Why now? Why? Why could this not have happened back when she was in love with him? Why now, when she was over it, over him—over, over, over!
She listened to the message every day for a week. She couldn’t help herself. But she did not call back. Not talking to him was the only way to survive him.
Finally, it looked like he’d given up. No doubt, he was back with Rita May by now. She was relieved—and a little sad.
Voicemail, a week before Halloween:
“Hi, Lucy. I’m back from New Orleans. I did a little consulting but I’m not taking on the project. I ran afoul of an interior designer down there. It’s not the first time. She soundly reprimanded me for saying couch instead of sofa. I just can’t say sofa. A man starts using words like sofa, next thing you know, he’s drinking piña coladas and wearing sandals. Would you allow me to say couch, Lucy Mead?”
She laughed and laughed. Then she imagined what she would have said to him if she had been willing to call him back. We interior designers have to stick together. If we allow people to go around saying couch, the next thing we know, they’ll be decorating their pressed wood night stands with lava lamps and plastic flowers.
Maybe she could call. They were friends, sort of. At least they used to be and they had the same friend circle. She put her thumb on the call button.
Then she jerked it away. What was she thinking? No matter what she told herself, if she started talking to him, she would hope. And there wasn’t any hope.
Clearly, his persistence was only because of her refusal to talk to him. If only he wasn’t so funny.
Voicemail, a few days later:
“Lucy, Brantley again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. You can call me at work. (615) 298-2719. It doesn’t ring straight to me. Melba—my assistant—answers. She’s the one who really runs Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration. Just ask her. Anyway, tell her you want me dead or alive and she’ll put you through. That, or she’ll give me a message if I’m out. I’m going to play racquet ball tonight but if you get my voicemail, leave a message and tell me when would be a good time, and I’ll call you back. I don’t have a landline at home. I mean, why would I? Counting my phone at work, I’ve already got two numbers. Why would I need more phones than I’ve got ears? Anyway, bye. Call me.”
Text message, two days later:
Happy Halloween, Lucy Mead!
Voicemail, later that day, 4:30 P.M.:
“I’m just getting ready to leave work. I’ve got a whole bucketful of Snickers and M&Ms so I’m ready. I guess I should say packs of M&Ms. You can’t just give loose M&Ms to kids. Or homemade stuff. That’s against the rules. I told Lily—Lily cleans and fetches for me when it suits her—anyway, I told her she needed to make me some popcorn balls and she informed me that you couldn’t give popcorn balls for Trick or Treat. I told her I know that. They are for my own personal use. I might fire her if she doesn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve got plain and peanut M&Ms. I’m going to let them pick, which will take time, but will make me popular. Plus, I’ll give them a Snickers. Not one of those two bite Snickers, either—a whole Snickers. Those two bite candy bars are like airplane drinks. They give you a little plastic cup that’s gone before they move up the aisle. I want a whole Coke all to myself. I know why they don’t want you to have it. It’s because they don’t want you to go to the bathroom. Well, I’ve opened an inappropriate subject so I’ll leave it. Did you know that you can call the florist and they will carve you some Jack-O-Lanterns, bring them right to your front step, and then send you a bill? I am not dressing up for Halloween. When a grown man starts dressing up for Halloween, the next thing you know, he’s volunteering at the art museum and booking a tour of wine country. That can’t be me. But I think you should dress up. I know you already have the Richie Sambora outfit, but I’m not sure kids would know who that is. How about that harem girl from the Disney movie? Jasmine? That would be an attractive look for you.”
He hadn’t asked her to return the call this time. What did that mean? Did he just want to call and hold forth on the life and philosophy of Brantley Kincaid, as pertains to Halloween candy and airplane drinks? Like some oral history blog?
That night, per Missy’s direction, Lucy and the other book club girls dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland, with Missy as Alice, Tolly as the Queen of Hearts, Lanie as the Mad Hatter, and Lucy as the Cheshire Cat. Along with the spouses, they took the children Trick or Treating and then went back to Missy’s for chili and football watching. It was a loud fun chaotic night.
There was no reason to feel alone. But she did.
The Cheshire Cat was a far cry from Jasmine.
Brantley did not call again for a week.
Voice mail, a week after Halloween:
“Hey, Lucy. I got a dog. My golf buddy got a divorce, and started acting a little crazy. Then he got a girlfriend who was too young for him, as divorced, crazy-acting, golf buddies will do. This girl was not so young that she wasn’t legal but she had no sense. So she had acquired a dog as a fashion accessory. Except you can’t hang a dog on a peg like a hat, so I took the dog. It wasn’t hard. I told her if she didn’t give me that dog that I’d call her daddy and tell him she wasn’t staying in that fancy apartment he is paying for. I guess it never occurred to her that I don’t even know her daddy’s name, much less his phone number. Speaking of phone numbers, dial mine, why don’t you?”
Voicemail, the next day:
“Lucy, this is Brantley. I have faced that you apparently do not want to talk to me. I don’t really understand why, but I can take a hint—though it took me long enough. I thought we had a really nice time when I was in Merritt for the Follies. But maybe you’re seeing someone. I’ll be honest . . . if you’re not, I’d still like to hear from you.” He laughed a little. “Hell, I’d like to hear from you, anyway. I might be able to take you from him. But unless I hear from you, I won’t bother you again. I don’t want to turn into stalker man, though it may be too late for that. But cut me some slack, Lucy. I like you. Maybe you could just call and tell me you don’t want to talk to me. Or text me.”
But she couldn’t do that. To say she didn’t want to talk to him would be a lie and if she called, they’d end up talking and she’d end up—well, somewhere she could not be. So she didn’t call and that was that—what she had been trying to accomplish. It was for the best. She wondered if she really had heard the last of him, but when the days stretched to a week and then two, it was clear he had given up.
She wondered how close her voicemail box was to being full and how long she could save his messages.
At 7:05 A.M. two Saturdays before Thanksgiving, the ringing of Lucy’s cell phone woke her. Who could be calling this early on a weekend? A beep signaled that she had a voicemail. She reached for the phone to listen.
“Lucy Mead, I have decided that I am not really accepting of not hearing from you. I deserve to hear from you face to face that you don’t want to talk to me. Wait. I don’t. I don’t deserve that. But I want it and it feels like the same thing to me. So I am on my way to see you. I’ll call when I get there.”