The Space Between Promises (9 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was a traditional New York December, unlike winters of late which have been uncharacteristically warm, accompanied by a disappointing amount of snow. We have become used to meager amounts of wet snow, often barely covering the ground, which sometimes still boasted strips of grass underneath. But on this romantic December evening, there is a soft flurry of snow swirling around the glow of the Victorian lampposts that line the historic streets of downtown Saratoga Springs. The sidewalks are a cheerful buzz of shoppers, couples holding hands, businessmen briskly scurrying to the parking garages, the occasional group of local college kids bustling in or out of the pubs.
Dressed in a full-length black princess style cashmere coat that I had convinced my mother to help me purchase in Macy's for fifty percent less than its retail of eight hundred dollars, a few curls escaping a black wool cloche hat, and tapping the sidewalks in tall black boots with an impressive heel, I make my way down the familiar street where a dreamy second-hand bookstore awaits. The door chimes and I am greeted with a warm smile from an unsurprisingly bookish woman, plain brown hair, glasses propped on her head, holding her parted hair in place.
"I am looking for a hardcover edition of Tennyson's Idylls of the King," I say. She eagerly steps out from behind the counter, slips her glasses to the tip of her nose and invites me to follow her. She has one, she says, running her fingers down the aisle of rare books, but it is expensive, she forewarns apologetically. She assumes that at my tender age of twenty-four that I am either unaware of rare book value or that I am unprepared to pay for such a book. Having had called every used bookstore along the New England coast, and before the advent of online marketplaces such as eBay, I am prepared to pay any price, and anxiously follow her trailing finger until it stops mid-aisle and lands on a faded red copy of the book I have been seeking for months.
She hands it to me and I gently finger it, admiring the gold design of King Arthur brandishing Excalibur on its cover. "It's perfect," I say, more to myself than to her. It is a limited edition which she proudly demonstrates, and the price of eighty-six dollars is lightly etched in pencil on the inside cover. I set it on the counter and hand her one hundred dollars in twenties. She obligingly pulls out a receipt pad and calculates the tax on a companion calculator, carefully noting each on the small lined paper. Complete with hand-written receipt tucked inside, my limited edition is carefully slid into a paper bag and tucked under my arm.
Basking in the festive joy of the season and in my good fortune, I fold both arms around the parcel, tucking it into my chest, and decide to stop into a local coffee shop to peruse my purchase. As I turn the pages, I smile, remembering summer nights over campfires, reading to Gregory from a battered Barnes & Noble paperback version, its margins clouded with collegiate notes. The fire is crackling and we inch closer on our camping stools. Gregory extends a stick over the fire, its whittled end stabbing through a cheese and pepperoni stuffed pita. I am reading from "Pelleas and Ettarre," and he slowly turns the pita on the stick, gently roasting the bread, conscience of the melting cheese beginning to seep through the edges. He removes it from the flame, patiently blows on it, twisting it repeatedly. When he is satisfied with his work, he carefully peels it from the stick, and hands it to me.
I place the book down open faced next to my camp stool and take a bite, the perfectly toasted pita giving way to the melted harmony of cheese and pepperoni. He nods, smiling, "Good, isn't it?" "Perfect," I reply, handing it to him for a taste. "You eat," he says, reaching into knapsack for another pita, strategically layering cheese and pepperoni into the pocket. I continue to read while he cooks. In the moonlight, we wade into the pond in our clothes, and sink into its still embrace. "You are beautiful," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist. Soon, we will be married, and every possibility will awaken.
I glance at the clock in the coffee shop and realize it is after nine. I want to make it home in time for Gregory's ten o'clock call. We are months away from our wedding, and I look forward to our evening conversations. I slide the book into the paper bag and walk briskly to my car, imagining the look in Gregory's eyes when he opens it on Christmas Eve.

***
He turns it over in his hands, smoothing first the front cover, then the back, from top to bottom, a familiar gesture associated with his inspection of an item. He carefully examines the binding, running his finger and thumb over it respectively. His reaction is impossible to translate. He is silent and does not make eye contact. In the years to follow, I would come to realize that this is the way in which he receives and acknowledges gifts. Quietly, almost awkwardly, finding it difficult to articulate an appropriate form of gratitude.
The anticipation that I had felt for over two weeks seems to dissipate slowly, like the measured release of fizz from bottled seltzer. I hold my breath, waiting for him to open the book and read the romantic inscription. He still has not looked at me, and slowly opens the cover, careful of the binding. He turns the title page and his eyes meet the confident penmanship on the first page.
December 24th, 2001
for my Knight-Errant
On this Holiday Season
and for many more to come ...
Cozy nights and stories shared.
All my love
For the first time since he removed the book from its parcel and twine, his eyes seek mine. Embers of self-congratulation await the spark of his approval, and I raise my eyebrows, suppressing a smile. "You wrote in it," he says, disappointment etched into his carefully lowered voice. It is as though I have swallowed my own breath and I feel myself flush under his disapproving gaze. "Well, yes, I wrote an inscription, for posterity," I fumble, refusing to buckle under the intense disappointment I feel in the moment.
He continues, "Did you notice the price is written in pencil?" He asks. "The book now has no value," he explains.

