Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Present Day
V ictor gripped the steering wheel with tense fingers as Esme finished recounting the story of why and how she’d agreed to marry him. Outside was the Wild West, blue sky never-ending. He thought, I wish I hadn’t asked.
In Victor’s mind, the story of how they’d agreed to marry had been far different. It had been one of excitement. Of the invigorating promise of Harvard and all that Harvard offered young men like him—and also young men’s wives, like Esme.
It was true that he hadn’t been able to stand the idea of Esme being far away from him back then. And he’d thought, She can read books anywhere. She can read when she’s pregnant. She can read while I’m at the library or at work. He hadn’t thought much of the fact that she’d abandoned her collegiate dreams to ensure he wouldn’t break up with her.
Would he have broken up with her? Victor pondered on this now. He remembered the intense conversations he’d had with his father over the phone, the questions Jeremy Sutton had asked Victor about his schooling, his future, his girlfriend, and his eagerness to be a “family man.” Victor had felt as though he was perpetually juggling ten plates. When Esme was around, it felt as though they each carried five plates apiece.
But had he been selfish in that? He supposed he had.
The weight of this frothed around his stomach.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Esme said. “You asked me what it was like for me, and I told you.”
Victor puffed out his cheeks. “I just can’t believe Fran told you to marry me because people in Nantucket were gossiping about you.”
“It was a different time.” Esme shrugged. “Fifty years ago! Plus, you know how Fran always was. She never liked me. And things got so much worse between us after LeeAnne’s diagnosis.”
“I never understood that either. You were there for LeeAnne through everything,” Victor pointed out.
“I wouldn’t change anything about what I did,” Esme said. “I loved those afternoons with LeeAnne at the hospital. We read books and magazines and talked about actors we loved and…”
“Who was your actor crush back then?” Victor asked.
“You know I always liked Jack Nicholson.”
Victor felt an inexplicable surge of jealousy. “That guy, huh?”
Esme rolled her eyes as though she was still accustomed to Victor’s moods, even so many years after their divorce. The way she’d spoken of his “ever-changing moods” had triggered memories of Victor’s father. He thought, How did I become my father? I was trying so hard not to.
But, of course, in many ways, he was worse than his father. His father had never left his family behind.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Esme announced. “I want dinner.”
It was the evening of their fifth day of driving. Victor asked Esme to choose a restaurant, which Esme did—a little Italian place in Colorado tucked away next to a few hotels they could opt for if they wanted to quit driving for the day.
As he parked the van in the lot at the restaurant, Victor couldn’t help but ask, “We aren’t making very good time, are we?”
Esme snorted. “And? Do you have someplace you need to be?”
Victor’s heart panged. He realized he didn’t. He realized that racing across the continent as quickly as he could was a game he’d crafted for himself that had no real bearing. He could take ten days to drive across. He could take two weeks. Valerie and Alex would welcome them and be grateful for them no matter how long it took.
And it gave him plenty of time to be with Esme. To get to know her on this deeper and beautiful level.
It gave him plenty of time to sit with his faults, too.
The server seated them at a corner booth with a splendorous view of the Rocky Mountains.
“I haven’t been this far from the ocean before in my life,” Esme said with her eyes on the menu. “It’s a strange feeling.”
Victor raised his eyebrows. He’d been all over the country—all over the world—for his psychiatry career. But he knew that the majority of that travel had come after he’d left Esme and Nantucket. Bree had been by his side then, playing the part of life partner. The fact that she’d also been his secretary made things easier for him. It meant she could easily plan all his interviews, television spots, and client sessions.
Victor had a horrible thought. I use the women in my life.
“I think I’m going to get the mushroom ravioli,” Esme said. “But the pesto tagliatelle also looks sensational.”
Victor hadn’t bothered to read the menu yet. His thoughts were all twisted up. “I’ll get that so you can have a taste of both.”
Esme raised her eyebrows and gave him a look. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But you’re right. They both sound really good.”
“You don’t have to be nice to me just because of a story I told you fifty years ago,” Esme said. “I’d prefer you’d get what you want instead.”
“I want the pesto tagliatelle.”
“You don’t. You want the prime rib with a side of pasta.”
