#82 LOVE SQUARED: PART II

CAROLYN

My name is Carolyn Ryder, I’m sixty-six years old and bored out of my mind. I sound like a petulant teenager. I realize that’s not the most original statement, who isn’t at times? But I’ve been blasé in my marriage for well over...well, maybe forever. James Ryder, my husband, wasn’t my first choice. I’d been jilted by someone I felt more passion for but that is a long and very old story. In any case, choice number one is no longer living but I had the satisfaction of hearing him say he’d made a mistake marrying my good friend, Sharon Adams. Some days I resolve to find myself and put an end to the lethargy that I drag around with me everywhere, on other days, I determine to be a good sport, appreciate what I have and carry on.

I am married to a good though stodgy man. We live in a airy modern condo in San Francisco that we purchased after our children moved away. We have two children, Brooke, 34, and Brandon, 36. They live on the East coast. We don’t have grandchildren yet. I think Brandon might be gay. He hasn’t broken the news to us yet but I have my suspicions. His sister, in a pique, lobbed a few hints my way.

James and I thought we would travel after retirement, take up hobbies, and enjoy our so-called golden years similar to the ads in the AARP Magazine. We have enough money, good health, live in a lively city where we are a part of the community, but for some reason, we've reached the golden years and are fresh out of inspiration. There hasn’t been an idea put forth by either one of us that will take us out of our ennui. We just move through our days, barely talking, going about our separate pursuits and once a week have dinner in the same restaurant we have been frequenting for decades, usually ordering the same thing. James might like to try something new; he often mentions places he reads about in the newspaper but I have been on a constant diet since I turned fifty-five when I started to gain weight. Mother Nature’s little joke: just when we need all the comfort we can get, food is no longer an option. So I started fanatically dieting and have never so much as looked at a dish of pasta since then.

I took the onset of middle-age hard because…well, full disclosure, I had a love affair that ended badly (not to my liking) and my self-esteem plummeted but I’m being subtle. I really should say I wanted to die, but that sounds overly dramatic. I did not think I could live without love. It seems foolish now to have been so overwrought. But just when I think I’m over it, something pops into my mind and I feel completely stranded--like I’m on high alert watching and waiting for someone to find the raft on which I’ve floated to oblivion. Not death exactly, but just a dead weight. I did not take rejection well--still have not forgiven…

Yes, I’m an unfaithful spouse. I’m not particularly bothered by it from a moral standpoint. In fact, I had planned on asking James for a divorce to marry Blake so enraptured was I, a middle-aged married woman, mother of two, an accountant at a conservative firm, and friends with most of the high-heeled women of San Francisco. I don’t mean their shoe style, but their stature. Women who worked for the City; politicians, socialites, entrepreneurs. My husband was a partner in a prominent law firm. We knew everyone, I worked on numerous campaigns, did my share of fund-raising over the years and if you saw my desk, you would see me photographed with all the players including Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. James has a picture of himself with Dick Cheney but I don’t think it trumps my Clintons.

I retired five years ago and instead of doing all that volunteer work I was slated for, I got the real estate bug after selling our home in Forest Hill and purchasing our flat on Jackson Street. I got my license and started a new career. The housing bubble was in full swing at the time and I was taken on by a friend whose agency was signing foot soldiers like the army after 9/11. This allowed me to work in a new field, keep up my contacts and social life, help a friend and make some money to supplement my pension. Who knew retirement would be so much fun? Then the market tanked, my husband has retired and is home all day and I can’t for the life of me, find inspiration for anything. Sometimes I wish I had gotten divorced. I think I would feel free to explore. As it is, I’m as slumped as the economy.

