The Idea of Love (11 page)

He was early. She wiped at her face but he was at her side before she could hide the tears.

“Hey,” he said. “I thought I'd come check this place out before you got here but you beat me.”

She looked up at him and smiled, readjusted her sunglasses. “Hey.”

He sat down next to her and took off his sunglasses. “You've been crying. Are you okay?”

His question, one no one had asked her in so long, set the tears loose again. She remembered a time, a long, long time ago, when she'd fallen off her bike, scraped her knees and face on the pavement. She'd been so brave in front of her friends, jumping back onto the bike and pedaling home, but as soon as her mom came into the kitchen and saw the blood and scrapes she'd gasped, “Oh, Ella-bunny, are you okay?” And Ella had busted out sobbing so hard and wretched that she almost threw up. And this, right then, with Hunter gently asking her if she was okay, felt the same. There was nothing to do to stop the tears. Nothing.

She dropped her head onto his shoulder. This was ridiculous. She had to get a hold of herself. But she couldn't. She didn't. He patted her back, making small noises that sounded like clicking. His shirt, it was wet where her face was buried into the soft fabric.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

The question wasn't funny, not one bit, but it hit Ella the wrong way—sideways, where sadness flipped to hysteria. She started laughing. “Happen?” she asked, and leaned back to wipe her face, try to cover her tears.

“Is that funny?”

She shook her head and tried to stop the cry-laugh combo. “No. Not funny at all.”

Hunter looked around. Ella thought he must have been planning an escape. She was obviously loony.

Then it happened again—the lie coming so easily, so quickly, brisk in its alacrity. “This was where my husband and I came when we wanted to be alone and away from all the hustle of Watersend. This was … our spot. I shouldn't have told you I'd meet you here … I wasn't thinking.”

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry.” Hunter placed his hand on her knee, squeezed it with compassion, or what she thought was compassion.

“Thanks,” she said. “I'm so sorry you have to see me like this. I don't even know you.”

There were, as she'd discovered, myriad ways to distract yourself from a broken heart, but none that worked. So why not try this? Lying to this man about her love life was as close as she'd come to feeling better in a long, long time.

*   *   *

He didn't have to figure out how to bring up her love story; it was soaking there in tears on his shirt. He walked right into it as if by magic.

“I don't think I'll ever love anyone again. Ever.”

“You will,” he said. “I know it doesn't feel like it now, but…”

“No. It won't happen again. He was the only one.”

“The only one,” Blake repeated. If he could ransack the story from this woman, if he could get to the gold of this tale, he would call it
The Only One.

“Why here?” he asked. “Why did you two always come here?”

Ella dropped her head onto his shoulder again. It was nice the way she did this, placed her head on him to rest. His hand went to her hair without any thought.

“It's quiet. See?” She pointed and then waved her hand. “It's a full panorama here. You can see forever. Over there is the Oyster Company. We used to get fresh oysters on the boat and then roast them in the backyard with friends. Over there—” She pointed to the right. “That leads to the sandbar where we'd anchor. Friends would join us and we'd drink warm beer. We'd stay until the tide rolled in and there was nothing left to sit on. The water would take whatever remained on the sandbar. I bet there are a thousand coolers floating through this river.” She laughed. Or maybe it was the start of tears again.

“Where are those friends now? Have they been a help at all since he…”

“Died.”

“Yes,” he said.

“No. Of course they were all there for the funeral and the memorial. They were there at the beginning, bringing food and fancy cards and all that, but not since. A couple of them have called to say hello or dropped an e-mail to say ‘thinking of you.'”

“That's it?”

“It's a couple's world out there.”

“A couple's world.” Blake needed to remember that phrase.

“Yes,” she said. “That's how it feels. The Morrisons' dinner party. The Yanceys' boat round up. Game night…” She lifted her head and ran her fingers through her hair. Her hand caught in a tangle and she absently worked her fingers through it while she talked. “It's not that they don't want me around. At least I hope that's not it. It's more like they just forget. They forget that I'm still here because he's not. So when he left, in many ways, he took me with him.”

