The Best of Us (28 page)

“Someone’s been watching the Weather Channel,” Savannah said. “Listen to Meteorologist Gio Antonelli, tossing around fancy terms.”

“Should we be concerned, though?” Allie asked.

For some reason, the formality of her words struck Tina as hilarious. She doubled over laughing.

“If we need to leave, we’ll go inland,” Pauline said. “If we get far enough away from the water, we should be fine.”

“They’ve named the hurricane Betty,” Ryan said. “You can’t be scared by a hurricane named Betty.”

“That’s true,” Savannah said. “Betty is just going to pinch your cheeks and tell you how big you’ve grown. She’ll offer you cookies. She’d never rip the roof off your house.”

“Whoa!” Tina yelled as lightning erupted in the sky again. “Betty doesn’t like the way you’re making fun of her!”

“If Betty turns on us . . . would we stay in a hotel inland?” Allie asked.

“I guess so,” Pauline said, reaching for the joint again.

“You’re exhibiting an admirable lack of planning,” Savannah said. “Not that you were anal before. Whoops, did I say anal? I meant . . . focused. You were highly focused. Like a laser beam. A red, glowing, pointy—”

“Hold on,” Allie said, lifting up a hand like a stop sign. “Is that a car I hear?”

“Maybe Gary called a cab again,” Dwight said. “He could be leaving.”

Allie stood up and looked toward the driveway. “It’s definitely a car . . . it’s stopping and someone’s getting out. I can’t see anything else, though. It’s too dark.”

“Probably the cabdriver,” Tina said. She looked at Savannah, who stood up. “You’re not going to say good-bye to him, are you?”

Savannah bit her lower lip. “What should I do? I mean, he came all this way and I didn’t even talk to him.”

“Oh, screw him!” Tina said. “He cheated on you. He dumped you! And now he suddenly wants you back just because he and his girlfriend broke up?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Savannah said, but she didn’t sit back down. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, Tina.”

“Think about how I feel,” Tina said. “I took off your pants and you never called me in the morning.”

“It’s kind of hot, the way you two keep talking about that,” Gio said.

“You are so—” Tina cut her sentence off.

“Tina? What are you looking at?” Ryan turned around.

A policeman was standing there.

“Shit!” Savannah yelled. She looked down at the joint she was holding, then flung it into the pool.

The police officer walked over to the side of the pool and looked down.

“We weren’t doing anything!” Tina cried—admittedly not a rousing defense, she thought.

“Smoking ganja is illegal in Jamaica,” the officer said.

“Oh, man, we’re sorry,” Gio said. “It was one tiny joint.”

“Still illegal,” the officer said.

“Oh, my God,” Tina cried. “You can’t put us in jail. You can’t!”

“Don’t give him any ideas!” Savannah hissed.

“Excuse me, Officer.” Everyone looked up at the sound of Gary’s voice.

“I’d like to apologize on behalf of my friends,” Gary said, walking over to stand between them and the policeman. “Someone they met on the beach gave them a tiny bit of marijuana. They’re all upstanding citizens. They don’t usually do things like this.”

Tina held her breath and watched the officer weigh Gary’s words. Suddenly Gary’s formal manner and gray suit were an asset—they gave him a gravitas sorely needed in this situation. He looked like a lawyer.

“Just this one time,” the officer said.

“We appreciate it, sir,” Gary responded. Tina almost leapt up to hug the officer, then thought the better of it.

“Someone was mugged?” the officer said. “I’m here to take a report.”

“That would be me,” Ryan said. “But I got my watch back!” He stood up and walked over to the officer, who pulled out a little notebook.

“I hope he’s sober enough to keep his story straight,” Tina whispered to Gio.

“I just hope he can remember his own name,” Gio whispered back, and Tina snorted. She snuggled closer to her husband, feeling the stubble on his jawline tickle her forehead.

“Can we spend a little time alone tomorrow morning?” she whispered. “Maybe have breakfast in bed?”

“Sure,” he said. He kissed her on the temple, and she closed her eyes and smiled. In the early days of their marriage, she and Gio had always fallen asleep entwined around each other, but now a child—sometimes more than one child—climbed into their bed and wedged between them every night. On this trip, though, their bodies had fit back together as if no time had passed—her back pressed against his chest, his arm around her waist. She hadn’t slept so well in ages.