And I miss Blake. That was the name of the man I was so enamored with. I use the past tense but in truth, in is probably safe to include the present tense. He was also married and we both took it for granted that neither of us would be changing our status at any time. I don’t know why we were so fixed on staying married. Okay, that is not true. Blake was fixed on staying married. As I said, I wanted to chuck it all and move in with him. He wouldn’t. He said he loved his wife Julia and that she would be lost without him. Right! What century was he living in? I was pretty miffed when he admitted he loved his wife. That is not something you tell your mistress even if it’s true. You are supposed to pretend you are misunderstood, haven’t slept together in years and are only staying in the marriage because of the children. Blake and Julia had no children so I couldn’t put the onus on them. My children were in college or about to be. No, Blake was always brutally honest.
“I never want to deceive you, Caro,” he would say. “I have no intention of ever divorcing. I hope you understand that. I don’t think you really want to divorce either. We have the freedom to see each other whenever we want. Let’s not spoil things.”
And in truth, I didn’t really want to divorce so much as I wanted him to want me above all others. It hurt my self-esteem that he was content to be with someone else. For a while there, we went at it hot and heavy, excuse the crude cliché, and I wanted all of him and thought he should feel the same way. I was a typical woman in this regard. Once I knew his feelings, that he was content with things the way they were, I wanted to break up his marriage, as well as my own, and it became of sort of obsession. I’m admitting things I shouldn’t. I'm really at loose ends…to be looking within like this. It’s not my style.

Then there was Julia, his wife. She was at least twelve years younger than he was and at least five or six years younger than me. This sort of irritated me. The mistress is not supposed to be older than the wife. And she was attractive in her own way, I guess. I mean, she was a natural type, you know, she didn’t touch up her hair, go out of her way to be fashionable, hardly wore makeup even though she was not flawless, for God’s sake, get a clue. We did not travel in the same circle, she was more arty although I could never figure out what her real game was.

The only reason I knew much about her at all is because I made a point of checking her out when I found out she worked in a certain gallery. I do not usually visit galleries but Blake let slip once where she worked and I took a couple lunch hours and did a little gallery hopping. Never once did I see her. Finally I made note of an opening reception scheduled and attended with one of my girlfriends. There she was, in her hippie-dippy outfit, long hair wearing a sort of Victorian pendant and earring set that really looked old-fashioned. She was attractive but definitely not au courant. She did not look younger than me; some consolation. At least if I couldn’t interest Blake in leaving her, I could be satisfied that she wasn’t better looking than me.
“She’ll age badly,” said my friend Linda. “She’s too serious. She should do something with that hair. It’s foreboding.”
It was good to have a more objective opinion.

We left without looking at the art. I didn’t think I could talk to Julia if she should happen to corner us. I know nothing about art nor care and was certainly not buying anything I saw hanging in that particular show. James likes art and used to haul me and the kids to museums when we traveled. Luckily for me, the kids groaned whenever he mentioned a museum and he usually went alone. When Brooke got older she developed an interest in art and would accompany him while Brandon and I went shopping. Now that James is retired he goes to museums in the afternoon to get out of the house. Thank God for that. I really hate having him underfoot all day. Right now I haven’t got anything to do; the agency laid me off until the recession is over and the housing market rebounds. No one is putting anything on the market in this economy. James says to be patient; it will all start up again eventually. “One day you will wake up and it will all be over,” he said, “like it never happened.” Really? What does he know?

But back to Blake; he is who I want to concentrate on. He and I had a nice thing going for about three and a half years. He was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. He was exciting and he smelled divine, a combination of truffles and cloves. He owned a restaurant where the power brokers used to lunch. That was before San Francisco was inundated with new restaurants opening every week. Then, we had our favorites and patronized them. We did not restaurant hop in those days, but were loyal to one or two. It’s not like that now. Everyone is reading reviews, looking at websites and running all over the Bay Area trying to be in the know; following certain chefs from place to place. It’s rather promiscuous. James and I go to the same two or three places we have always gone to. We know the maitre d, the wine steward, the waiters. That is what I enjoy in dining out; seeing the same faces, knowing what you order will be to your liking.

I met Blake in his restaurant one day while he was acting as host. Later I learned he was the owner. I kept going back for lunch and he invited me to have a drink with him in the bar one day. I started hanging out in his place after work. I’d bring a group of friends or coworkers. This led to a few cocktails alone with him. Then a few dinners together. He had a room above the restaurant where he sometimes stayed after a late closing. In those days, he catered a lot of parties. It became our little love nest. I even decorated it. After he sold the restaurant, we took weekend trips together and once we flew to New York for a week. I think Julia was in Italy or someplace, “soaking up the culture,” he said. At that time, he showed me his house in the outer Richmond. I couldn’t believe someone with his money and pizzazz lived in such a dump. “I expected you to live in a sumptuous home,” I said sort of shocked. “To match your personality…” He said it had been his parents house and had recently caught fire from faulty wiring. He admitted Julia didn’t like it either. It was too dark. I joked that his wife set it on fire hoping to burn it to the ground and get something new. For some reason he didn’t find that funny…it was just a silly joke. I noticed after that he became more serious and less user-friendly, you could say.