"It has value," I contend, wounded by his insensitivity. "It has intrinsic value." Bravely, I go on. "You are never going to sell this book. Financial value has no bearing here. The value is that in generations to come, there is an irrevocable inscription that testifies our love of literature, and my love for you."

My voice is edgy; all beauty of the gift and anticipation for its response lost into what will become a large sea of differences in perception in the years to come. He realizes he has gone too far in what I will come to recognize in time as brutal honesty. "It's a beautiful edition," he says, but already I am gathering the wrappings, avoiding his apologetic glance.
“Because you love taking pictures," he says, as I unwrap a boxed set of plain flimsy frames, various sizes.

"Thank you," I say. It is not the price that wounds me. He is a struggling carpenter, having saved for a year for the beautiful diamond I am wearing. It is the fact that for the same twenty dollars he could select a few doilies or heritage lace, or some other trifle at an antique shop that I would be elated to receive. It is the lack of thought and effort that brings a sting to my eyes. As I resolve to put the disappointment of the private gift-exchange behind me, we snuggle on the couch and turn on the TV for the remainder of our evening together. The hurt slowly melts away as he fingers my hair, lightly scratching my scalp, and my eyelids grow heavy under the hypnotic movement of his gentle hands. He tenderly kisses the back of my head while it rests on his broad chest, and it is though I hear the words "I'm sorry," in the movement of his fingers, trailing over my forehead and finding their way down my arm and weaving into my own.

Twenty-Four

The rain has ceased, and an as autumn breeze steals in from the lake I shiver under its embrace in my princess capped sleeves. The dock stretches out straight into the horizon, surrounded on all sides by water. The photographer suggested we leave the kids at the Inn for the purpose of a romantic photo shoot by the water, commemorating our tenth wedding anniversary. I am hesitant at first, reluctant to face my husband in a series of staged intimate photographs. I am nervous of how I will appear in the naked light of a camera, my face a decade older than on our wedding unmistakable weariness in my eyes, as if the light has gone out from them. Cameras do not lie, and I am afraid that we will appear older, heavier, and less in love than we have ever been.
We have just completed the family photo shoot in the perimeter of the nineteenth century castle which had been converted into an inn some years ago. The girls are a vision in a flurry of ivory tulle and black satin ribbons, and Sam handsome in a classic tux, his shiny spaced front teeth a reminder that he is still a little boy underneath a satin bow-tie and tailored suit. We were glowing under the flash of the camera. Alive, a thriving, loving family. Tessa tucked into the crook of Gregory's arm, tulle spilling out all around her, and Maggie clutching my hand, practically jumping with the excitement of an exquisite dress, twirling and dancing between shots. Sam, propped neatly in the background, playing tricks on the photographer, pleased with his boyish sense of humor and antics. They are no doubt now playing with their cousins near the hearth where a hearty fire blazes, waiting for our return.
We step together toward the end of the dock, our photographer on the opposite end, alternating between two massive cameras. "Lean in, kiss him," she encourages. "Oh, you love him!" She chirps. "Gregory, you look at her ... Look at the camera," she instructs me. A series of clicks is heard in the backdrop as she weaves around us, expertly navigating the terrain of our emotional landscape. He waits until she is at a distance again, and whispers, "You look beautiful." I am not expecting this. I thank him quickly and return the compliment. He does look handsome in his immaculate tuxedo, broad shouldered, manly and rugged, as always, even in finery. My dress is ivory lace over satin, a knee-length confection reminiscent of a Grace Kelly dress, separated at the waist by a simple black grosgrain ribbon, tied neatly in the front in a small bow. My hair pulled to the side in a loose chignon, marked solely by a simple pearl accessory. My shoes are a high-heeled Mary Jane Style, the closed toe etched with a matching saddle shoe stitch. I do feel pretty, having had the dress altered to perfection, and I move in it as if within a cloud.
In minutes, we are walking hand in hand, the water disappearing behind us, our photographer yards ahead of us, snapping pictures as we ascend the grassy hill, passing under a series of orange and red laden trees. Gregory has never enjoyed having his picture taken, yet he obligingly surrenders to my desires in having a photographer journal our dinner engagement. I look up at him, and mention how nervous I am for the outcome of our lakeside endeavor. He squeezes my hand, meets my worried expression with gentle surety and says, "They will be beautiful."
And as it turns out, in Gregory's case, a picture truly is worth a thousand words, especially since he is a man of relatively few words. I thumb through the images, studying every angle and curve of our faces and frames. My eyes are a bit strained, but there is a soft look about them, an intangible faraway quality. They are clouded with the layering of time, but there is a flicker of something that has survived sadness, loneliness, and pain. It stands alone, unashamed of all that they have seen through the years. It is quiet, but its presence is undeniable. It is dignity.
It is in Gregory's eyes though, that I see something I haven't noticed before. Maybe it's because when Gregory looks at me in a romantic moment, I have a habit of looking away. I seem to shy away from gentle gazes, afraid of vulnerability. Often, when my eyes meet his, it is a result of a challenge, mine defiant, his on fire. As I study the images, I see that his eyes are glowing. His smile is a closed one, modest and unassuming. His presence supports mine. In every image, he assumes a stance that honors mine, one which allows me to lead in the photograph, yet his light touch is ever present, a reminder that he is a willing participant. He moderates his every movement to give place to mine, from his humble smile, to his delicate embrace. But he does not reserve his eyes. He gazes intently into my face, allowing only his eyes to speak on his behalf, to tell his story, wholly. They are warm, curious, adoring. They are completely stripped of pretense, naked, and brimming with love.

