The Light of Hidden Flowers (9 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JOE

Some days my knee ached more than others. I thought maybe it was the rain, but tonight it was as clear as could be outside. Though I had been lucky in keeping my knee, the surgeries to reconstruct it had been tricky and numerous. Lots of scar tissue, fried nerve endings, infection. The phantom pain was chronic. Even though the cut was made above the zone of injury, sometimes I wondered whether it should have gone a few inches higher.

I was on a run to the store. We needed milk for the morning. “Kate, you’re in charge,” I had said, trying to give her a job, a sense of worth, a boost to her ego. I just wanted to see some light in her eyes. I just wanted to see her sweet smile. She gave me the thumbs-up, promised she wouldn’t let Olivia and Jake play with knives or fire. I was glad she still had her sense of humor.

I was sitting at a light, rubbing at my thigh, massaging the quadriceps, as I obsessed on my unhappy daughter, when a horn blared from behind me. My cell phone beeped in the same instant—an e-mail—and the jumble of noises shot me out of my skin. Anyone who’s been in a war zone stays a little jumpy, at least for a while. And sometimes forever. Way oversensitive to loud noises. Sights and smells, too, for that matter.

The light had turned green. Once I’d cleared the intersection, I pulled over and shifted into park, flexed my leg and opened my e-mail.

A Facebook message from Missy Fletcher. No way. Fifteen years. A lifetime ago. No way. I logged on and read the message.

I read her note over and over. Missy Fletcher, after all of these years. I knew we were “friends” on Facebook, but here was the thing: Missy never posted a darn thing.

Missy Fletcher—the coolest person in our school nobody ever got to know.

Before I dated Missy, I was with a girl named Whitney. Whitney’s goal in life—at least in high school—was to be
just right
. We’d meet outside the basketball stadium, but we couldn’t walk in until exactly halftime; otherwise, what would people think? She’d want me to buy her fries, but would only eat them if Sheila and Laura were around, girls who thought it was cool to binge and purge. If Marlene and Darlene (cheerleaders and identical twins) were around, she’d scowl at the fries in disdain. “Look at all that fat!” Whitney wasn’t dumb, I don’t think, but in her mind, it wasn’t cool to do homework or stand out in any way.

Missy didn’t give a thought to any of that kind of nonsense. She loved school, was a total brain, and wouldn’t even consider not doing her work to impress the Whitneys of the world. She chomped into food, and the sheer joy of eating was written all over her face. She read nearly a book a day, worked extra math problems for fun, and sometimes strolled through the Smithsonian on the weekend all by herself. I’d be away at baseball camp and then ask her what she had been up to. “There was a contemporary art exhibition at the Corcoran,” she’d say. As if it were totally normal to spend a Saturday doing that.

Missy was the most confident girl I ever knew. I told her that once and she nearly fell over laughing. “Me?!” She told me that she hated everything about herself, knew she was wrong in a thousand ways, but was helpless to change. One time she admitted she couldn’t believe that I liked her. I thought she was nuts, but later I saw that she really did have this crazily limited, restrictive view of herself and her potential.

We were getting ready to apply for colleges and Missy all of a sudden dug in her heels, saying that she wanted to stay in Alexandria, that she wanted us to keep dating. This was nuts, considering she had already aced the practice SAT and colleges were courting the hell out of her. She had a 4.0 GPA and had proven aptitude in math and science. The colleges were all over her, throwing scholarships at her like candy. Every now and then she talked to me about studying abroad or traveling through Europe. I even think she filled out the Peace Corps application, but never sent it in. Something stopped her. She worried with anxiety about everything. I think it affected her more than she knew. Growing up without a mom probably played into that apprehension, I would guess.

Of course, she had her father. Frank. God, that guy was one of a kind. He loved me in an entirely different way than my parents did. My parents were good but we were just getting by. Their goals were maintenance: keep the kids fed, the mortgage paid, and never miss Sunday Mass. But Frank . . . the guy would take me out to lunch—just the two of us, sometimes—and talk to me, ask my opinion about things: politics, sports, and the stock market. He made me feel like my thoughts mattered. He valued me. My dad was great in a lot of ways, but I never once had lunch with him alone.