So we began drifting apart. Well no, that’s not the truth either. One day he announced he had bought a new flat for Julia. He said she had finally convinced him to sell the old place and buy something modern and closer to town. She wanted walkability, a new buzz word in San Francisco real estate jargon. When I found out what they bought I was seething. Mad with jealousy, really. It was a superb renovated flat in Pacific Heights. The thought of Julia getting it soured me on Blake for some reason. Why was he buying her this extravagant home at this time? I guess some part of me always thought he would eventually leave her and we would set up housekeeping in just such a place. It was exactly the sort of home I coveted. And I was unable to forget about it either. The developer had trouble with the City over restoration and the disputes were chronicled in the newspaper every day for about a month. I was not allowed to forget Julia and Blake’s dream flat.

We faltered on for another six months and then he said we had to stop seeing each other. He said his health was not so good but didn’t go into details. I knew it was his heart, I looked at his prescriptions and googled them. Those goddamn steps up to their flat proved to be a big mistake. They didn’t kill him but they didn’t help. I blame Julia. Just because.

Our finale was staged with a lavish lunch in the Financial District. Blake presented me with a lovely gold bracelet that was engraved with a parting message. I could do nothing but weep quietly; his reason for the busy restaurant in the middle of the day. Why are men so manipulating? He knew I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in that particular restaurant. I accepted the bracelet gracefully but I was not happy; I am not happy. Past and present tense.

I put our spacious family dwelling on the market and we moved a couple blocks away from them. Unplanned, I swear, but a fact nevertheless. Blake never knew. One day I saw him walking with Julia as they passed by our building. He had aged a lot since I’d last seen him. Julia looked the same but with shorter hair. This made her look younger; like the dutiful daughter walking the old man. My husband looked young compared to him but James never had Blake’s wit or energy. I’ve never felt about James the way I felt about Blake and that is why I’m musing over old times. I’m dissatisfied, cooped up and wishing for a way to find myself again. And by that I mean, my inner woman who feels as dried up as one of those hanging ducks in the Chinese markets. The juice squeezed out.

Blake died four years ago. I went to the funeral and saw Julia in her long black dress. I didn’t introduce myself. As far as I know, she never knew about my affair with her husband. When the tears came, I left. I really wanted to look at his body up close but was hesitant. I wanted to be alone to cry and say a few words of parting, to touch him. I did no such thing. No use making a spectacle or causing suspicion at that point. But I was most definitely resentful at being denied...bereavement.

Blake is my past but I wish the present would hold some of his zip, his vigor. That is what I miss when I think of Blake. He loved to laugh and entertain people. He loved a crowd. His wife, so passive, so wallflowery, seemed a mismatch. And yet, he was devoted to her. I never quite accepted this fact. What did she have that I didn’t? I could not compete with her because we were not playing the same game. She was other-worldly and provoked me by her hold on Blake for reasons I have not ever understood. How I wished she would just blow away.

JULIA

Ryder and I spent a good deal of time together after that first dinner on Union Street. He would leave his home in the morning and be with me by eleven. We would lunch in my flat, something similar to the afternoon tea the English partake of: small cakes, tarts, scones, watercress or cucumber sandwiches and deviled eggs. James is English, born in London. His parents immigrated to the states shortly after World War II. His younger sister was killed in a bombing raid and his mother wanted nothing to do with Europe from then on. When they had a chance to leave, they left. James was only seven years old. Occasionally I detect a slight English accent and it is charming. He makes an excellent pot of tea; he orders it from a shop in Mayfair. You see we are still in present tense. Am I giving away the ending?

My husband, Blake, had a rambunctious Massachusetts accent. Blake was wildly extroverted and Ryder is quiet. I find him consoling at this time in my life. He says his wife Carolyn finds him boring. I can see that might be the case if you were married to him for forty-seven years and had run out of things to talk about. His wit does not sparkle, his opinions are measured, his bearing is conservative. But that is only the surface: He has an abiding love for painting, genuinely appreciates classical music and likes to walk all over the City, pointing out its history and development. I am never bored in his company. He does not need to fill space with his presence as so many men do. My husband was a hand-grabber, a back-slapper, a gregarious socializer. I often felt older even though I was twelve years younger. Before he had his restaurant downtown, he used to drag me to endless parties, sporting events, boating excursions and wine tastings where I always melted into the background, the perpetual wallflower. He used to laugh and say, You’d probably be content to sit on the couch and read those dang books every night if I didn’t make you come out. He was probably right. He called me his Bohemian rhapsody. His sister once referred to me as an old hippie. I was offended: I wasn’t old nor had I ever been a hippie. The best thing about Blake was his love of music, all different kinds. He liked opera and symphonic music as well as Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett.

