62 Almost like Being in Love
Almost like Being in Love
Where to begin, with the list of all the things I’d miss once I departed from Wonderland: Prudence’s great fried chicken, and lobster rolls, and fried clams, and cookouts by the water.
I’d miss the club, with shrimp cocktail spilling over the edge of the bowl, and those wonderful little Parker House rolls slathered with real butter, not margarine, and the clubhouse bathroom with the little individual soaps that I’d put in my pocket if nobody else was around. Ice cream cones at the Caboose.
Those things were only the beginning, of course: There was my yellow bike with the basket on the front, and my bike rides to the tennis courts or the library—standing on the pedals, pumping hard to make it up the hill to the wonderful Lake Catherine Library, and coming home with my newest Stephen King novel, stretching out on the chaise lounge with a Diet Coke or a Snapple.
If the kids were watching a video—as they usually were—I’d get to read my book until it was time to set the table for dinner.
I would not miss the kids at the country club, who didn’t speak to me or know my name even.
Top of the list, Olivia. She’d tossed me a look one time when I was coming off the court from working with Jonathan.
“No offense,” she said, “but I thought I should tell you. Here at the club, we don’t wear blue jean shorts.
You might want to pick up a few skirts at the Pro Shop. ”
But I’d miss walking in the door of the club, pouring myself a glass of ice water—some days they put lemon slices in it, some days watermelon, some days strawberries.
I’d miss the soft striped towels with the LCCC insignia on the front, and the hot tub, where I’d sit if nobody else was in it.
Hitting against the backboard, nights, with the lights shining down on me, staying as long as it took to get to my five hundred shots in a row.
Not even minding if I failed to hit one and had to start over.
The Emersons’ kids were spoiled, of course—and in Jilly’s case, bossy.
I would not miss the interminable tea parties with Jilly and her American Girls, or Hayward’s creepy way of looking at me across the dinner table.
Still, I’d miss playing board games with them.
Popcorn and movies, s’mores over the fire.
I’d miss swimming, and going out on the Chris-Craft, and folding laundry even.
I’d miss my little bedroom under the eaves, starry nights under the patchwork quilt embroidered with flowers from every New England state (New Hampshire, purple lilac; Maine, wild lupine), looking up at my skylight window, listening to the lake water washing up against the shore, hearing the loons call out to each other.
What I’d miss most about that room was the quiet I found there.
Just twice I’d heard the sounds of lovemaking—Forrest and Regina—in the room below, but not one time, all summer, had I heard the sound of people yelling at each other the way I did every day back in New Jersey.
A different kind of trouble hung over Wonderland, of course.
The silent kind. But up in that little room, I’d known peace and quiet. For the first time ever, maybe.
Then there was tennis. My lessons with Jonathan had become the highlight of my days, the way my breakfasts with Forrest used to be, at the start of the summer. Now what I loved best was the court, the backboard, even picking up balls with the ball hopper at the end of my lessons.
And for all the drama swirling around them now, I’d miss Forrest and Regina.
Both of them, oddly enough, though the one I would miss most painfully would be Forrest. As confused as I had come to feel about him, and as disappointed by what felt like his abandonment of me—as angry as I felt toward him for choosing a pinhead like Brenda over a girl to whom he meant the world—I couldn’t help loving him.
I missed that time, not so far back, when I still believed that there was one truly good man in the world, and that was Forrest Emerson. And that he loved me.