Hadn’t Marty told her she’d always be the one for him? And hadn’t she secretly, foolishly believed him? That Marty would never find another girl like her and so would wait for Claire for the rest of his life, even if she married someone else. Even then, staring at her reflection in the washroom mirror, it occurred to her that, yes, she had, on some level, always assumed Marty was hers. And that if life with Walt didn’t pan out (had she suspected it even then?), Marty would always be available. How unfair of her, how presumptuous! How very selfish!
Especially when she was the one who’d broken things off. They’d dated for seven years—two in high school and four in college (Marty at UNH; Claire at Northeastern), plus a bonus year afterward. But somewhere along the way, Claire began to doubt their bond together. When he started tossing around words like marriage and family and kids, she could feel herself shrinking ever so slightly, Marty’s grasp feeling increasingly like a strangle. Because the truth was the life he was proposing didn’t particularly sound like the one she wanted—three kids, two vacations a year, life as a stay-at-home mom. For Claire, motherhood represented the last stepping stone toward full-fledged adulthood—a big white rock that would one day lead her to the solid shore of grown-upness.
A rock she wasn’t quite prepared for.
The more Marty pressed her about getting engaged, the more she distanced herself. When she fell into an editorial-assistant position at the Boston Globe, Claire felt her world expanding, a fledgling planet in full orbit for the first time. It was a chance to establish herself in the writing world, the place where she felt most comfortable, and perhaps to be with a few other men (Marty had been her first and only, which her girlfriends said made her either a hopeless romantic or a prude).
Then, one winter evening, after Marty got off his wait shift in Faneuil Hall, he grabbed her wrist a little too tightly, demanding, “If not now, then when, Claire? When can we get married?” Never one to respond to ultimatums, Claire decided then and there that they were through. “What?” he’d sputtered in disbelief. “What about our plans?”
As if he didn’t quite understand. As if they’d signed a binding contract, sealed in blood.
She shrugged off his question like bad poetry. “People change,” she said. “I don’t want this anymore.” And then, as if the pain she’d already inflicted hadn’t been enough, she added “I don’t want us anymore, Martin. Don’t you see?” She’d been so cruel, their breakup as clean as a fresh snap in the femur. But it was the only way to ensure her freedom, to become the journalist she so desperately wanted to be. Martin thought it would be okay if Claire wanted to go back to work part-time after they had kids, but Claire wasn’t about to let a man set the parameters of her career, her life.
So, onward.
When, a few weeks later at a conference in Providence, Walt appeared, Claire was easily charmed by the two tall yards of him, his generous wit. He was a grown-up, thoughtful and sensible in ways that Marty had never dreamed of, bringing Claire egg-noodle soup when she came down with a horrible case of strep. Compared to Walt’s mature gestures, Marty’s love-struck pleas seemed foolish and juvenile. A year and a half later, she and Walt were married.
And yet. If she’d realized how her relationship with Walt would evolve, one tied up more in practicality than passion, would she have still chosen him? And how ironic that Amber, her first, had been a honeymoon baby: all that worry about becoming a mother too soon with Marty had played out anyway—but with another man.
She stares at the house, giving herself a moment to gather her thoughts, and a soft laugh escapes her. What on earth is she doing here? There’s no point in driving circles around the man’s house, especially when it appears he’s already left for the day. Maybe, she thinks, she can come back later tonight. Or tomorrow.
The butterflies begin to settle in her stomach. She has a full week to find Martin, to see if she can set things right. There’s no need to rush. After all, there’s an entire list of places to visit and things to do while she’s in town, a list that she now pulls up on her phone:
Visit the MFA.
Eat a cannoli from Mike’s Pastry.
Have dinner in the North End.
Walk along the Greenway.
Visit the aquarium.
Get a massage.
Enjoy a cocktail.
And, of course: See Marty.
* * *
If she heads back to the hotel right now, maybe she can book a massage appointment and relax by the pool. Already the car thermometer reads seventy-five degrees, and when she’d traipsed by the pool earlier this morning, where a dozen or so older women were vigorously performing water aerobics in the shallow end, it struck her as the perfect place to sip margaritas. On impulse, she digs in her purse for a pen and her notepad before she begins to write:
Hello, Marty! Surprise! I hope you won’t mind my leaving a note, but I’m in Boston. For the week. Would love to catch up. Call me. I’m staying at the Seafarer. Yours, Claire
She adds her cell phone number in a postscript, then folds the note over and scribbles his name on the front. Before she loses her nerve, she hops out of the car and aims for the black mailbox sitting at the bottom of the driveway. In the note goes, her heart pounding as she hurries back to the Subaru.
She shifts the car into gear and sets out in search of a Starbucks and, more specifically, a chai latte. It’s comforting to think that no one will judge her today, that there’s no need to worry if she has misstepped or said something out of line. Which, when it comes right down to it, is largely what her life has become these last few weeks.
Not once does she notice the black sedan trailing her, about two blocks behind.
FOUR
“What’s with you lately? It’s like you’re mad at the world,” Gwen says.
Jason stares across the table at his girlfriend and tries to decide how best to answer. It’s Tuesday, the 8th of June, and the events of the next four days (e.g., that a woman will come crashing down at the hotel where they’re staying) aren’t even a flicker in his thoughts. Jason can hardly read his girlfriend’s moods, let alone the future.
Does Gwen want to start an argument, or is she inquiring in a concerned, caring way? Some days it’s hard to tell. Just because he changed his order twice and then reprimanded the waiter for bringing him nachos instead of the shrimp cocktail doesn’t mean that he’s mad at the world, does it? Maybe a little annoyed with their waiter, but mad at the world? That seems unduly harsh. Maybe he’s still trying to get his head around the fact that his girlfriend has spent a small fortune on his thirty-third birthday present—four nights at the Seafarer Hotel—and frankly, he’s not sure he deserves it.
“I thought you could take a few days off now that the semester is over,” she’d said as she rolled over on top of him this morning, the bedsheets twisting around her body in a seductive bow. “Your dissertation can wait. Check-in time is at one o’clock this afternoon.”