Ryan and the officer were walking back over to the chairs, with Ryan seeming to make a special effort to put his feet down carefully.

“You’re keeping an eye on the storm, right?” the police officer said. “You may have to evacuate.”

“Yes,” Gary said. “I’ve got the TV on now. Thank you for your concern.”

The officer nodded, then walked away and got back into his car. Everyone was silent as he drove off, then Gio spoke up. “Nice job, man.”

“Seriously, Gary, that cop scared me,” Allie said. “I thought
about offering him a bribe, then I wondered if it would make things worse. I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Gary said. He cleared his throat. “Savannah? I’d like it if we could talk now.”

Tina watched as Savannah stood there, staring at Gary. He’d saved them from the cop, but he hadn’t even said please to Savannah.

“Fine,” Savannah finally said, and they went into the house together.

“Well, that’s a bummer,” Gio remarked.

“Why?” Ryan asked. “You don’t think she should talk to him?”

“No.” Gio shook his head. “She drowned our joint, and she’s got the rest of the pot.”

PAULINE OPENED THE SLIDING
door to her bedroom’s balcony to let in the gentle breeze. It was another flawless day; you’d never believe a storm was coming.

“Good morning,” Dwight said, walking up behind her.

“Hi,” Pauline said. “When do they expect the hurricane to reach land?”

“Tonight,” Dwight said. “At least, that’s the best guess. But it’s not going to hit us directly; it’s still on course for Cuba.”

“Still, with the wind and everything . . .” Pauline said. “Maybe we should go to a hotel. It could veer in our direction. They said that last night; I heard it on the television.”

“Naw, let’s stay,” Dwight said. “The guys are already here putting up plywood just to be safe, and it’s only going to be a Category Two.”

“What does the hurricane scale go up to again—ten?” Pauline asked.

“Five,” Dwight said. “But that’s rare. Two is considered moderate.”

“Right, I knew that,” Pauline said. She’d seen it on the Weather Channel just yesterday, along with a diagram of the respective
intensities of different-level hurricanes. A two wasn’t supposed to be so horrible—trees would come down, but sturdy structures like houses shouldn’t suffer much damage.

Her brain felt fuzzy, so she went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Usually she got up earlier than Dwight, but she’d woken late today—it was almost nine. She’d had trouble sleeping, and it wasn’t just because of all the yelling coming from Savannah’s room.

She tried to think if there was anything they needed to do to prepare to leave quickly. Maybe they should all pack, just in case. She went back into the bedroom and discovered Dwight still standing there, looking at her. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“Oh! Happy birthday,” she said after a moment, realizing belatedly that her tone was flat. Last year she’d woken him with breakfast in bed—French toast and apple-smoked bacon and strawberries—and they’d ended the night at the chef’s table in the kitchen at the legendary restaurant The Inn at Little Washington. She’d had a massage therapist come to the house after lunch, and there had been a pile of presents on Dwight’s side of the bed when they returned from dinner.

She had some things for him tucked in the back of the closet here, and the chef had been planning a special dinner . . . But of course, Dwight had told her the chef had left because he was superstitious about the storm. She supposed she should do something else—make an effort—but she couldn’t. Her usual energy had evaporated. Therese consumed all of her thoughts.

She recalled her phone call with her mother last night: They’d spoken right before Pauline had gone out to the pool to smoke weed with everyone, and it had been the discussion of funeral arrangements that had made Pauline crave pot—even though she’d smoked it only once before. But last night, she’d been desperate for oblivion. They’d decided to bury Therese in
their family plot on Sunday, the day after Pauline and Dwight returned from Jamaica. Pauline would tell Dwight about her sister’s death on the drive home from the airport, she’d decided.

Now she looked at her husband, standing there in his baggy Levi’s and a shirt he’d picked up on his last business trip to New York. The shirt was an awful Hawaiian print, purple clashing with yellow, the sort of thing an older, color-blind man might choose. Dwight had probably bought it from a street vendor. Pauline hadn’t had the heart to be honest when he’d modeled it for her, saying, “Won’t this be perfect for Jamaica?”