Later that night, I logged on to Facebook and wrote Missy back:

Missy, has it really been fifteen years? I look at your profile picture and you look exactly the same to me. Then again, I still feel like the same guy I was in high school, but you’d never believe how far from the truth that is. I spent most of the past fifteen years in the Marines. I served three tours. Now I work for a government contractor. But all in all, I don’t have a reason to complain, not a reason for not being happy. I’m healthy and employed, and have three great kids. Katherine is thirteen, almost fourteen. Olivia is eleven, and Jake just turned nine. How are you and Frank doing?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day at Fletcher Financial, I entered my office, turned on my computer and the three screens, and headed to the kitchen to fill my mug with coffee. Once at my computer, I checked the markets, reviewed the portfolios’ returns, and scanned the to-do list. I opened the calendar, pondered the clients and the prep work needed for the meetings, and most importantly, penciled in a half hour for lunch. Then I checked e-mails.

“You have a message from Joseph Santelli.” I smiled, logging on to Facebook. I pulled up the message. It had come in late last night. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard the message alert on my phone until I found my phone dead in my purse.

Okay, then. A message from Joe.

I couldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to savor this moment. I sipped at my coffee. I needed a doughnut. I returned to the break room, found a leftover Krispy Kreme from yesterday’s breakfast meeting. I zapped it in the microwave, then returned to my office. I sat at my computer, clicked on the screen, and read the message.

I’d loved Joe more than anyone other than my father. I was glad to hear he was happy, and his joy inspired mine. Lucas wasn’t Joe, but Lucas was great, and he and I could build what Joe and his wife had made: a home, a family, a lifetime of memories.

I wrote Joe back. I told him about Fletcher Financial and how Dad was the same great guy and how everyone still loved him and how he still loved everyone. Then I told Joe about Dad’s forgetfulness, and how I wanted him to have a brain scan, and how Dad was resisting. “I just hope he’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for writing me back, Joe. It’s amazing to hear from you.”

The following weekend, Lucas came to dinner. I cooked him Italian. It took me most of the day, but I managed to master saltimbocca. And while I was keenly aware that Lucas would eat only a portion of this plateful of food, I did it anyway. I wanted my house to burst with the aromatic smells. I wanted him to understand my passion. All the while, I sipped from my glass of Barolo.

While I finished up the dinner preparations, Lucas sat at the counter, sipping water and watching me.

“In Italian,” I said, “saltimbocca means ‘to jump in the mouth.’” I cut a small piece of veal and prosciutto and jabbed it with a fork, then leaned over the counter toward Lucas. “Open up,” I said.

He took the bite, chewed. “That’s cool that you’re learning Italian.”

I was being a bully; I realized this. But I wanted to know: “So what do you think? Is the food so good it ‘jumps in your mouth’?”

“It’s the best saltimbocca I’ve ever had,” Lucas said.

I grimaced at his offhanded compliment. It was delicious, if I might have said so myself. During dinner, Lucas ate, but he didn’t devour. Tomorrow I would savor our leftovers in private, and enjoy it a thousand times more.

I gritted my teeth and fought every urge in my body not to hold this against him, because after all, he and I were the same—except for this one point. So he wasn’t a foodie. So he didn’t drool at the thought of salted caramel, or ravioli pillows stuffed with creamy goat cheese, or Merlot sliding down his throat.

He was so much like me—a safety guy happy to stay put, a risk-averse chap who believed that testing the waters or working outside of the box could only lead to problems. I poured and downed another glass of Barolo. If we were so much alike, why was it taking me a half bottle of wine to get through dinner?

When I was a teenager, I was obedient and good. I never once rebelled against my father. His guidance didn’t send me in the opposite direction. When he warned me not to cozy up with the boys too early, I listened. When other girls were pushing themselves into the arms of unsuitable boys just to spite their parents, I took Dad’s advice to heart. He knew what he was talking about. When Dad told me to listen to his cache of Dale Carnegie tapes, I did. When he suggested I learn tennis because “country club sports” were essential to business, I grabbed my racquet. When he advised me to buy near the water because real estate proximity would always matter, I put in an offer.

But now, at age thirty-five, it seemed I was at last experiencing rebellion. The steadier Lucas was, the more reckless I wanted to become. When he ordered water, I ordered wine—one glass typically would have been fine, but now I ordered two. When he spoke of the safety of staying within the contiguous fifty, I argued for the value of adventure, of experiencing different cultures, not just watching them on television. Even with our tax discussions, as he argued for toeing the line of prudence and staying way below the IRS’s radar, I argued that some techniques were lucrative enough to take the chance. The words coming from my mouth weren’t my own, but those of a mutinous teenager arguing for the sport of it.

Home alone, I rebelled in another fashion. I planned trips. I’d spend hours on Expedia charting flights and finding hotels. I would fill my virtual shopping cart with all of the requisite pieces to make for a fine excursion: the flight, the hotel, the cooking school. The guided tours, the visits to the churches. Boat rides down the rivers bisecting cities. With ten different windows open, I’d work until I was only a click away—one “Submit” button on each page—from booking a trip.

