Maine Characters, page 25
He stares, horrified.
She gestures toward the house. “Go. Get your things.”
“Vivian,” he pleads. “You can’t do this. I left my wife for you.”
“And while I was making sacrifices to wait for you, you got her pregnant.”
She storms past him toward the door. If he won’t retrieve his luggage, she’ll do it for him.
He laughs. “Sacrifices? Like collecting paychecks on vacation?”
She turns to glare. “Fuck off.”
“Hey,” he says, catching her wrist. “Hey, wait, I’m sorry.”
His touch transports her to every dark corner they’ve ever found themselves in: the wine cellar, the alley around the corner from his apartment, a dingy bar bathroom in a Brooklyn neighborhood Carla would never visit. She’s angry, and yet she already misses this.
“Oscar.” Her tone is a warning, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Hear me out,” he says quietly.
She shouldn’t. Trusting him again would be foolish, she knows that, but Vivian’s been a fool for him for two long years. What’s a few more minutes?
“I’m listening,” she says uneasily.
“I’ve already contacted a lawyer. A great one.” His voice is low, thrilling. “He says we can get this done quickly.”
Goose bumps break out along her arms. She hadn’t expected him to have such legitimate plans ready to be set into motion.
“We can get an apartment, anything you’d like. Or live in your apartment. Whatever makes you happy.”
Vivian imagines them escaping her studio for a gorgeous brownstone apartment bathed in natural light. They could have polished hardwood floors, a wine fridge, a fireplace.
“Our bar is going to be a smash hit. It’ll be your playground, your vision, your stamp on New York. Everyone will know your name.”
She’s frozen, transfixed. She should resist him, but he’s describing the life she’s fantasized about for so long. “And we can travel. Napa, Tuscany, Burgundy, you name it. I’ll be there.”
The way he says it, she believes it. Wholeheartedly.
“I’ll go anywhere for you. I’m here, aren’t I? Just like we talked about. I came here to get you out of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and back into the world where you belong.”
That last part breaks the spell. Vivian’s strength surges back. He’s here, but so what? He hates it. Condescension oozes from every syllable. He has no respect for Lucy, none for Caleb. He looks down on this house, this place, this part of her life. He doesn’t see that a piece of her, however small and fraught, is rooted here. She rears back, disgusted.
“Vivian?” he asks, confused.
“Look,” she says harshly. “I’m glad you checked out when my dad died because it showed me who you really are. You’re selfish and untrustworthy and unbearably impressed with yourself. You’re rude and condescending, and if you think I need to be rescued from this place, you don’t understand me at all. Not anymore.”
“I—”
She juts a finger into his chest. “I don’t care that you left Carla. We’re not moving in together. I’m not going to live out your little vineyard fantasy.”
Vivian remembers the despicable way he treated her when she needed him most, and the jolt of satisfaction she gets whenever she imagines opening the bar on her own. She thinks about sneaking around in the shadows with him, and how golden she feels stretching out here in the sun. She knows she’s making the right decision.
“I’m not going to see you again. Because, Oscar? I’m done.”
The last thing she sees before the power goes out is Oscar’s slack expression. The man who can talk his way out of anything is speechless. Crushed. And then they’re alone in the darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
Vivian
Vivian storms into the pitch-black kitchen. Oscar’s loafered footsteps scramble behind her, less sure of where they’re going.
“Come on,” he groans.
He doesn’t deserve a reply.
“Vivian, seriously.”
She finds his duffel and yanks the zipper closed. “Here,” she says, thrusting it into his hands.
She’s a little embarrassed that Lucy and Caleb are probably listening to all of this from the other room, but her adrenaline and anger quash that.
“You’re overreacting.”
“I will email you my formal resignation letter tomorrow,” she says, high on the power of acting like a stone-cold bitch. After everything he’s done, he’s earned it.
“But I came all this way to see you.”
He reaches for her waist, and she slaps his hand away.
“I’m sure you can find a hotel.”
She senses him crumbling. He’s out of cards to play.
“You want to give up everything you’ve worked for back home? Everything you deserve? Fine.”
He’s never taunted her like this before, all wounded ego and bitter anger.
“You want to mess up your kids? Fine. I don’t want to be involved.”
After a steely silence, his voice turns low and threatening. “You’ll be bored by tomorrow—bored of wasting away in the middle of the woods, bored of this isolated life, bored of mucking around with Goody Two-Shoes and your bartender friend. You’ll be irrelevant.”
“Better than being with you.”
They burn in silence for one long moment. She can’t get enough air.
