Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Knox is back. I’m in my bathrobe, drinking coffee at the kitchen table. He waves to me through the window. I open the top of the Dutch door and ask him if he wants me to top off his thermos.
“Sure.”
I go to grab the pot, and when I turn around, he’s standing in my kitchen.
“Oh, let me get dressed.” I hand him the pot and dash off to the bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him to come in the house.
The cabin is tiny, just a two-bedroom, one bath that Austin and I winterized after we bought it. The previous owner was a widower, who used the place on weekends and holidays for fishing trips, relying on the woodstove for heat. We had plans to add a second story at some point and to expand the kitchen and living room, which currently is a cramped space with dated appliances. What sold us was the location and views. You can see the lake from every room in the house, and the light is magnificent, even though the property is covered in large oak and pine trees.
We furnished the place with a few good pieces—a leather sofa from Ethan Allen, an overstuffed recliner Austin took from his office, and a cannonball bed we got at an antique store in wine country. But other than that, we’ve left the place mostly as is. At least aesthetically. Unfortunately, upkeep has been a constant money pit. Between replacing the old pipes and all the failed windows, we blew our budget for the good stuff, like replacing the hideous ’80s faux rock around the fireplace and the wagon-wheel light fixture that hangs over the dining room.
But I’m not complaining. From the day the real estate agent showed us the place, I knew it was magical. The coziness of the cabin. The fact that I can toss a stone from my back door to the lake. The constant smell of fresh air, the deer that graze in my front yard, the birds, the trees . . . well, it’s just majestic.
I hurriedly dress in a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, swiping a brush through my hair on my way out, not even bothering to check my reflection in the mirror. It’s a relief not to have to dress up while I’m here. Don’t get me wrong, I like clothes. I like makeup and having my hair done. I even like shoes that kill my arches and squish my toes if they make the outfit. I may not be a fashionista like Lolly, but it’s always been important to me to keep up appearances and look the part of a successful woman. But here, I’d look pretty silly in a suit.
I return to the kitchen to find Knox is still here, sitting at my table, drinking coffee. I half expected—and half hoped—he’d be up on the roof, banging away. I’m not exactly in the mood for company. Then why’d you open your big mouth about coffee ?
He looks up from his phone and gives me a thumbs-up. I have no idea why, but I self-consciously pat down my hair.
“The coffee,” he says, and may as well roll his eyes. “It’s good. Where did you get it?”
I think for a second, because it’s probably been here a while, and I didn’t bother to look at the label while I was scooping beans into the grinder. The bag is in the pantry, and I pull it out, look at it, and put it down on the table.
Knox studies the packaging, then slides it back to me. “Not from around here, I can tell you that.”
“It’s from a small roaster in San Francisco. If you like, I’ll get you some.” I’d offer him the bag, but it’s all I have.
“Nah, I’ll stick with Yuban.”
“Okay.” He’s the one who brought it up, but whatever. “How’s the roof coming along?”
“It’s coming, but it’ll take me a couple of days. It’s a multistage process. Luckily, there’s no rain in the forecast.”
At least something is going my way.
Knox drums his fingers on the table. “You still doing those TED Talks?”
He catches me off guard with that one. I am surprised he knows anything about my lectures. Sure, I’ve built a large following with my seminars and books, but it’s not like I’m a household name.
“You’ve been to one?” I ask.
“No, but I’ve seen you on YouTube.”
I surreptitiously glance at his ring finger. There’s nothing there, not even a band of pale skin. My TED Talks are about marriage, how to improve them, how to maintain them, how to compromise so that everyone is happy. Needless to say, the vast majority of my clients are married couples. Or couples on the precipice of divorce, desperately trying to save their marriages.
“Did you find it helpful?” I ask Knox, because the absence of a ring doesn’t mean he isn’t married or that he’s not trying to improve or save a relationship.
“Not in the least,” he says.
Again, I’m taken aback. Not just because of his bluntness, but because I’m good at my job. So good at it, that I don’t even see patients anymore, just lecture and write books full time. Next year, I have a line of calendars with aspirational sayings coming out. We’re also working on a marriage journal for couples to track their good and bad days.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Why?”
“Uh . . . because the whole purpose of my talks is to help.”
“Okay, then can I get a refund?”
“I thought you said you watched it on YouTube.” I shake my head, wondering if he’s intentionally trying to provoke me. “What didn’t work for you?”
“All of it, meaning none of it. Nothing you said saved my relationship. In fact, it probably made things worse, and they were pretty bad to begin with.”
My first inclination is to argue with him, tell him he wasn’t putting in the work, but I realize how insensitive that would sound. “I’m sorry. The death of a relationship is very painful, and it’s tough that you had to go through that.” It was my stock response when I was seeing recently divorced patients.