“I know. I've been through divorce,” he said. “Friends divide. They say they aren't choosing one over the other, but they always are. They can't help it.”

Ella lifted her sunglasses and wiped under her eyes, clearing her face with that smile of hers. “Okay, enough about that. I'm sorry.” She jumped up. “Come on. I'll show you around. I know that you have to get back to L.A. today, right? Or is it tomorrow?”

“I've changed it till tomorrow.”

“Great. Let's go.”

Her countenance changed that quickly. Her face lit up and she shook out her hair. She wore another one of those little flowered sundresses. Or maybe it was the same one. This dress hinted at the body underneath, enough for him to make an adequate guess.

“Where do you want to go first?” she asked.

“You decide.”

“Well, really it matters more what you want to write about. I mean, I'm guessing each town gets only a couple of pages or something. So what's most important?”

“Today isn't about that. Today I'm just here to enjoy. Okay?”

“Farmer's market first,” she said. “Then we can stop in any of the shops you want.”

The street was blocked off with orange traffic cones and streamers announcing the local vendors. The crowd was light, and everyone carried more than one brown paper bag of produce. Blake stayed at Ella's side and they picked out tomatoes and green onions, ate kettle popcorn, and drank hand-squeezed lemonade. A banjo player played a song Ella seemed to love, one he'd never heard, called “Down to the River to Pray.” She dropped a five-dollar bill in his case. She waved to a couple of people but never stopped to talk or even say their names. It was nice, this peaceful afternoon. Blake wanted to film it, construct a montage of the bright red tents and silver-white corn stacked in rows, the puddles at the edge of the sidewalk with white petals floating like miniature lily pads. Ella. Most of all he wanted to film her. The way she moved. The way she'd look over her shoulder. The way she'd smile.

The thunderstorm came without warning. There must have been a few black clouds or a breeze that smelled of electricity, but he hadn't noticed. Now he knows that he was only seeing Ella, the way her dress moved around her hidden body, how her hair lifted and settled with the breeze. How her shoulders pulled forward slightly so that her collarbone formed the loveliest little space at the base of her neck. These were the details he gathered.

They ran from the thunderstorm, ducking into an art gallery. Lightning tousled the clouds without reaching down to earth. “My God, where'd that come from?” he asked.

“That's how it is around here,” she said, shaking her wet hair.

Blake looked around at the gallery full of folk art: a mermaid made of shells and driftwood on metal; a sunset painted on warped wood; puppets carved from coconuts and a vivid watermelon on canvas. But the thunderstorm was the real show, and Ella and Blake stared out the front door at the leaves trembling in the slanted rain, the spiderwebs catching the drops and holding them, the Spanish moss dropping in clumps from the wind.

“See?” she said. “You just don't know when life will catch you unaware.”

Blake lifted his arm and dropped it onto her shoulder. He pulled her close to him before he even knew what he'd done. Ella went stiff and he dropped his arm.

This was the definition of an awkward moment.

Blake faltered. “How long do you think the storm will last?” Dear God. That was the best line he had? Next he'd be asking, “Are your people from around here?”

Ella pulled out her cell phone. “Let me check the radar. I have this app.…” She stopped talking midsentence, covered the phone with her hand but not before Blake saw the word “hubby” on the screen.

She looked up to him and opened her mouth, and then looked away. “That's really embarrassing,” she said.

Blake held his breath. She was remarried? Already? It wasn't true about one true love and never loving again? His mind circled—a spiral with crazy side trips. Thunder sounded far away and then close, a double clap of dueling storms. “Hubby?” he asked.

“Yes.” She spoke so softly, a hint of speaking.

“I don't understand. How could he show up on your screen?”

“The thing is,” she said, “sometimes I call his old number to hear his voice on the answering machine. I didn't know they'd given his number to someone new already and when I called today, they called back wanting to know why I called—” She trailed off.

“Oh.”

“It's embarrassing. But it's all I have left of him—his voice. And now, not even that. I don't want to talk about it,” she said.

