“No,” Kelley says. “He’s not.”
“George barely knew Bart. Who was Bart to George but a pesky kid, the one always getting in trouble until you shipped him off.”
“Mitzi,” Kelley says. It has only taken them three minutes together to get sucked into their same old arguments. “I did not ship Bart off. He wanted to go.”
Mitzi says, “I know, sorry. That wasn’t my point. My point was that George can’t relate to my feelings. He’s out to lunch with another woman because he’s sick of me.”
Kelley says, “So you went out drinking?”
“Drinking helps,” Mitzi says.
“There has to be something else that helps other than poison,” Kelley says.
Mitzi gives him half a smile. “Being with you helps.”
She is only here for the weekend, Kelley tells himself. This isn’t permanent. This isn’t real.
Except she is only too real, sitting in the passenger seat next to him, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. She pulls down the visor to look at herself in the mirror, and she fruitlessly tries to tuck her curls under her hat. This tiny gesture pierces Kelley’s heart. He doesn’t want to love her; he doesn’t want to find her attractive-but he’s helpless. The entire car now smells like her.
He reaches out and puts his hand on her leg, thinking she’ll most definitely rebuff him. But instead, she covers his hand with her hand.
The next thing Kelley knows, he and Mitzi are sneaking in the back door of the inn and hurrying down the hall to Kelley’s bedroom-which, for nineteen years, was their bedroom. Once the door is closed, Kelley and Mitzi start madly kissing, kissing like they haven’t kissed in years and years. Kissing so intensely that they fall back on the bed, and then Mitzi takes off her shirt, and Kelley thinks, Are we really going to do this? It’s not a good idea, not in any respect, it will only confuse them both when things are so confusing anyway, but he can’t seem to tear himself away. He cannot take his hands or his mouth off her.
They make love, fast and furiously, like somehow their lovemaking might be the thing missing, the thing that will save Bart.
Afterward, they both lie on their backs, breathing heavily.
Does he feel better? Physically, yes, definitely! But emotionally? No, not really. He doesn’t want a weekend fling with Mitzi, or Margaret, or anyone else. He wants his wife back.
He reaches over and cups her chin. “Did the alcohol cloud your judgment?”
“I only had a few glasses of wine,” she says. “But it was on an empty stomach and I was upset about George, and then D-Day asked about Bart and I started to cry. Do you remember when D-Day and Bart were in Little League together and D-Day hit Bart with that pitch?”
“I do, actually, now that you mention it,” Kelley says. This is only half a lie. Kelley doesn’t remember D-Day throwing the pitch but he does remember Bart getting hit as a ten-year-old. He remembers Mitzi freaking out and running onto the diamond and shrieking for an ambulance. Not an ice pack, an ambulance. She has always been that kind of mother. Surely George realizes this? How can George reasonably expect Mitzi to accept that her son has been taken hostage by a force as allegedly brutal as the Bely?
Mitzi buttons her blouse and sits up. “I should go,” she says. “I need lunch. I haven’t eaten all day.”
Kelley swings his feet to the floor. The sex has left him light-headed; it’s been a while. “Come to the kitchen,” he says. “I’ll make you lunch.”
“You don’t have to,” she says.
“I want to,” he says.
It’s both comfortable and awkward, having Mitzi back in their kitchen. She leans against the counter with her arms folded across her chest while Kelley makes ham and Swiss sandwiches on Something Natural pumpernickel bread-lettuce and tomato for Kelley, just lettuce for Mitzi, spicy mustard for Kelley, a ludicrous amount of mayo for Mitzi.
He says, “Do you eat potato chips these days?”
“Bring on the potato chips,” she says.
“How about some lemon-ginger tea?”
“I’d love some,” she says.
He still has the box of tea bags, even though a thousand times this year he has looked at it and thought, Throw it out. It’s Mitzi’s tea.
He puts the kettle on.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to do all day,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” she says. “Something other than what we just did?”
He pulls a pack of cards from the utility drawer. “I’ve been wanting to play cribbage,” he says. “Will you play with me?”
“I’d love to,” she says.
AVA
There’s a knock at the front door of the inn. It’s the delivery man from Flowers on Chestnut with a delectable holiday arrangement: fat red roses, white amaryllis, pine cones, holly berries, and evergreen branches.
“Oh!” Ava says. “Thank you!” She accepts the flowers and checks for a card. Sometimes flowers arrive for guests of the inn, but Ava figures these are probably in honor of Genevieve’s baptism.
The card has Ava’s name on it.
Scott, of course.
Ava carries the flowers to her bedroom. The more generous thing would be to leave the flowers on the coffee table for everyone at the inn to enjoy, but they’re so gorgeous and they have such a deep, rich fir smell that Ava wants them for herself. They’re from her boyfriend, the kindest, most thoughtful man in the world, who wanted Ava to know he was thinking of her, despite being at the bedside of Roxanne Oliveria.
The flowers also help banish any lingering thoughts she has about Nathaniel. In the two years of their dating, Nathaniel never once gave Ava flowers-not on her birthday, not on Valentine’s Day, not on their anniversary.
Once in her room with the door closed and the flowers placed on her dresser where they are reflected in her mirror, Ava opens the card. Her mirror already holds half a dozen flowers cards from Scott-Happy one week of dating, Happy Last Day of School, To the most beautiful music teacher in the world, I love you, Ava.
This card says: I can’t stop thinking about you. Nathaniel.
Ava falls back onto her bed.
“No way,” she says.
MITZI
For an hour or two, she feels like any other living, breathing woman.
It has been so long, nearly a year.
She and Kelley finish their game of cribbage-Kelley wins, as he always does-and Mitzi spins her mug on the table. There’s half an inch of cold tea in the bottom; she doesn’t want to finish it because she doesn’t want the afternoon to end.
“I should go,” she says. “George will be wondering where I am.”
“Will he?” Kelley asks.
Mitzi checks her cell phone. There aren’t any texts from George, no missed calls. Could he still be with that woman? Has Mitzi really been thrown over for a carbon copy of George’s ex-wife?
Maybe she has. She finds she doesn’t care. Being with Kelley has set her free in a way. She is free from carrying the burden of Bart by herself. Kelley shares it with her. Even though they haven’t specifically talked about Mitzi’s recurring nightmares-ISIS, the beheadings, the pilot on fire in the cage, her baby boy, their baby boy being the next victim-she feels lighter with Kelley next to her.
“Truthfully?” she says. “I don’t want to go back.”
Kelley nods slowly. She can see his mind at work, and she knows she’s being unfair. Kelley is a man whose feelings she hurt, whose heart she broke, whose pride she wounded. That she is unhappy with George now only means she has received her just deserts.