Victor’s heart thudded. It was true that that was exactly what he wanted. His mouth watered.
Esme folded her menu and tapped his wrist with the tips of her fingers. “Seriously. Get what you want, Victor. We’re old and gray, and all that drama is behind us. There’s no reason not to laugh about it.”
The server came to the table. Victor ordered the prime rib. Esme got the ravioli and a glass of red wine. “Actually, two glasses. Victor will want one, too.”
Victor laughed and passed his menu over. “You know me too well.”
“We were married for almost twenty years,” she said.
It stung Victor to think they’d been divorced longer than they’d been married.
Esme gazed out at the mountains. Her eyes stirred with mystery. Suddenly, he yearned to ask her something, something personal. He yearned to ask her about Larry. Was he a better husband than me? Did he make you much happier? Are you only here with me because Larry died?
But Victor knew that the answers to those questions might destroy him.
Esme sipped her wine and returned her gaze to Victor. Her eyes were filled with humor.
“What are you thinking about?” Victor asked.
“I’m thinking about that little apartment I lived in when you went to Harvard,” Esme said. “Remember the black mold in the shower? And the mice-infested cabinets? And the downstairs neighbor who always played Deep Purple as loud as he could?”
Victor did remember. He remembered hurrying back to her place after horrific days of studying and lecturing to cozy himself up on her couch, eat what she’d cooked, and listen to records.
“Didn’t I go down and yell at the neighbor?”
“More than once.” Esme nodded. “But he hated you. He hated everyone who went to Harvard.”
“Probably for good reason,” Victor said. “I’m sure we were insufferable.”
“Not all of the time.”
Victor smiled. “You liked it sometimes. Didn’t you? When I went to Harvard, you lived close by. You worked in that flower shop.”
“Only for one week.”
“Just one week?”
Esme nodded and laughed. Victor cursed himself. I’ve forgotten everything.
“I got so enraged with the boss that I walked out on my eighth day of work,” she said. “I went immediately to the restaurant down the road and applied there. Chester’s. You remember?”
“The place with the onion rings.” It was all coming back to him, albeit slowly.
It was strange. When he pictured Esme at twenty-one, he imagined her in that flower shop, surrounded by wild lilies.
Their dinner was far better than it should have been, given their location. Victor ate heartily and drained two glasses of wine. His vision blurred. Esme insisted they get rooms at the hotel next door and rest for the night.
“Remember. We’re not in a rush,” she said.
But the hotel next door only had one room available. Esme’s smile was strange, false.
“Let’s go to the hotel next door and ask,” she said.
But that hotel didn’t have any vacancies. The one beside that had only one room, and it was far worse than the original one.
Esme looked drained. Her shoulders slumped, she said, “We can divide for the night. I’ll stay here. You stay at the other place.”
Victor panged with dread. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t like that. He wanted to know Esme was just down the hall. He wanted to know if he could wake up, knock on her door, and ensure she was safe.
Victor couldn’t stop himself from saying, “We can share a room. I don’t mind.” He swallowed. “I can sleep on the sofa bed of that first room. You can have the main bed.”
Esme’s face was pale and strained. He expected her to berate him.
But instead, she sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I just need to sleep.”
Victor and Esme returned to the first hotel and moved into the suite together. Victor set himself up on the sofa bed, as promised, and Esme busied herself in the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Victor was nervous and jittery, and he sat on the sofa and focused on his breathing. He checked his text messages to find still more from Bree—all of them asking him to call her. He found another threatening email from the publishing house.
And then, he found a message from Valerie that floored him.
Hi Dad,
Thanks again for driving the rental van across the country! I really appreciate you stepping in when everything got crazy back there. I’ve thrown myself into this wedding, and I already think it will be something special. Something to really build my name and brand here in Nantucket. (Gross! Brand-building? Who am I? But I guess building a brand is the nature of the beast.)
I’ve been thinking more and more about our novel collaboration: your career and our life as the Sutton family. I wanted to send you more of my notes about growing up. A lot of them are about Joel, obviously. He’s sort of entrenched in my memories. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to get over losing him, but I’ve decided recently to celebrate him instead. I’m hoping our work together can help with that.