“Okay, so what do you want to do? You pick. Anything,” he said.

“A movie,” she said. “They have a theater here, the one I was telling you about. And during the afternoon they play favorites that aren't in the theater anymore. Dollar-movie day.”

He smiled. Could this get any better?

*   *   *

She had to stop with the lies. Now. Hunter knew enough about her to find out who she really was, who Sims was and continued to be. It wasn't hard these days what with Google and Facebook. What if Hunter visited the marina? That alone would make her out to be a liar. It was time to end this charade. Maybe she'd just flat out tell him. Just rip off the deceit Band-Aid and tell him.

A movie was a great idea. No talking. And that meant no lying. And what was she doing with this guy anyway? Surely she could find other distractions. But a movie? Now there was a great distraction.

They sat side by side with a tub of buttered popcorn between them.

“Don't you love this movie? I mean, have you even seen it?” she asked.

“Yes, I've seen it,” he said.

“Do you like it?”

“I do like it, but I've seen it more times than I can count.”

“Well, once more won't kill you. The storm will be gone by the time we get out.” Ella settled back in her chair, pried open the Milk Duds, and settled in for
The Mess of Love
. “And then we'll finish our tour before you have to leave tomorrow.”

It was the perfect romantic comedy. At least that's what it had been praised as for the last ten years. It had made the “Best of the Year” lists when it came out. Unrivaled. Yet Hunter seemed bored, checking his cell phone and leaving twice for the bathroom.

She glanced at him during a funny bit about the best friend mixing up the boyfriends and Ella saw him mouthing the words, a soundless narrative. She leaned closer and whispered, “You sure know a lot about this movie for not liking it very much.”

Hunter took another handful of popcorn. “I've seen it a bunch of times,” he mumbled.

Then it ended with a long street, shimmery gas lanterns creating a circle of light where the characters meet and kiss in front of a theater marquee. They live happily ever after, frozen on film. Still Ella and Hunter sat there, taking turns reaching into the popcorn bucket. Onscreen, the outtakes scrolled: the actors flubbing their lines; the actress tripping on her dress; the dog peeing on the set and the kids running and screaming. The credits rolled by on the split screen, also.

“I love seeing the mess-ups,” Ella said. “It makes the movie more fun to see.”

Hunter shrugged. “I think it takes away from the fantasy that was just shown. Who wants to know that the actors are someone other than who they just played? Who wants to see them as real people?”

“I do,” she said. “Most people do, I think. It's fun to know. It's like a secret peek behind the curtain.”

Hunter made a small noise, like a cough, and stood up. Ella placed her hand on his arm. “One more minute.”

“Okay.”

“And look at these jobs rolling by, Hunter. It's kind of funny. The credits go on forever. Do they have to mention anyone and everyone who ever, even for a minute, had anything to do with the movie? Like the guy who once brought you a sandwich?”

“What do you mean?”

Ella pointed at the screen where the actress was ruining a scene with laughter and names scrolled on the left side. “There. I mean, what is a ‘best boy'?”

“The assistant to the gaffer,” Hunter said.

“And what's a gaffer? It's like a secret language for movie makers.”

“A gaffer is the guy who is in charge of the electrical department.”

“Or woman, right? Gaffer—it sounds like the guy in charge of killing someone who mucked up their lines.”

Hunter laughed and shook his head. “The name comes from the men in England who used to carry a gaff to turn the lights on.”

“You sure know a lot about movies,” she said.

“Kind of mandatory when you live in L.A.,” he said, and shrugged. “Let's go. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ella took one last glance at the screen. “And a ‘key grip.' What is that?”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the aisle. “I have no idea.”

On the way out, Ella dumped the dregs of the popcorn into a trash can. “You know,” she said, “the movie has a perfect ending, but it's never like that in real life. No one waits under the marquee.” She pointed upward at the theater sign. “You know, for that huge moment. Love isn't so dramatic like that. Grand gestures.” She spread her arms wide and ran to the gas lantern, stood underneath it. “They don't really happen.”