groves; the kitchen light, a cone-shaped pendant, hanging above the table’s center, its circle of golden light on their outspread papers; his mother singing some ’60s tune while she updated the books at the desk nearby—the Carpenters, he thought, hearing her contralto in his memory. And Meg, sitting close at his left, pushing her long hair off her shoulders and smiling at him, at the future they were drawing with a wooden ruler and pencils sharpened with a knife.
How different a scene that was from what came later.
He remembered his twenty-second birthday, long after the breakup, months after Meg’s wedding in ’89. George Pappas, his good friend and would-be guitarist, had taken him out for lunch and a few beers. They were waiting at a red light in George’s faded brown Chevelle, Pearl Jam blasting on the aftermarket stereo. He didn’t notice the glossy red sports car pulled up alongside the left of them at first. Four or five—or six?—beers since lunch had made him almost oblivious, to his surroundings and to the fact that he was spending another birthday without Meg. It was the first since her marriage, but who was counting?
“Hey,” George said, tapping his window. “Isn’t that Meg?”
Carson turned at the same moment she looked over, her hand pressed to the glass; they stared at each other as if George wasn’t seated between them, as if they weren’t passengers in two different cars, separated by window glass and harsh words and wedding vows.
George started to roll down his window. What did he think, that they’d all just have a nice little chat? That she’d wish him a happy birthday and throw a kiss? But then the arrow turned green, and the Porsche pulled out, turning left.
George whistled. “Nice wheels, eh, bro?” he said, as the car moved farther and farther away from them, disappearing into the Ocala twilight. “She did pretty well for herself.”
“Fuck you,” Carson said.
He was jarred back to the present when Val elbowed him. “Carson! I think this is the one!”
He cleared his mind of the memories of Meg so that he could be, instead, with the woman he was reasonably sure
would
marry him. Sitting up straighter, he leaned in to see what Val was looking at. “Yeah? Let’s see.”
Val passed him a fact sheet for a charming blue-roofed house, its stucco exterior and arched doorways reminiscent of South Florida’s Caribbean-influenced architecture. Or rather, the Florida homes mimicked the ones here in St. Martin, which were influenced by French tastes—which of course was true about many structures in the West Indies. This was, he decided, the architectural circle of life, Caribbean version. It could be a reality show.
Marie-Louise said, “That one, it’s in Terres Basses—‘lowlands’
en français.
It is
très exclusif
.”
For three-point-five million U.S. dollars, it ought to be, he thought.
“That’s where we were looking yesterday morning,” Val reminded him.
“
Alors
, there is a view of the Caribbean Sea from the stone pool and spa—so nice for romantic soirées, no?” Marie-Louise smiled her ingratiating smile. “But if you get company—maybe your real estate agent, yes?—you have four guest rooms, three baths—and your kitchen, well, it is
magnifique
!”
He fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Marie-Louise reminded him of the kinds of women he tried hardest to avoid. She would make an ideal host for his imaginary reality show, he decided, viewing Caribbean properties with wealthy couples and booting off the islands anyone whose net worth turned out to be less than ten million dollars.
“Carson
loves
to cook, right, Car?” Val said.
“‘Loves’ might be a little strong.”
“He’s being modest. He’s terrific in the kitchen—his Thai food is
killer
. Men should be self-sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Oh,
oui
,” Marie-Louise said. “They must cook and clean and make the money—it’s what
we
do,
non
?”
“Equality,” Val
How different a scene that was from what came later.
He remembered his twenty-second birthday, long after the breakup, months after Meg’s wedding in ’89. George Pappas, his good friend and would-be guitarist, had taken him out for lunch and a few beers. They were waiting at a red light in George’s faded brown Chevelle, Pearl Jam blasting on the aftermarket stereo. He didn’t notice the glossy red sports car pulled up alongside the left of them at first. Four or five—or six?—beers since lunch had made him almost oblivious, to his surroundings and to the fact that he was spending another birthday without Meg. It was the first since her marriage, but who was counting?
“Hey,” George said, tapping his window. “Isn’t that Meg?”
Carson turned at the same moment she looked over, her hand pressed to the glass; they stared at each other as if George wasn’t seated between them, as if they weren’t passengers in two different cars, separated by window glass and harsh words and wedding vows.
George started to roll down his window. What did he think, that they’d all just have a nice little chat? That she’d wish him a happy birthday and throw a kiss? But then the arrow turned green, and the Porsche pulled out, turning left.
George whistled. “Nice wheels, eh, bro?” he said, as the car moved farther and farther away from them, disappearing into the Ocala twilight. “She did pretty well for herself.”
“Fuck you,” Carson said.
He was jarred back to the present when Val elbowed him. “Carson! I think this is the one!”
He cleared his mind of the memories of Meg so that he could be, instead, with the woman he was reasonably sure
would
marry him. Sitting up straighter, he leaned in to see what Val was looking at. “Yeah? Let’s see.”
Val passed him a fact sheet for a charming blue-roofed house, its stucco exterior and arched doorways reminiscent of South Florida’s Caribbean-influenced architecture. Or rather, the Florida homes mimicked the ones here in St. Martin, which were influenced by French tastes—which of course was true about many structures in the West Indies. This was, he decided, the architectural circle of life, Caribbean version. It could be a reality show.
Marie-Louise said, “That one, it’s in Terres Basses—‘lowlands’
en français.
It is
très exclusif
.”
For three-point-five million U.S. dollars, it ought to be, he thought.
“That’s where we were looking yesterday morning,” Val reminded him.
“
Alors
, there is a view of the Caribbean Sea from the stone pool and spa—so nice for romantic soirées, no?” Marie-Louise smiled her ingratiating smile. “But if you get company—maybe your real estate agent, yes?—you have four guest rooms, three baths—and your kitchen, well, it is
magnifique
!”
He fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Marie-Louise reminded him of the kinds of women he tried hardest to avoid. She would make an ideal host for his imaginary reality show, he decided, viewing Caribbean properties with wealthy couples and booting off the islands anyone whose net worth turned out to be less than ten million dollars.
“Carson
loves
to cook, right, Car?” Val said.
“‘Loves’ might be a little strong.”
“He’s being modest. He’s terrific in the kitchen—his Thai food is
killer
. Men should be self-sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Oh,
oui
,” Marie-Louise said. “They must cook and clean and make the money—it’s what
we
do,
non
?”
“Equality,” Val
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