Then I’d click on Facebook and stare at Joe. I would trace my finger over the delicate lines that now fanned from his eyes. I would close my eyes and imagine what a great father he must be to his children, what a wonderful husband.

And then I would exhale, open my eyes, and—one at a time—close out of all the open pages. Who was I kidding?

Lucas washed dishes while I put the coffee on. Deliberately, I sliced a piece of tiramisu for him—larger than I knew he would want—and one for me.

When I handed it to him, he covered his belly and shook his head no. “I can’t eat another bite.”

“But it’s
tiramisu
,” I said. I detected my mean tone, like a bully goading a weaker kid. Still: How on earth could he turn down tiramisu?

“Save it,” he said. He stood up, slid his arms through mine, kissed my neck. “I’m hungry for
you
.”

I wiggled away. “I think we should eat dessert first.” I never picked a fight with anyone, but I was itching to kick Lucas for not wanting the tiramisu. I excavated a massive forkful of cake and crammed it in my mouth. Lucas took the plate from my hand, set it on the table, and then led me to the bedroom.

“But, wait . . .” I stuttered through my stuffed mouth.

“I don’t want to wait,” he said, laying me on the bed. He slipped off my flats, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, slid them down my legs. He lifted my shirt and planted hot kisses over my belly. I allowed the full weight of my head to sink into the soft, downy mattress. I closed my eyes and tried to focus, strained to conjure up an ounce of desire, but my mind had only two thoughts: the tiramisu melting in my mouth, and Joe. I pretended Lucas was Joe: his olive skin, the blade of his hip bone, our beachside cottage. If I focused deep enough, I could feel Joe’s lips, the terrain of his arms.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” Joe used to say. I wasn’t beautiful, I knew that, but at that moment, with my milky-white skin pushed up against his, the color of a perfect latte, I felt luminous.

My brain, my trusty ally, providing me with my faultless memory, remembering perfection.

And Lucas—so sweet, so adoring, yet so predictable. When I opened my eyes and looked at him—all the exotic tastes of Joe and tiramisu turned to boiled ham.

Later, Lucas fell fast asleep. I slipped from his grip and tiptoed into the kitchen, reclaimed the obscenely large wedge of cake, poured a cup of coffee still hot in the pot, and sat at my computer. I logged on to Facebook and stared at Joe’s photo. “I love you,” I whispered, and then exhumed another shovel of cake.
You would have loved this cake, Joe. You would have eaten it until you were sick. And I would have delighted in your gluttony.

He had messaged me back: “Missy, sorry to hear Frank’s gotten forgetful. Hard to believe he could ever age. I’m sure you’ll convince him to see a doctor. Please keep me posted. I’m thinking about the two of you.”

Following Thanksgiving break of our first year of college, Joe and I remained close. He’d given me my Christmas present early, a gold necklace with a seashell charm. We stood at his car, shivering, huddling together against the November wind, yet not wanting to leave the moment. We hugged and kissed and hugged some more. We stared into each other’s eyes, professed our love with Romeo-and-Juliet passion. I cried when Joe finally slid into the driver’s seat. When we said good-bye, I was sure that we’d be together forever. But only a few weeks later, Joe e-mailed that he wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas break; that the residential assistant for his dorm had to go home because of a family illness and had asked Joe if he would stay on campus and do his job. It was a good opportunity to make some money; also, an internship had opened up in the ROTC office and Joe had taken it.

Joe came home after Christmas—briefly, for just a day and a half. I saw him once before he was whisked away by his big family. He looked different to me. All he could talk about was the military, the Marines.
What about us?
I wanted to scream, but Joe’s intensity had transferred from his parochial life in Alexandria to a larger world in need of his services. He was a man on a mission, a guy with a goal, a world to save from tyranny.

By spring, our communication had almost stopped, but when I e-mailed him before Easter break, asking if he’d be coming home, he said no. I asked if I could come to Lexington, to see him, but he said it was against the rules, and besides, he had been handpicked to do research with the commandant of cadets.

Summer came, and although I was home at the end of May, Joe didn’t arrive until July, having decided to stay through June to finish up his research project. When we finally saw each other, he tried to act normally, as if we were still a couple, and I clung desperately to the hope that we were. But we were hardly ever alone, as if Joe had contrived our meetings around his family or my dad. As if he didn’t want to be with just me. When I finally orchestrated my own moment, sending Dad out to the store, I stood in front of him.