Chapter Twenty-Five

He is a few minutes early. Just enough to ensure that I am ready, yet to impress upon me that I am a priority. I hop into the front seat of his small sports car, and he smiles widely in my direction as I close the door. "Reach under your seat," he says, winking at me. I lean forward, sheepishly, and find a single white rose resting on the immaculate floor. It is neatly wrapped in green tissue, accompanied by baby’s breath. I hold it to my nose and smile girlishly at him. He is the first man to shower me with gifts, both large and small, and never does a date pass where some surprise doesn't await me. He knows that I am grieving Nick, and he asks nothing of me, save the chance to win my heart, which he assures me that one day he will. It takes several weeks of prompting, arriving at my workplace, calling me daily, but finally I agree to a date with this light-hearted marine.
One date leads to another, one white rose leads to a bedroom filled with roses on my return from work one day. One evening out together leads to many evenings where he insists on driving me to and from work when it is raining or snowing. My so-called friends learn to go on to the clubs without me, and Nate watches me clock out in the evening, as I walk slightly ahead of the throng of eager bar-hoppers, heading for another man's car. Nate occasionally slips by me, hinting at my mystery man's identity, a sidebar tinged with sarcasm. I don't answer him, unwilling to give him the satisfaction, or to open my marine to any ridicule. The truth is that my marine is a man many times over. He is not what I would call handsome, slightly paunchy in the stomach, ears that stick out a bit, and though his teeth are straight and white, there is an overbite. Still, he has a clean appeal, a refreshingly warm quality, and he is a nice-looking man. He has an infectious laugh, a mix of a high-pitched throaty giggle followed by a wheeze. He wields a boyish smile, possesses a fierce sense of God, family, country, and he is the most generous natured of any man I had known intimately. His eyes sparkle with mischief and kindness. I could see where Nate would devour him with a single cruel sentence, and I would not allow that. I would keep him secret, safe from the clutches of Nate, where I was still imprisoned.
I learn the art of dating through the marine, who takes me to the best restaurants, and shows me off at a few biker bars, where we laugh and play pool. He scoops me off the dance floor, where I have fallen flat out, and he laughs, not a bit ashamed of me. He takes me driving and we park by the river, where his intentions are to make me smile. On the occasions when my sadness lifts and I can't resist his constant stream of hearty jokes any longer, I watch his face light up, congratulating himself on a hard-won victory.
He is the first person to call every morning. "I just wanted you to hear my voice first when you woke up," he says. I giggle, humoring him. How can I tell this beautiful man that my heart is broken beyond any repair, and all that I am is a shell where Nate used to live? How can I tell him that I have no desire to move past my brokenness and no strength to try? It seems an injustice to string him along, when I am sure there is any number of women who would readily fall in love with him. I tell him over and over that I do not love him, and that I do not think that I will, but he is undeterred in his mission.
The day comes when he is called away for two months of training. He calls me each evening, and we talk on the phone for hours. My laughter spills through the line and there is relief in his voice. It has been a few months of whirlwind dinners, movies on the couch, thoughtful gifts and trinkets, and I am warming up to him. Still, I do not love him, but he is becoming my man. He tells me he has given everything up for me. He doesn't go to the bars with the guys, or pick up women anymore. He returns to his post after training and waits to call me, buoyed by the sound of my voice. After several weeks, he introduces the idea of marriage. He is sure that because I have remained a virgin that I will be a faithful wife when he is overseas. He trusts that I will honor him with fidelity and I am the woman he was always looking for though never knew it. I am only twenty-two, and his twenty-seven years strikes me as incredibly mature. When he returns from training, my apartment is the first place he visits after landing in the airport. I panic at the sight of his little black car, though I do not know why, and immediately pretend I am not home, hoping he will not knock. My roommate lets him in, and explains that I am resting in my room. I hear the door close and I realize, with relief and regret, that I will not see him again. I do not know, to this day, how it was that in a matter of minutes I closed the door to the possibility of this fine man. It happened suddenly, without warning. A complete emotional shut-down, one which I would question for years, as I would come to realize how much I missed the presence of the loving marine who would have given me all of himself and more, for a lifetime.