Once he opened the restaurant, he had a playing field every night and we no longer had to socialize at all. Everyone came to him. He worked long hours and I saw less of him than before and spent more time alone. I was forlorn in the dark flat so I volunteered in a museum and that was the start of my career in art. Eventually I worked for a small gallery, then another small gallery and then a major gallery. It did not happen overnight; it took quite a few years to find my place and learn the ropes of selling a product that is expensive and not necessarily one’s daily bread. I had to learn about investment quality whereas before my attention was strictly for aesthetics. My best years were those spent selling aesthetic value to those looking to invest. It gets tricky but if the quality is not there, it is no investment; it will eventually fall flat. I never tried to fool anyone. So many artists had their day, made a splash but there wasn’t enough there for the long haul. I won’t name names.

Speaking of names, there is one name that still eludes me. My husband had a mistress though details are scant. She may not have been the only one for all I know. I never presented him with my evidence, did not care to disturb the tranquility that was necessary after he developed a heart condition. One day he asked me to sort through some old papers; he was looking for a missing invoice that he needed for the IRS who audited him once again the year before he died. While searching for the missing invoice I came across another invoice, from a jewelry store that is no longer in business. It was for a gold bracelet, engraved with the words, To lovely C. for our golden moments. B. There is was. Not to be denied. But I did. It was too late for confrontations and I hadn’t the heart for it anyway: my darling husband was fading. I never spoke of this to anyone until one day I mentioned it to Ryder. He said something about his wife possibly having an affair, but that he never confronted her nor sought any details. He asked me if I thought this was the normal way a man would act in such a circumstance. I told him about finding the invoice for the bracelet and not letting on. His reply was, “We are alike in so many ways, Julia. How did I live without you?”

Ryder called me early on a sunny, vibrant Thursday that sizzled with possibility. I was going to suggest that we go out somewhere when he phoned.
“Julia, do you want to meet me in the Fillmore this afternoon? I’ve got an errand to run and we might as well have lunch.”
“I’d love to. The usual place?”
“I’ll see you there around one-thirty.”

I meandered around Fillmore Street and bought a pair of shoes. It had been some time since I’d treated myself to anything. I scraped the money together for the roof repairs and with that worry banished, I felt like celebrating. Spring was in the air and I had been contacted by a former client in L.A. who wanted to sell a few pieces in his collection and I happened to know the DeYoung might be interested in them. This felt like the start of my career as an independent dealer. The first step after the heavy blanket had been lifted from the atmosphere and we were once again free to think of things besides depleted stock portfolios, sinking home prices and the questionable recovery. Maybe I would recover my own initiative and fly after all.

We were seated at a table in a corner, Ryder looking over the wine list. Ever since that first day in the cab when he introduced himself as Ryder, I stuck with that name. He often referred to himself by his last name. He said his wife calls him James so he prefers that I call him Ryder.
“You don’t know how glad I am to have the roof repair behind me,” I said. The roof itself is not actually repaired but I’ve handed over the money and can now be relieved of the burden. But it leaves me pretty depleted.”
“Would you like to borrow some money, Julia?”
“No, no, no…that’s not what I meant. I’m okay.”
“If you ever need anything, just ask.”
“Thank you, dear. I would not like to borrow money from you.”
“Well then, just ask to have it.”
“And you will fork it over, like your last bite of cheesecake?”
“I will give you whatever you need or want. Just so you know that.”
“Thank you, my dear. So, what brings you out today?”
“Oh, I had to see my doctor.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No. Nothing so far.”
“That’s a relief.
“What would you like to order?”
“Salad Nicoise, white wine, no bread.”
“Not dieting, I hope?”
“Just a light lunch for me today.”
“That’s what I’ll have too.”

