The One That Got Away (7 page)

“So hire an architecture student from UT, and pay them twelve bucks an hour for twenty hours a week. You got a good fee on this project, you should be able to afford an intern. And then you'll be able to come visit me. And maybe you'll even get some sleep. You made yourself sick when you were finishing up Clementine; I don't want you to put yourself through that again. Find someone to help.”

“That's not the only thing, though.” I try to think of how to explain it so he'll understand. “I'm just scared to give up control, especially since it's a new project and a new client…. I'd have a hard time finding things for them to do that were unimportant enough that they could screw up.”

He sighs, clearly trying to hold on to his patience. “There's got to be something they can do. Running errands, whatever. Anything will make a difference. Believe me, the business will not collapse around your ears if you're out of the country for a week.”

“Maybe,” I concede, but I'm unconvinced.

“Ree, I'm serious. I know this is your career, but it's our relationship, too. It's insane to think of going four months without seeing each other. I mean, if I'd known this project was going to keep you from visiting…”

“If you had known that, then what?”

He sighs. “Nothing.” But whatever the unspoken words were, I don't think I like them.

“Well, you could always come here,” I say. I know what the answer will be, but he needs to remember that this separation is mostly at his account.

“You know I can't.”

“So why is it so hard for you to understand how committed I am here?” I flare.

“You are not seriously comparing a house renovation to an international corporate merger.”

What?
“I am comparing how important my career is to me to how important yours is to you. And it's not fair to patronize me because you're upset about this!”

“I'm not patronizing you, I'm being FACTUAL,” he insists, voice rising. He huffs another irritated breath, then continues in a softer tone. “Please promise me you will find the time.”

Still stinging from the comment about my “house renovation,” I am disinclined to promise him anything. So I tell him I will do my best. Even though I know he hates that phrase.

I feel incomplete and out of sorts for the next few days, until our next Skype call, when the familiar glow rises inside me at the sight of his crinkle-eyed smile. He apologizes, and so do I. And I mean it. But the one thing I don't do is change my mind.

“Oh, honey, those are the ones. Those are some bona fide shitkickers right there.” John is studying me, arms crossed in the universal pose of evaluation, as I pace back and forth in front of the mirror in my seventh pair of cowboy boots. He decided that the first thing he wanted to do on his visit to Austin was buy each of us a new pair of boots, so, for the last hour, we have been meandering up and down the narrow leather-scented aisles of Allens, pulling boots off the shelves and testing them out. Of course, he found a pair he liked almost immediately, so mostly we've just been debating which of the pairs I've tried on so far is our favorite.

We are also killing time until the construction workers leave Eamon's job site so I can give him a tour without getting in anybody's way—or pissing anybody off. Contractors are deeply territorial creatures, as I discovered a few years before, when I unwisely brought John to check out the Albion site while Joe Martinez was there. Only had to make that mistake once.

I do a little demi-turn in front of the mirror, admiring the glossy sheen of the black-cherry leather. This pair has little gold brackets over the toe and heel—I like the badassiness of that detail.

“Yeah, I think these might be the winners,” I say.

John rubs his hands together gleefully. “Alrighty, now how about a hat?”

“John! I'm going to look like Western Barbie! Let's just stick with boots.”

“I meant for me,” he says. “The boys are going to be
so jealous
.”

“The boys” are his bandmates in his bluegrass band, the Pickers. There's a guitarist, a fiddler, a banjo player, and a mandolinist; John plays steel guitar and sings. My mother used to love to sit in with them and sing harmony, until she got too sick.

The opening notes of AC/DC's “Back in Black” roar from my handbag. It was a toss-up between that and the approaching-shark chords of
Jaws
for Eamon's signature ringtone (I enjoyed the aquatic reference), but the sheer aggressiveness of “Back in Black” won out in the end. It's been three months since he moved back to Austin, during which I have seen him or spoken to him almost every day. Even during my visit with Noah in Buenos Aires in May, I was fielding emails from Eamon while Noah was at work. We've been spending hours together, visiting showrooms, shopping for materials, and reviewing the construction progress at the weekly site meetings with Joe.

Contrary to what I'd hoped, my attraction to him has not diminished with familiarity—it's gotten stronger. And lately, I've been catching myself being short-tempered with him. Punishing him. As if it's his fault that my body temperature climbs every time I'm around him. Next week he is leaving on a work trip for six weeks—filming segments with the top American swimmers as they prepare for the national and, if they qualify, the world championships. I am eagerly anticipating the month and a half of peace of mind.

“Whatcha doing?” he says when I answer the phone. “Are you
over at the house?” He'd sounded flattered when I asked his permission to bring John by the work site. And, I was surprised to note, genuinely interested to hear what John would have to say.

