Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (3 page)

I was alone, except for Gus, living a solitary life, but I was content for the most part.

Maybe it was because I had no idea what I was missing at the time: your daddy and you.

Nicholas,

I was driving home from the hospital when I heard a funny noise. What's that? Shhhhh . . . bump shhhhh . . . bump shhhh . . . bump.

I had to pull over onto the shoulder of the road. I got out of my Jeep to take a look.

Shitfire and save matches. The right wheel was as flat as a pancake. I could have, and I would have, changed the tire if I hadn't taken out the spare in order to make room for all my other stuff when I was moving.

I called the gas station from my cell phone, mad at myself for having to call a garage. A guy answered and condescended to me a little; anotherguy would come to fix the flat. It made me feel like “such a girl,” and I hated that. I knew how to change a tire perfectly well. I pride myself on self-sufficiency and independence. And good old-fashioned stubbornness.

I was standing against the passenger-side door, pretending to admire the beautiful landscape and making it seem to passing cars that I had pulled over for that reason, when a car pulled up right in back of mine.

Clearly it wasn't from the gas station.

Not unless they'd sent a forest green Jaguar convertible.

“You need some help?” a man asked. He was already walking slowly toward my car, and honestly, I couldn't take my eyes off him.

“No, thanks . . . I called the Shell station in town. They'll be here soon. Thanks, anyway.”

There was something familiar about this guy. I wondered if I had met him in one of the stores around the island. Or maybe at the hospital.

But he was tall and good-looking, and I thought that I'd have remembered him. He had a nice, easy smile and he was kind of laid-back.

“I can change the tire,” he offered, and somehow managed not to be condescending when he said it. “I know I drive a fancy car, but I'm not really a fancy person.”

“Thanks, but I took my spare out to make room for more important things like my stereo and my antique candlestick collection.”

He laughed . . . and he was so familiar. Who was he? Where did I know him from?

“I'm flattered, though,” I continued. “A man in a shiny convertible willing to change a tire.”

He laughed again--a nice laugh. So familiar.

“Hey, I'm vast. . . . I contain multitudes.”

“Walt Whitman!” I said--and then I remembered who this was. “You used to say that all the time. You quoted Walt Whitman. Matt?”

“Suzanne Bedford!” he said. “I was almost sure it was you.”

He was so surprised--bumping into me like this after such a long time. It must have been almost twenty years.

Matt Wolfe was even handsomer than I remembered him. At thirty-seven, he had grown up very nicely. He was slender, with closely cropped brown hair and an endearing smile. He looked in great shape. We talked on the side of the road. He had become a lawyer for the Environmental Protection Agency as well as a fine-arts dealer. I had to laugh when he told me that. Matt used to joke that he would never become an entremanure, as he called businesspeople back then.

He wasn't surprised to learn that I was a doctor. What surprised Matt was that I wasn't with someone, that I had come back to Martha's Vineyard alone.

We continued to catch up on each other's life. He was funny, easy to talk to. When I had dated Matt, he was eighteen, I was sixteen. That was the last year my grandparents had rented for the summer on the Vineyard--but obviously, I never forgot the island or its many treasures. I'd been having dreams about the ocean and the beaches on the Vineyard ever since I could remember.

I think we were both a little disappointed to see the bright yellow Shell tow truck pull in behind us. I know that I was. Just before I turned to go, Matt mumbled a few words about how nice this was--my flat tire. Then he asked me what I was doing Saturday night.

I think I blushed. I know I did. “You mean a date?”

“Yes, Suzanne, a date. Now that I've seen you again, I'd like to see you again.”

I told Matt I would love to see him on Saturday. My heart was pounding a little, and I took that to be a very good sign.

Nick,

Who the heck was sitting on my porch? As I drove up late that same afternoon, I couldn't really tell.

It couldn't be the electric guy, or the phone guy, or the cable guy--I'd seen all of them the day before.

Nope, it was the painting guy, the one who was going to help me with everything around the cottage that needed a ladder or an outlet or a finish.

We walked around the cottage as I pointed out several of the problems I'd inherited: windows that wouldn't close, floors that buckled at the door, a leak in the bathroom, a broken pump, a cracked gutter, and a whole cottage that needed scraping and painting.

What this house had in cute, it lacked in practical.

But this guy was great, took notes, asked pertinent questions, and told me he could fix everything by the millennium. The next millennium. We struck a deal on the spot (which gave me the distinct feeling I'd made out pretty good).

Suddenly life was looking a lot better to me. I had a new practice that I loved, I had a house-painter with a good reputation, and I had a hot date with Matt.

When I was finally alone in my little cottage by the sea, I threw up both arms and shouted hooray.

Then I said, “Matt Wolfe. Hmmm. Imagine that. How terrific. How very cool.”

Nick,

Just about everybody has an occasional fantasy about somebody they really liked in high school, or maybe even grade school, coming back into their life. For me, that person was Matt.

Who knows, maybe he was a small part of what drew me back to Martha's Vineyard. Probably not, but who can tell about these things?

Nevertheless, I was nearly an hour late for our date on Saturday night. I had to get a patient admitted, run home and feed Gustavus, get pretty, and find my beeper all before I left. Plus--I must confess--I can be a bit disorganized at times. My grandfather used to say, “Suzie, you have a lot inyour mind.”

When I entered Lola's, which is a neat spot on the beach between Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs, Matt was waiting with a bottle of pinot noir. He looked relaxed, and I liked that. Also handsome. I liked that just fine, too.

“Matt, I'm so, so sorry,” I said. “This is one of the negatives about dating a doctor.”