We were merrily munching our salads commenting on how much longer it took to eat salad than pasta. “My jaw is tried of crunching up those vegetables,” I said.
“Gives us time to savor the atmosphere and drink more wine,” he said.
We were on our third glass when I noticed a woman sitting across the restaurant looking my way. She was staring at me and I wondered if I should know her from somewhere. She seemed vaguely familiar but it did not come to me so I forgot about her and kept on grazing in my salad bowl, the size of a basketball.

As the woman was preparing to leave, putting on lipstick, signing the bill, she kept an eye on our table. She was not visible to Ryder so I didn’t mention that someone was staring at me. I thought maybe she had been a former client in the gallery and hoped I wouldn’t be put in the awkward position of speaking to her, not knowing her name. As she was coming our way, she looked at me but kept on walking. That is until she did a double take, turned back, having recognized her own husband.
“James. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” she sputtered.
“Just having a little lunch. How about you?” What finesse he displayed. He was a marvel of sanguinity.
“Lunching, obviously,” she said in a terse voice making an effort at control
“Carolyn, this is Mrs. Durham. Julia Durham. Julia, this is my wife Carolyn.”
“How do you do,” I said. That was all I could get out. I sounded cold when I should have, for appearance's sake, projected a friendly attitude. I was downright suspicious acting.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “ I’ll see you at home James. Enjoy your lunch.” The sarcasm heavy with innuendo and antagonism almost froze my blood.
Off she went, her friend gaping as they trotted out on their high heels. James looked a little red in the face but regained his composure and only met my eyes with a bemused look.
“Don’t worry Julia. I’m actually glad she saw us. I very much enjoyed the look of shock on her face. She underestimates me. For the past two years she hasn’t said a word to me about my whereabouts. Every day I get up, take a cup of coffee and leave. Every day she ignores me, focuses on her own day, relieved to have me out of the house. Hasn’t she ever wondered where I go? Do I just walk the streets all day? She has never displayed the slightest curiosity. It’s insulting, really.”
He paid the bill and we walked to my place. He didn’t mention her again. I said, “She’s an attractive woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I believe she is considered so,” was his curt reply.
“Ryder, you are going to be in a heaping pile of trouble tonight?”
“I don’t see how I can be. I am my own man. As she is her own woman.”
“But she looked really upset. And confused. I felt sorry for her, with that friend pretending outrage behind a barely concealed smirk.”
“Good. Let her be confused. Let’s take a nap in your comfortably plush bed for the rest of the afternoon and listen to Vivaldi. I don’t want to go home just yet.”

Ryder was especially passionate that afternoon during our nap. He wanted to devour me and it felt delicious. It was six before we got up. I made us a cup of tea and he reluctantly left. Afterward I tried to imagine what would happen when he arrived home. I could not stop thinking of the look on Carolyn’s face. She would not be ignoring his whereabouts now, Ryder would have some explaining to do. Did I mention that he was holding my hand at the table when she spotted him? Poor Ryder. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I knew her from. Somewhere in the past, I’d encountered her.

For the record, she was more than attractive; she looked a little like Jane Fonda. She wore perfectly tailored slacks with high heels, an ivory silk blouse with a gray cashmere sweater draped around her neck. Her makeup was applied with professional artistry, her hair was expertly highlighted and cut. Her jewelry was gold but subtle. She had that polished, pulled-together look I'd always hoped to emulate but could never quite pull off. I felt like a rag doll in her presence. Somehow I never pictured Ryder with a glamorous wife.

I spent the night wondering if Ryder would give me up now. We were in love but what did that mean? We never talked of the future. We played like children without fear of consequences. What were we thinking? What did I want? I found no answers that night. I thought I might need some distance and began planning a trip. Then felt cowardly, running away from trouble.

JAMES

It was bound to happen, I suppose. San Francisco is a small city. Yes, I was a little rattled at seeing my wife in the restaurant. I kept cool for Julia’s sake. It was unfortunate that I was holding her hand or I could easily explain it away as an old colleague, a member of my wine appreciation group, someone from my accountant’s office. Now I would have some accounting of another kind when I got home. I was sorry Carolyn had to see us in that unexpected way. She would hate most that the friend was witness to the spectacle of her husband canoodling with a woman in public in the afternoon without a care in the world. She would be unforgiving about that.