When I explain where we are, his voice brightens. “Oh cool! I haven't been to Allens since I've been back in town. Maybe I'll swing over and say hi.”

Shit. I'd forgotten that he lives three minutes from here. “Oh. Ah, okay,” I say. “We'll be with the hats.” It is far from the most gracious invitation I've ever issued, but the last thing I need is Eamon worming his way into my personal time. Especially because I suspect John is going to absolutely love him. He called me, the day after I told him I got the job, and proceeded to read me the entire contents of Eamon's Wikipedia entry. “Ree-Ree, did you know he won
five
medals last year? After breaking
thirteen
bones in a car crash? It says the only silver medal he got was when some other guy took too long on his leg of the relay!”

Oh, yes. I knew.

John is sporting a curly-brimmed brown felt Stetson when I catch up to him. With his creased, weather-scuffed skin and bristly white stubble, he looks every inch the rugged cowboy.

“Very nice,” I tell him.

He turns his head to the side, scowls at himself in the mirror. “You think?” He cocks his jaw like a tough guy.

“I do. Oh, Eamon's going to stop by,” I add. “I hope you don't mind. I mentioned we were here and he sort of invited himself over. He lives around the corner.”

“Why would I mind? That's great!” He picks up a straw hat with a silver concha buckle on the front. “Hey, try this one on.”

Shaking my head, I oblige him. He vetoes it and insists I try another, then another. Consequently I am kitted out like a rodeo contestant when Eamon walks into the store.

“Howdy, cowgirl,” he says, giving me an amused once-over.

I tip my hat at him. “Howdy, yourself.”

“Hi there! John Kurzweil,” booms my stepdad, holding out his hand.

“Eamon Roy. I'm pleased to meet you, sir—that's a fine girl you raised there.”

John beams. The fastest way to his heart is to compliment me. “All the credit goes to her mama. But it's a fine boy your folks raised, too, I hear.”

My face burns as Eamon's eyebrows skip upward; he's going to think I've been singing his praises to my stepdad like a lovesick little girl.

“John's addicted to Google,” I interject, and Eamon taps his temple in understanding.

“Ah. Well, thank you, that's kind of you. So what have you guys been finding? Anything good?”

John proudly points out our selections.

“Nice,” Eamon says. “I love this place. I always wanted a pair of black lizard-skin boots, but I didn't feel badass enough to pull it off.”

“We saw a pair like that, didn't we, Ree-Ree?” says John.

Eamon gives a delighted, boyish smile. “Really? Where?”

A minute later, he is kicking out of his gray suede Pumas so he can try on the boots. Balancing with one hand on the shelf, he wiggles one foot, then the other, into the boots and pulls his jeans down over them.

He shoots us a grin. “Well? What's the verdict?”

“Badass,” says John.

I give him a carefully unenthusiastic thumbs-up. They look great on him. Everything looks great on him.

“Mahler, you are a terrible influence on me,” he says as we line up at the cash register. “Every time I'm around you, you're making me spend money.”

“Those were your explicit instructions,” I remind him.

When we step out of the store into the sunlight, the heat hits like someone has opened the door to an oven.

“Damn, kid, I don't know how you do it,” says John, wiping his forehead with his ratty bandanna. “It's hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch out here.” I've got to talk him out of visiting at the height of summer next year. I crank the A/C in the Honda, but it's barely begun to cool down by the time we pull into the driveway at the job site; I can feel sweat beading between my breasts and on my lower back.

Esteban, Joe's foreman, is just locking up the house when we arrive. He looks at me inquiringly.

“Hey, Esteban,” I say to him in Spanish. “Don't worry about staying, we're just going to take a walk through.”

“Who's that guy?” he asks, nodding at John. “Inspector?”

“My stepfather,” I explain. “Don't tell Joe, okay?”

He winks. “You got it.”

Once, not long after Noah and I had started dating, I was complaining about receiving only blank, confused stares when I tried to communicate with the Spanish-speaking construction workers. “It would be good for you to learn Spanish,” he said. “It's not a hard language. I'll help you.” He went out the next day and bought a set of language CDs. And, true to his word, he was a patient tutor, tirelessly quizzing me with flash cards and correcting my pronunciation. The first time I came home from work and announced that I had understood an entire extended conversation between two tile installers, he glowed with pride. “Look at that, my girl is bilingual!” he said, and kissed me.

“They've been calling me La Güera,” I complained.

“Yeah,” he said, tapping the end of my nose, “I bet they have.”

Since then, I've had cause to be grateful for the skill almost
every day I've been on the job. Grateful to Noah. And, as always, grateful
for
him.