He holds my gaze, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s laughing at me.
“No offense,” he says, “but you should probably work on your delivery. It sounds a little rehearsed. There’s nothing to be sorry about, anyway. It was for the best; otherwise, we would’ve ended up miserable.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him what happened, but I’m here to relax, to recuperate, not to analyze him or give counsel. Besides, I’m clearly not as good at my job as I thought I was, evidenced by my own marriage—or lack of one. The last thing I want to do right now is remind myself of that fact.
Still, I’m curious about Knox, intrigued by this mystery relationship of his. Or maybe it’s just true what they say, that misery loves company. Though why I assume he’s miserable is probably projection on my part. I really don’t know anything about him.
Knox rises to his feet and refills his thermos with the last of the coffee, signaling that our conversation is ended.
“What did you say your last name was?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” But on his way out, he calls back to me, “It’s Hart.”
What an odd fellow.
I clear my breakfast dishes and clean out the coffee machine, weighing the wisdom of brewing another pot, ultimately deciding against it. I’ve had enough caffeine for one morning. A quick glance at my phone shows there are no new emails or texts. Knowing Ronnie, my assistant and gatekeeper extraordinaire, she’s forwarded all communiqués to her own phone, so I can rest.
I had sort of hoped Lolly would call. Pretty unrealistic. But putting our grievances aside for one day—this day of all days—doesn’t seem too much to ask for. It’s not like we couldn’t pick up where we left off of not talking to each other as soon as we finished memorializing our parents.
You could always call her, I remind myself. But what’s the use? She’d either ignore her phone or hang up on my face. Frankly, I don’t need the rejection right now.
Instead, I decide to do a little reconnaissance on Austin’s fiancée. It won’t be easy, because other than her first name, I don’t know anything about her. I get my laptop from the bedroom and set it up at the kitchen table. We’re lucky in that we get decent Wi-Fi here. Not all the neighbors do, but for whatever reason, we get a strong signal. It was one of our conditions for buying the cabin.
I jump onto Google and search “Austin Carter and Mary.” No last name, just Mary. I get more hits than I know what to do with, so I add “San Francisco” and “Attorney” to my search in hopes of winnowing down the results. The first thing that comes up is Blagojevich, Lemons and Rawlins. I scroll through the firm’s staff pictures to see if there is a Mary there, because it makes sense that Austin would’ve met her at work. It’s safe to say that the dating pool is deeply diminished after thirty.
There’s no Mary, so I soldier on.
Austin doesn’t do social media, the obvious place to look. And there doesn’t appear to be an announcement of their engagement in any of the local papers. I hoped that perhaps they’d attended a newsworthy event or benefit (something he and I would occasionally do) and I could find a picture of them on the social pages. But so far, nothing.
After an hour of searching, it becomes clear that Austin’s fiancée is as elusive as cheap rent. I slam the lid of my laptop down, chiding myself for being childish. What kind of marriage expert spies on her ex-husband? Hey, it’s only natural to be curious . Besides, if I see them together, it’ll give me closure, I further rationalize, realizing this internal argument I’m having with myself makes me sound like a loon. Okay, loon isn’t an official term in the DSM-5, but we all know if I keep this up, I’ll be bordering on one.
Knox pounds on the roof as if to agree. I flip him the bird, even though he can’t see it.
I decide that getting out of the house will make me forget about Austin, Lolly, and my parents. The sun is shining off the lake, and it seems like a good day to take the boat out, except I don’t know how to clip the electric motor to the battery. I should’ve paid more attention when Austin did it.
What the hell, it’s nothing I can’t learn from a YouTube video. I grab my phone and a jacket and head to the dock. There’s a whisper of a breeze, and the scent of pine needles fills the air. But the sun tricked me into believing it was warmer than it actually is. Still, I don’t let the chill dissuade me from going out on the water. A nice bracing ride will do me good.
Austin was supposed to pull the boat out of the lake on his last visit and store it before the rain comes. We are below the snow line but will occasionally get flurries that coat the ground, making it look pretty before it quickly melts. But lucky for me, Austin forgot. The aluminum boat is still tied to the dock, rocking in the gentle current.
I lug the battery, which weighs as much as a small cow, from the boathouse and manage to drop it onto the floor of the boat, then go back for the motor. I’m sitting on one of the captain’s chairs, studying how to hook everything up, struggling with which wire goes where, when I realize I forgot my life jacket. The lake is as calm as an empty parking lot, and I’m a good swimmer, but I’m coming off a concussion and shouldn’t take any chances. What if I have a blackout on the water and fall out of the boat? These are the things I think about.
