but who can tell about these
things?

Nevertheless, I was nearly an hour late for our date on Saturday night. I had to get a patient admitted, run home and feed
Gustavus, get pretty, and find my beeper all before I left. Plus—I must confess—I can be a bit disorganized at times. My grandfather
used to say, “Suzie, you have a lot
in
your mind.”

When I entered Lola’s which is a neat spot on the beach between Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs, Matt was waiting with a bottle
of pinot noir. He looked relaxed, and I liked that. Also handsome. I liked that just fine, too.

“Matt, I’m so, so sorry,” I said. “This is one of the negatives about dating a doctor.”

He laughed. “After twenty years . . . what’s twenty minutes? Or fifty? And besides, you look beautiful, Suzanne. You’re worth
the wait.”

I was flattered, and a little embarrassed. It had been a while since someone had paid me a compliment, even as a joke. But
I liked it. And I eased smoothly into the evening like someone slipping into satin sheets.

“So, you’re back on the Vineyard for good?” Matt asked after I told him some, but not all, of the events that had led up to
my decision. I didn’t tell him about the heart attack. I would, but not yet.

“I love it here. Always have. I feel like I’ve come home,” I said. “Yes, I’m back here for good.”

“How are your grandparents?” he asked. “I remember them both.”

“My grandfather’s still alive, and he’s doing great. Grandmother died six years ago. Her heart.”

Matt and I talked and talked—about work, summers on the Vineyard, college, our twenties, thirties, successes, disappointments.
He had spent his twenties living all over the world: Positano, Madrid, London, New York. He’d gotten into New York University
Law School when he was twenty-eight, moved back to the Vineyard two years ago. Loved it. It felt so good to talk to him again;
it was such a nice trip down memory lane.

After dinner Matt followed me home in his Jag. He was just being thoughtful. We both got out in the driveway and talked some
more under a beautiful full moon. I was really enjoying myself.

He started to laugh. “Remember our first date?” Actually, I did. There had been a wicked thunderstorm and it knocked out the
electricity in my house. I had to get dressed in the dark. By mistake, I picked up a can of Lysol instead of hair spray. I
smelled of disinfectant all night.

Matt grimaced and asked, “Do you remember the first time I got my nerve up to kiss you? Probably not. I was scared.”

That surprised me a little. “I couldn’t tell. As I remember it, you were always pretty confident.”

“My
lips
were shaking, my teeth hitting together. I had the biggest crush on you. I wasn’t the only one.”

I laughed. This was silly, but it sure was fun. In a way, seeing Matt again was a fantasy come true. “I don’t believe any
of this, but I love hearing it.”

“Suzanne, could I kiss you?” he asked in a gentle voice.

Now
I
was shaking a little. I was out of practice at this. “That would be okay. That would be good, actually.”

Matt leaned over and, in the sweetest way, kissed me. A kiss, just one. But it was really something after all these years.

Dear Nicky,

Bizarre! That’s the only word I can use to describe life sometimes. Just freaking bizarre.

Remember the housepainter I told you about? Well, he was over here the morning after my date with Matt, giving the joint a
face-life. I know this because he left me a bouquet of the most beautiful wildflowers.