“Wow, honey,” says John when he steps into the great room of the house. “This is gonna be something else. You lucked out, my friend,” he adds, nudging Eamon with his elbow.

I can feel myself beaming. I already knew the house was going to be fantastic, but it still means a lot to hear John's praise. I pull out the samples of all the materials we've chosen so far: fudgy wide-plank walnut flooring, pale gray lacquer kitchen cabinets, poured concrete for the counters, smoky blue handmade glass tiles for the backsplash. I chose the palette carefully, wanting it to be sophisticated and appropriate for a man, but not so masculine that it would feel oppressive to whatever Cowboys dancer or
Sports Illustrated
model Eamon eventually marries. Although, so far, there hasn't been so much as a hint of a girlfriend. I would have noticed.

John is unexpectedly subdued as we say goodbye to Eamon and drive back to my house. When we pull into the driveway, he is still staring out the passenger-side window.

“Well, so what do you think?” I'm not fishing for compliments; he will tell me negative observations just as readily as positive ones. I've always learned even more from those.

When he turns to me his cheeks are trembling, and his blue eyes are glossy with tears. “Your mama would be so proud of you.”

As I hug his reassuringly burly frame I think, not for the first time, how much harder it's been for him than for me. Missing her. For me, moving to Austin after college was like amputating a crushed and dying limb: a clean, surgical break with my life in Virginia. But John has been pacing the same floors, and listening to rain drum the tin roof of the same empty house, for ten years. Surrounded by all those artifacts of the life that used to be theirs together, the things she used to touch every day. Sleeping in the
bed he used to share with her and looking at her blank pillow, night after night. He's dated a few people over the years, the longest lasting a couple of years, but it was always kind of halfhearted. Inevitably his lady friends figured out which way the wind was blowing.

“Let's go inside,” I say after a moment. “I'm starving.”

He chuckles, as I knew he would. One of my more colorful childhood nicknames, due to my disproportionate capacity for food, was Gaping Maw. From the smile tickling his lips, I can see that the wave of sadness has receded. Until next time.

If my mother's guilty television pleasure was daytime soap operas, John's is Tim Gunn. He doesn't have cable at home, so whenever he comes to visit me he works his way through an entire season's worth of
Project Runway
, consumed in four-hour increments over the three or four days he's here. Though the actual craft of clothing design is unfamiliar to him, he appreciates the skill that goes into it, and the ingenuity of the designers. And he treasures Tim's trademark combination of paternal doting and blunt critique.

We are three episodes in, sprawled out on the couch with a single ice-cold slice of pizza staring us down. After the opening credits roll, Heidi Klum struts onto the runway in a short sequined number that Noah would absolutely love. When I say so, John looks skeptical.

“Doesn't look like your sort of thing, honey.” He reaches for the slice of pizza and takes a contemplative bite. “Speaking of Mr. Harlow, how was your visit down there?”

“It was wonderful,” I say. Though I know he was still upset by my decision not to visit later in the summer, Noah had clearly decided to let it go, and to make the most of the time we did have. He cut back on his hours in the office as much as he could, and we had a glorious week's worth of long late-night dinners, heavenly steak, and Malbec. One of these days he'll have no choice but to
abandon his pet project of teaching me to differentiate between varietals, but after spending two solid weeks this year guzzling Argentinian wine, I feel
exceedingly
confident about Malbec.

“Did you get to climb around on that blue glacier like you wanted?”

I pick at a tuft of Newman's hair that's embedded itself in the sofa cushion. “Well, no…Noah had to work every day, so we couldn't get down to Patagonia….”

John grunts. “Seems like a waste of life.”

“He doesn't have a choice. And besides, he likes his job,” I add, although this is not strictly true. Noah likes the intellectual challenge, and the status, and the salary, but the actual work itself often depends on obsession with infuriatingly picayune details. His talent lies in generating the abstract concepts that establish how a transaction gets structured, not arguing with the other side's lawyers about whether a sentence in the offering document needs a colon or a semicolon.

“Well, then, that's something. Is he going to keep having to go back down there?”

“Yeah, probably a couple of times a year. But he won't have to do anything like this again.”

John crosses his arms over his chest. “Good. Just as long as you don't call me up a year from now and tell me you're moving to Argentina. I want to be able to see my grandkids more than once a year.”

The worn cotton of his shirt is soft under my fingers when I squeeze his shoulder. Everyone else's outbursts of nosiness regarding Noah's and my future seem to revolve around getting us hitched; John has proceeded directly to grandkids. “You will, I promise. Maybe I should ship them off to you for the summers instead of sending them to camp.”

This doesn't scare him; he'd like nothing better. I'm not sure
how Noah would feel about his children spending a quarter of the year in the deepest heart of Appalachia, though.