I entered our flat with a feeling of weariness. The day had been long and Julia and I didn’t really have a proper nap. For some reason, I had to make her aware of my ardor. It was apprehension I felt. Not because of Carolyn, but fear Julia would want to call things off now that we were outed, as they say. I would have rather stayed at Julia’s and made a simple dinner, an omelet or a steak sandwich. Julia was a good cook and had a lot of professional equipment from her husband’s restaurant. She had a Italian espresso machine and the sort of high-end cookware you find in Europe. It was a pleasure to sit on a stool and watch her prepare meals. At these times I felt I was waking from a deep sleep wondering why I had slept so long moving about in a life not especially fortifying.

But return home I did. What else could I do? Carolyn was pacing the living room when I entered.
“So he deigns to return to his own home after an afternoon of God only knows what. James, really. You could have given me some kind of warning?”
“What would you have said if I had?”
“Any number of things but at least Jan wouldn’t have had to witness my humiliation. Thank you. It’s all over town by this time. Where may I ask did you meet Mrs. Durham? How long have you two known each other?”
“I met her at the museum two years ago, approximately. It was right after I retired and you banished me from our kingdom on a rainy day. We happened to meet in the café and shared a taxi home.”
“I see. And you never knew her before that?”
“No, why would I?”
“No reason. And I suppose you have been spending your days in her flat, less than two blocks from here. All this time I thought you went to the Mechanics Institute Library every day, playing chess, writing your memoirs. Instead you were creating memories.”
“You have never, by the way, asked where I spend my days. A complete lack of curiosity in a wife, wouldn’t you say? And by the way, how do you know where Mrs. Durham lives? You weren’t having me followed now were you, Carolyn?”
Carolyn had to stall before answering that question. How could she explain how she knew where Julia lived? She let down her guard and now would have to dissemble like mad.
“I’ve seen her around the neighborhood. I’m in real estate; I know something about the neighborhood. I remember when her building went co-op after that big remodel. All the hassles the City gave the builders over restoration and codes. It was always in the paper at that time.”
“Yes but how do you know Mrs. Durham lives there?”
“I see her around. She walks past our building…little did I know what she was up to.”
“She is not up to anything, Carolyn. She has been keeping me company, has been a good friend since I retired. You did not want the position, had better things to do with your time than sit around with me…I think that’s what you said. I was underfoot. In your way.”
“Look James, I’m not going to play word games with you. What do you plan on doing?”
“Doing?
“Yes James, doing. As in carrying on with one woman while married to another. Usually people do something when it comes to light. You end things with her, you separate from the wife, you take a trip together and let the other thing fall off…I mean, James, come on.”
“I should think you might have something to say about this doing, as you put it. What would you like to do, Carolyn?”
“I’d like to murder that detestable woman! Her serenity, her stupid long trailing skirts as if she’s about to step into her carriage, her conceit!” Her voice was shrill, her hands were flapping about the air looking for something to swat.
“Come now Carolyn, she’s not that much of a threat to you. Why the drama? I can’t believe a three-minute encounter filled you with such bile. Are you jealous? I must say I find that a little difficult to swallow.”

Carolyn did not, for once, have an answer. She bit her lip but I could tell she didn’t have it in her to shed tears. Our marriage, I think I explained, was not one of passion and she would have had to do some acting to make me believe she was wretched on my account. As I predicted, she was mad at being taken unawares in her friend’s company. But even in this regard, she was mildly indifferent. Something was bothering her that went beyond that afternoon‘s encounter but Carolyn would not give up any information easily. Secretive had always been her formula. After her outburst, she left the room, said she had a headache and ordered me to sleep in the spare room. Her last words were, “…and this Mrs. Durham, Julia, is she really so wonderful as all that? What do men see in her?”

I didn’t know what men she was referring to. I sat on the sofa until three in the morning. I thought of our life together, our children. Then I thought of Julia and how much she meant to me. Would I, could I, propose to her? Would she accept? Could I leave Carolyn? For some reason none of the answers came. When you are old, things that might have been paramount in younger years, lose their impact. In truth, I did not believe Julia wanted to change her life to accommodate me. Or would she? I fell asleep on the couch and woke up early with Carolyn standing over me.
“I’d still like to know what you plan on doing, James. Think about it. I’d like to discuss our future but be forewarned: never mention that woman to me again.”
She slammed the door and I was left with my rambling, incoherent thinking, unable to comprehend why I had to do anything but vaguely excited at the prospect.