He laughed. “After twenty years . . . what's twenty minutes? Or fifty? And besides, you look beautiful, Suzanne. You're worth the wait.”

I was flattered, and a little embarrassed. It had been a while since someone had paid me a compliment, even as a joke. But I liked it. And I eased smoothly into the evening like someone slipping into satin sheets.

“So, you're back on the Vineyard for good?” Matt asked after I told him some, but not all, of the events that had led up to my decision. I didn't tell him about the heart attack. I would, but not yet.

“I love it here. Always have. I feel like I've come home,” I said. “Yes, I'm back here for good.”

“How are your grandparents?” he asked. “I remember them both.”

“My grandfather's still alive, and he's doing great. Grandmother died six years ago. Her heart.”

Matt and I talked and talked--about work, summers on the Vineyard, college, our twenties, thirties, successes, disappointments. He had spent his twenties living all over the world: Positano, Madrid, London, New York. He'd gotten into New York University Law School when he was twenty-eight, moved back to the Vineyard two years ago. Loved it. It felt so good to talk to him again; it was such a nice trip down memory lane.

After dinner Matt followed me home in his Jag. He was just being thoughtful. We both got out in the driveway and talked some more under a beautiful full moon. I was really enjoying myself.

He started to laugh. “Remember our first date?”

Actually, I did. There had been a wicked thunderstorm and it knocked out the electricity in my house. I had to get dressed in the dark. By mistake, I picked up a can of Lysol instead of hair spray. I smelled of disinfectant all night.

Matt grimaced and asked, “Do you remember the first time I got my nerve up to kiss you? Probably not. I was scared.”

That surprised me a little. “I couldn't tell. As I remember it, you were always pretty confident.”

“My lips were shaking, my teeth hitting together. I had the biggest crush on you. I wasn't the only one.”

I laughed. This was silly, but it sure was fun. In a way, seeing Matt again was a fantasy come true. “I don't believe any of this, but I love hearing it.”

“Suzanne, could I kiss you?” he asked in a gentle voice.

Now I was shaking a little. I was out of practice at this. “That would be okay. That would be good, actually.”

Matt leaned over and, in the sweetest way, kissed me. A kiss, just one. But it was really something after all these years.

Dear Nicky,

Bizarre! That's the only word I can use to describe life sometimes. Just freaking bizarre.

Remember the housepainter I told you about? Well, he was over here the morning after my date with Matt, giving the joint a face-lift. I know this because he left me a bouquet of the most beautiful wildflowers.

There they were--pinks, reds, yellows, blues, and purples, sitting pretty in a mason jar by the front door.

Very sweet, very nice, and unexpectedly touching.

At first I thought they were from Matt, but damn it, they weren't.

There was also a note. Dear Suzanne, The lights are still out in your kitchen, but I hope these will brighten your day some. Maybe we can get together sometime and do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to, wherever you want to. He signed himself Picasso--more readily known as your housepainter.

I was blown away. Until the night before, I hadn't had a date since I left Boston; I hadn't wanted to date since Michael Bernstein left me.

Anyway, I heard the painter–maintenance man hammering something somewhere, and I went outside. There he was, perched like a gull on the steep slanted roof.

“Picasso,” I yelled, “thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. What a nice present. A nice thought.”

“Oh, you're welcome. They just reminded me of you, and I couldn't resist.”

“Well, you guessed right; they're all my favorites.”

“What do you think, Suzanne? Maybe we could grab a bite sometime, go for a ride, catch a movie, play Scrabble. Did I leave anything out?”

I smiled in spite of myself.

“It's kind of a crazy time for me right now, with patients and all. I just have to make that a priority for the time being. But it was really nice of you to ask.”

He took the rejection in stride. He smiled down at me. But then he ran his hand through his hair and said, “I understand. Of course you realize if you don't go out with me just once, I'll have no choice but to raise your rates.”

I called back to him, “No, I didn't know that.”

“Yeah. It's absolutely despicable, a totally unfair business practice. But what can you do? It's the way of the world.”

I laughed, and told him I'd take that under serious consideration. “Hey, by the way, what do I owe you for the extra work you've already done over the garage?” I asked.

“That? That's nothing . . . nothing at all. No charge.”

I shrugged, smiled, waved. What he'd said was nice to hear--maybe because it wasn't the way of the world.

“Hey, thanks, Picasso.”

“Hey, no problem, Suzanne.”

And he resumed his task of putting a roof over my head.

Dear Nicholas,

I am watching over you as I write this, and you are absolutely gorgeous.

Sometimes I look at you and just can't believe you're mine. You have your father's chin, but you definitely have my smile.

There's a little toy that hangs over your crib and when you pull on it, it plays “Whistle a Happy Tune.” This makes you laugh immediately. I think Daddy and I love to hear that song as much as you do.

Sometimes at night, if I'm driving home late or taking a walk, I'll hear that little melody in my head, and I'll feel such longing for you.

Right now, I just want to pick you up out of your sleep and hold you as close as I can.

The other thing that always makes you laugh is “One Potato, Two Potato.” I don't know why. Maybe it's the sound of it, the silly lyrical bounce of the words. Maybe it's the part of you that's Irish. All I know is, the word potato can send you into fits and wiggles of happiness.

Sometimes I can't imagine your being any other age than the one you are this second. But I think all mothers tend to hold their children frozen in time, or maybe pressed like flowers, forever perfect, forever eternal. Sometimes when I rock you, I feel as if I were holding a little bit of heaven in my arms. I have a sense that there are protective angels all around you, all around us.