Valerie sent along a document in which she’d written ten thousand words of memories about Joel and the rest of the Sutton family during the eighties and nineties. Victor’s eyes filled with tears as he read about afternoons at the beach and evenings at the ice creamery, Christmases, New Year’s Eves, and birthday parties. He read about himself as an at-times domineering father, but one who clearly loved them very much. He also read about when his career began to take off and how his children dealt with that.
That was when he decided to tell Esme what was going on.
“I forgot you threw me a party,” Victor said, breaking the silence.
Esme was smearing lotion on her hands and looking at her e-reader. “What party?”
Victor set his computer to the side and pressed his hands together. He watched Esme until she looked up at him and stopped putting on lotion.
“After they did a profile about me in the New York Times ,” he said. “You and the kids threw a party for me at the house.”
Esme curled up against the pillows of the bed and tightened into a ball. She continued to look at him, but her facial expression was difficult to read.
“I had no idea what that all would lead to,” Victor said. “I thought I was going to just be a small-town psychiatrist. But that article changed my life.”
Esme made a soft sound in the back of her throat.
“I remember you made that enormous cake,” Victor said. “Carrot with cream cheese frosting. The kids decorated it, I think. At least that’s what’s written here.” He gestured toward the screen of his computer.
“Who wrote that?” Esme asked.
“Valerie. She wrote down tons of memories for the book.”
Esme still didn’t betray what she was feeling. Victor got up and carried the computer to the bed so she could read more of the memories—times of sunlight, laughter, and Joel.
But Esme shook her head. “I don’t want to read about that right now.”
Victor’s heart panged.
“We’ve been through enough memories today,” Esme said firmly. “Don’t you think?”
Victor sat on the edge of the bed. He expected Esme to demand he got off, reminding him that he’d promised the bed for her and her alone.
But Victor said, “But these are memories of Joel. And I think Valerie’s right. We need to celebrate his memory. We need to talk about him as much as we can.”
Esme’s face was gray. She draped her fingers over her cheeks and gazed out at the black night. In the distance was the highway, and big trucks bucked past, casting their lights across the flat landscape.
It was quiet for nearly a minute before Esme said anything.
She met Victor’s gaze and wet her lips.
“I can’t do this,” she said. Her voice wavered.
“What do you mean?” Victor asked.
Esme clutched her knees hard. “That story I told you today? About you manipulating me into abandoning my studies?”
Victor flinched but said nothing.
“It’s not that I regret that,” Esme said. “Because it happened, and like I said, it was a million years ago. But I won’t let myself be manipulated again. Do you understand?”
Victor raised his eyebrows. Listen. Learn, he begged of himself. But his heart felt shattered.
“I miss Joel every single day. I miss him every single minute,” Esme said. “I’m getting better at talking about him with the girls. And I’ve loved telling the grandkids about him. I’ve loved sharing how brilliant he was at baseball, how loving he was, and how funny he was.”
“He was,” Victor stuttered. “He was all of those things.”
Esme stuck out her finger. “But I will not be manipulated into letting you back into my heart. Not after everything. Especially not with stories of Joel.”
Victor felt it like a smack. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you!”
But Esme’s jaw shook violently. She looked on the brink of despair.
“I know I was awful in the past,” Victor stammered. “I hear you. And I’m reflecting all the time on what happened. But I just wanted to share what Valerie sent along.”
“Please,” Esme said. “Just let me go to sleep. I’m exhausted.” She wet her lips. “Maybe I’m taking things too far right now. But I just can’t talk to you about Joel tonight. It will rip me apart.”
Victor bowed his head and closed his computer. He felt as foolish and young as a ten-year-old boy. Slowly, he slunk back to his sofa bed. Esme turned off the light a few minutes later, and they lay there in darkness. Victor knew Esme was still awake; he could sense her there. He could hear her tossing and turning at odd times.
He hated that she’d taken what he was doing as a manipulation tactic.
But it reminded him of old parables.
Once someone had hurt you, they were apt to do it again. You had to protect yourself from them. Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me. And Esme had been burned by Victor so, so many times.
Shame on me, Victor thought.