CAROLYN

Oh, how much bile there was within me. James was right about that. I could not stand the thought of that woman once again showing up in my life. Why? Why was I being tormented again by Julia Durham? I could not bear thinking of her. Seeing her sitting in that restaurant with my husband gazing rapturously into her eyes made me nauseated. Who was this woman sent to torment me forever; never to be done with her? I really did not know quite how much animosity toward her I still carried around. I tried to analyze it rationally: if James had been with another woman, would I have felt so much rancor? I tried to picture another woman sitting across from him and I couldn’t. James is not what you would call a ladies’ man. He’s bumbling, unimaginative, dull. How it God’s name did he introduce himself to Julia? How did she take an interest in him after a dynamic husband like Blake? He’s an old man, for heaven’s sake. She’s no ingénue but she still has that youthful appearance that makes me want to throttle her. She doesn’t even dye her bloody awful gray hair and still she has the air of someone who wakes up everyday with something to sing about. How I despise her! Yes, I disliked her intensely when Blake was alive, I had reasons, I think I mentioned them. But now this! Why is she poaching on my territory again? I could not sleep all night thinking these terrible thoughts and then I had to consider what I would do if James decides he wants to separate. Would he dare? I suppose he would if Julia wanted it. Doesn’t she always get what she wants? Would she want James? I don’t know her well enough. What I do know is not objective; a vile twisted jealousy. I despise that woman, that is all I keep thinking. Why? Because her husband would not leave her for me. I thought I was over it. I thought the past was dead. Now I’m filled with the same rage I once suffered. Would James leave me for her? Would my kids have to know her, have her in their lives? Oh, such intolerable circumstances, can I be forced to endure them? I have to prevent James from leaving, if only to spite Julia. I have to stop that wretched woman from taking any more from me than she already has. I will thwart her finally. It’s too late for Blake but I will stop her from taking James from me somehow. I thought I wanted to leave James and I might have, but I will not let Julia take from me again. I have do something…to stop her. Thank God I kept that bottle of sleeping pills. I’ve got to sleep and forget.

JAMES

I’m going to level with you upfront: No, Carolyn did not take too many sleeping pills and wind up in the hospital or the morgue. Nor did she “murder that woman” or play out any other jealous, destructive scenarios that a writer of fiction might have us end with. It's tempting to add some real conflict at this point but I’m staying with reality as I write this. It's not exciting and I'm sorry if you've read this far only to be let down with events that lack dramatic appeal.

Carolyn, after the incident in the restaurant, remained taciturn and petulant. She slammed doors, threw things, virulently attacked me in conversations with our children. She berated me, accused me of being unable to take care of things around the house like a clogged drain, a jammed window. She implied I was getting too old to be useful and hoped she wouldn’t be stuck with an old man, an invalid just as she’s re-launching her career. I would listen to her on the phone and then call Brooke and Brandon to reassure them I was not about to be committed to a nursing home. They didn’t have to worry about their old Dad yet. “Your mother is a little testy these days. It’s between us so don’t get involved if you can help it,” I said to my daughter.
“Why is she so upset, Dad?”
“She wants to go back to work and the real estate market is in the doldrums.”
“So she’s taking it out on you, huh?”
“There are other things…between us. They’ll work themselves out eventually.”

But would they? Julia was in Europe for three weeks so time was without structure once again. I tried to stay out of Carolyn’s way as much as possible. She was either eerily silent or went the opposite way and tried to pick fights over small matters. She talked her boss into letting her back in the office two days a week. She was more aggressive than ever, something that worked in her favor in a tight market. I was glad she had an outlet. I looked forward to Julia’s e-mails and eventual return. I resolved to ask her to marry me and then had second thoughts. It is not something we ever discussed and I had no idea how she felt. This tormented me: I was in love. I saw her everywhere I went, I talked to her as I meandered around town, used to our chatty afternoons together. I did not want to be without her. Why had we never talked about these things?

I also felt guilty about living with one woman while contemplating marriage with another one. I’m old-fashioned, too old to be rustling through the ravages of a broken home. I thought I should settle things with Carolyn before Julia returned. That way, whatever came to pass, I would be separated. I tried to bring it up with Carolyn but she shunned me. She has always had the upper hand and I think she was afraid to hear me out. Carolyn did not like the defensive position but she could not seem to regain the offensive. Technically, she should have had it. But my nonchalance threw her and she kept a tight control on her temper. Until...