Oh, Dwight,
she thought. Why had she ever cared about his wardrobe—about the image he projected? Her husband was so kind and generous and good; he was the best person she knew. Maybe she never would have married him if it hadn’t been for his money, but his money wasn’t the only reason she stayed with him.

Suddenly she regretted pretending to be asleep last night when he’d begun to stroke her hip. She couldn’t make love to him, not with images of Therese still so fresh in her mind. So she’d remained immobile, until she’d heard him sigh and roll away. She’d felt so terribly alone as she listened to him breathing in the darkness.

Now she felt the urge to spill out all her secrets: the abortion, her fears of not being able to get pregnant again, Therese’s death. Dwight might be upset, but she thought—hoped—he’d forgive her.

She took a step toward him, feeling the words surge up inside her, suddenly desperate for the release of saying them aloud.

But just before she spoke his name, someone beat her to it. “Dwight?”

She turned to see Allie standing in the doorway.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Allie said. “I just wanted to let you guys know breakfast is ready.”

“Breakfast?” Pauline asked.

“Tina and I made it,” Allie said. “And Dwight helped. The birthday boy mixed the eggs!”

“I can smell it from here,” Dwight said. He began to walk away from Pauline.

Her disappointment mingled with relief. Maybe her impulse was a mistake. Maybe Dwight wouldn’t be able to forgive her, after all.

“I’m just going to shower,” Pauline called after them. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

But Dwight was already heading down the hallway, laughing at something Allie was saying. If he heard his wife, he didn’t acknowledge her.

*   *   *

Savannah woke up with a familiar bedmate: a throbbing headache. She pulled herself to a standing position and headed toward the bathroom for Tylenol and a glass of water. Then she stopped, one foot held high in the air. She’d almost stepped on someone.

Gary was sleeping on the floor, rolled up like a burrito in a thin blanket.

He let out a faint snore, and Savannah smiled despite herself. He’d forgotten to pack something to sleep in—which he’d revealed after she came out of the bathroom and yelled at him awhile longer—so she’d tossed him the blanket from the end of the bed and told him to deal with it. Then she’d turned on the air-conditioning extra high and hunkered down under a cozy quilt.

When she’d imagined the possibility of Gary showing up—which she’d allowed herself to do exactly once—she’d envisioned telling him off, then watching him leave for the airport with his head hanging low. She’d anticipated feeling a sense of
vindication as she finally wrote the last chapter of the sad story of her marriage.

But not only had she mispredicted Gary’s actions, she’d misjudged her own response to him.

The icy, cutting woman who’d taunted Gary in the phone call by the pool had disappeared last night. The pot and the memories of long, lonely days without Gary—and worse, so much worse, the nights—seemed to join forces against Savannah, clouding her mind and making her lose her bearings. She’d fought her way out of the fog, powered by her fury. Her hatred for Gary was so strong that she knew she hadn’t stopped loving him yet.

If Gary had acted arrogantly, or tossed off an inadequate apology, it would have been simpler. Maybe then she would’ve been able to keep her composure. But there were tears in his eyes when he told her he loved her, that he’d always loved her. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he’d do whatever she wanted—go through counseling, take a break from their marriage, go away somewhere together . . . Savannah could set the tone for everything that happened next. The only thing Gary asked was that she call off the divorce.

“What makes you think I still love you?” she’d asked, hating the way her voice broke on the word
love
.

“Hope,” he’d said.

It would have been the perfect moment for her to deny it, to order him to leave, but instead, she’d started to cry. He’d stood up and put his arms around her, and for a few seconds, she’d allowed herself to lean into him.

“I’ve missed you,” he’d said, kissing her hair.

She’d smelled the citrusy cologne she’d given him for his last birthday, two days before she discovered the BlackBerry messages.

“Don’t touch me!” she’d yelled, whirling away. She’d wrapped
her arms around herself and sunk down on the bed, feeling old wounds inside of her ripping open.

“I hate you!” she’d yelled. “Why did you have to come?”

“You asked me to,” he’d said.

“I didn’t
want
you to, though!” she’d cried. Seeing him again was awful. She didn’t feel triumphant; she felt more vulnerable than ever before. It was even worse than the day Gary had left their home with his stupid, useless barbells.