I make the trek back to the boathouse and snap myself into one of the vests we purchased when we first got the cabin. Austin isn’t much of a swimmer, and neither of us started out as boat enthusiasts. The first time we attempted to get in kayaks, we wound up in the drink. I’ve mostly mastered getting in and out now, thanks to a fancy failsafe launch. Because what’s the good of living on a lake if you never use it?
Once I figure out that red goes to positive and black goes to negative, I try to attach the motor to the mounting bracket. This is no easy feat. The electric motor doesn’t want to stay and keeps falling off the bracket. My frustration is growing to the point where I’m considering giving up and going inside. I punch the motor, which only hurts my knuckles, and let out a curse, then scream when I realize there’s someone on the dock behind me.
“Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I couldn’t stand to watch you any longer.” Knox steps into the boat like he’s been doing it his whole life. He doesn’t even grab the edge to steady himself the way I do every time I get in, afraid I’ll be pitched over the side. Nope, he just climbs over me, and on the first try fits the motor into the mounting bracket and tightens the bolts. I don’t know whether to be thankful or to hate him for making it look so easy.
He hops out of the boat with the same dexterity as when he got in.
“Thanks,” I say, and to prove I know what I’m doing, I rev the engine and accelerate. When I say engine , you have to understand that we’re only talking about thirty pounds of thrust, meaning this thing tops out at five miles an hour. Still, it jolts alive like I’m on the high seas and lurches forward. I’m moving now, though it feels like I’m dragging something behind me. Something heavy.
Knox shouts for me to turn off the motor. But instead of rotating the dial to stop, I accidentally turn it to the top speed. There’s a horrible creaking noise, and when I turn around, I see a section of the dock coming loose.
“You’re still moored,” Knox is yelling, grabbing onto the rope that’s tied to the cleat. It’s a risky endeavor. The engine may not have much torque, but there’s still the risk that if I keep going, he’ll be pulled overboard.
I quickly fumble with the dial, and after what seems like an eternity, manage to turn it to the off position. I take a deep breath as the boat bobs up and down on the water only a few yards from where I started. Knox pulls me in.
“Your first time driving?” he says in that laconic drawl of his that I’m starting to recognize as sarcasm.
“Is the dock busted?”
“You pulled one of the anchor poles out. It should’ve been in the ground deeper anyway. I can fix it. Next time, untie the boat before you take off.”
I nod, feeling incredibly stupid. “It’s the accident,” I tell him. “I’m still not myself.”
“Let me guess. You were the one behind the wheel.” He glances at the boat, then offers me an arm to get out. Yes, it seems sensible to leave boating for another day.
“I got run over by a cable car.” Why not tell him? Better the truth than letting him believe I’m a bad driver.
His brows wing up. “How did that happen?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, then do an about-face and decide to tell him the whole story. Why not? It’s not like I know the guy well enough to humiliate myself any more than I already have. “My ex-husband had just announced that he was engaged. I was despondent over the news and wasn’t paying attention when I walked in front of a moving cable car.”
Knox doesn’t say anything, but his silence speaks volumes.
“I guess that must confirm for you what a lousy marriage counselor I am.”
“I didn’t say that.” He crouches down to re-knot the boat rope around the cleat, then points to the pole. “I’ll bring a post driver tomorrow. Why were you despondent over an ex-husband?”
“I was hoping to patch things up. I actually thought we were on the road to reconciliation when he dropped the whole engagement thing on me. Some woman named Mary. His one true soulmate,” I say, not even trying to disguise my disdain.
“Why’d you want to patch things up?”
The answer seems obvious, but I realize that Knox is asking the same exact question I would’ve asked one of my patients when I still had my practice. Why are you drawn to a person with whom you are divorced? I look at him to see if he’s doing it intentionally. If he’s mocking me. But his expression is absent of ridicule, neutral even. If anything, it’s mild curiosity I’m seeing.
“He left me,” I say, even though I could be setting myself up for professional embarrassment, because if word gets out—the real word, not what my publicist and I cooked up for the world in a written statement when Austin and I parted ways—it could blow up my career. “I want . . . wanted to work things out. I thought we were on the same page, but I was wrong.”
“Oh,” Knox says blandly. “I’m sorry. But if he left you, why would you want him back?”
“I don’t know how to answer that; it’s a long story. More important, though, are you a psychotherapist disguised as a handyman?”
“Definitely not. You want to go back to the house? It’s getting cold.”
I note that he doesn’t have a jacket on.
“Thank you for averting disaster,” I say, and start for the cabin.
“I was too late for that.”
I give him a sideways glance. “Way to make me feel better. Look, I admit that I’m not that boat savvy, but my old self never would’ve pulled away from the dock while I was still tied to it.” The truth is, I’m having trouble distinguishing what my old self even was.
“Does your old self know how to make a sandwich? I forgot my lunch today.” As if on cue, his stomach growls.