One morning I broached the subject, warily to be sure. “Carolyn, you haven’t asked me again what I am going to do.”
“I don’t care what you do. I just hope you’ve settled down and ended things with that odious woman.”
Just hearing Julia described as odious set me off. “Why do you keep calling her names?” You do not know her. She isn’t at all odious.”
“Are you finished with her, Mrs. Durham? You’ve been hanging around more lately. Did she give you the heave ho?”
“She’s in Europe.”
“Oh yes, those European trips, those cultural jaunts.”
“Really Carolyn, you seem to know Mrs. Durham? Have you had her investigated?” I was only half serious but with Carolyn, you never knew what she was capable of.
“I know the type, let’s say.”
“I’m thinking of joining her in Europe.”
“Oh please! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“You’re married, remember?”
“I hardly do remember. You haven’t been my wife for many years and you know it. Your choice, by the way.”
“We are married nevertheless so forget about your little European getaway.”
“Perhaps I should. But just the same, I may move out of here. Into a small studio somewhere.”
“You’re joking! Oh, don’t tell me you’ve resurrected your old dream of being a painter. Please don’t tell me anything so ludicrous at your age though really, who knows what influence Mrs. Durham might have? Julia.”
“No, I’m not. Joking or painting. I think we need to end this…whatever it is… once and for all.”
“Why? Are you planning to marry that woman?”
“We need to separate. You said yourself, I’m in the way.”
“I’m going back to work full-time soon.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t leave. I won’t allow you to make a fool of yourself over that…Julia Durham.”
“You have no say. You gave that up.”
“I won’t have it!” she screeched. “I will not let her take…from me.”
“She’s not taking anything from you that you haven’t already discarded,” I yelled back, “that you relinquished long ago.”
“What an ass you’ve become. You are too dull for her…how can she stand you after…”
“After what?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I despise you both! she spat out.”

As she hurled herself toward the door, her anger a brackish aura floating about her, she grabbed at the slender handle on the French-door latch and a gold bracelet she had been wearing for years caught itself, snapped apart and flickered across the room landing at my feet.
“Don’t you dare touch my bracelet,” she howled. “I will kill you if you touch it!”
It was too late. I had picked it up and because I happened to be looking over my coin collection, wearing my magnified glasses, saw an inscription: To lovely C. for our golden moments. B.

I must say, my heart almost stopped as I handed it to her but I did not say a word. She fluffed out of the room mewling about her broken bracelet as if I had ripped it from her arm. I packed a suitcase that afternoon and went to a hotel. There was no need to wrangle over anything again but I would give her a good fight if she asked for it. You might say I snapped along with the bracelet.

Julia returned ten days later; I carried on like a long lost lover, embarrassing myself but she only teased me about leaving town more often if she was so missed. She was, I assured her. We resumed our luncheon routine, our music appreciation afternoons, our walks in Lafayette Park and ate in several new restaurants--as fast as they opened. It was a warm summer for San Francisco, the morning mist vanished quickly leaving the timeless golden afternoon light streaming through her windows. We both discovered we rather liked Stockhausen, couldn’t say why exactly but kept on dissembling his compositions long into the azure evenings.

Carolyn eventually calmed down, accepted what was inevitable and divorced me without a great deal of drama. Of course she tried to take all she could and I was liberal up to a point but I was not the same old pushover I once was. She sensed I had something on her and backed off, just a little. She sold our condo at some loss in a bad market and moved to a smaller place on Potrero Hill. She wanted a new neighborhood for a new life. She was surprisingly benign through it all but railed mightily to our Brooke.

Julia still lives in her Victorian mansion. We both manage the endless stairs and joke about who will cave in first. She said she plans to sell it at the end of the year and move to a building with an elevator lest our hearts give out. We are not married though it is discussed during our lingering talks over dinner. I hope to bring her around to it; I’m too old for shacking up and young enough to want to share her bed. No, I never told her about Carolyn’s bracelet. I’m not sure how she would take it but I didn't want to make her feel sad or confused, retrospectively. To me, it’s one of those funny coincidences in life. Maybe someday I’ll tell her--when we’re older, we’ve exhausted our conversation and in need of a good story. I bet she’ll laugh. Julia travels lightly.

THE END