“I thought you were special,” he says.
Vivian opens the door. The wind howls. “Goodbye, Oscar.”
Lucy
The power went out while Lucy was searching for Loved Up in London, the book she’s halfway through and wanted to take back home. In the darkness, she carefully made her way down the spiral staircase to retrieve candles, praying that muscle memory would save her from a nasty fall. She and Caleb got stuck in the living room, not wanting to interrupt Vivian and Oscar’s heated argument. They sat by the fireplace, illuminated just enough to have an entire silent conversation with their eyes. Caleb was impressed by Vivian’s backbone; Lucy was begrudgingly grateful that Vivian was kicking Oscar out. They both cringed at his comment about “mucking around with Goody Two-Shoes” and her “bartender friend.”
In his wake, Vivian heaves a sigh. She shuts the door, cutting off the furious splatter of rain. There’s the scrape of pulling out a chair and the thud of her elbows on the table.
“Should we say something?” Caleb mouths.
Lucy dreads the prospect of inserting herself, but continuing to eavesdrop isn’t much better.
“Hi,” she says, coming around the corner with Caleb.
She’s using her phone as a flashlight for now, but her battery is running low. She shouldn’t waste it.
“Oh my God, hi. You’re still here.”
“I was just about to leave.”
Vivian takes a shuddery breath. “Sorry you heard all that.”
“You’re really done with him?” Caleb asks.
“Completely.”
“Congratulations,” Lucy says limply.
Vivian stands and excuses herself. “I’m sorry, I—I need a minute.”
Lucy digs around in the kitchen closet. The flashlight is dead, so she lights a few chunky pillar candles for the first floor. Caleb puts another log on the fire. From upstairs, there’s a faint sniffle.
Then the front door slams shut hard enough to rattle in its frame. Oscar’s shoes squelch as he stomps inside.
“There’s a tree down in the middle of the road. I can’t get out.”
Overhead, Vivian yelps. “What?”
Guided by a thin stream of light, she races down the stairs.
“How long until someone moves it?” he asks.
Filled with dread, Lucy says, “The road might be clear tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“You’re kidding me,” Oscar says.
Caleb stifles a laugh. “Nobody’s going out there to move it now.”
Oscar pounds his fist into the counter. “Great.”
As Vivian approaches, he glares at her with cold fury.
For the first time ever, possibly, Lucy actually feels bad for her.
Vivian
Nobody knows what to do next. Oscar plucks at his clothes, soaked and plastered to his body from just the run to his car and back. Vivian shifts her weight again and again, unable to find a remotely comfortable, natural position. Lucy cajoles Caleb into Scrabble by candlelight. He protests—“You beat me, like, four hundred to twelve last time”—but gives in, if only to remove himself from the corrosive tension between Vivian and Oscar. She doesn’t blame him.
“Help yourself to whatever you need,” Vivian says tightly. “You can sleep on the couch.”
There are extra beds. He doesn’t deserve them.
“Got it.”
“And don’t waste water with a shower.”
“Fine.”
She’s never seen him so cold.
“Well. Good night,” she says, pointedly taking an Allagash from the fridge and leaving his wine untouched.
It’s 9:30, much earlier than she normally goes to bed, but she’ll gladly take two or three hours of lying awake if it means avoiding Oscar.
“Night,” she says, passing Lucy and Caleb.
She doesn’t get into bed. Instead, she leans against it, quietly sipping her drink and taking in the night sky through the picture window. It’s impossible to tell where the lake ends and the horizon begins. She ruminates over the day’s chaos, still stunned by how quickly Oscar slid from gallant to arrogant to petulant. He couldn’t take no for an answer. It’s hard to recognize him as the man she loved. Has he always been so smug and selfish? That night, she doesn’t sleep. Instead, she tosses and turns until she’s entombed by the duvet, wondering what or who had changed—Oscar? Or Vivian?
* * *
The next morning, the power is still out. Her phone is dead. They can’t make coffee, and the only bananas left are bruised and brown. Fat clouds hang in a bold blue sky. The water is so still that the trees along the shoreline are perfectly doubled, reflected in the mirror of the lake. Vivian sulks on the back deck, examining her flaking-off home manicure and letting the beautiful day mock her misery. She’s made a mess of things: She could’ve resisted Oscar to begin with, or been honest with Lucy. None of these decisions felt like choices at the time, but they were.
Lucy is reading on the docked boat, and Caleb is out on the water, zipping around on their Jet Ski. Every thirty minutes, Oscar drives a half mile to check on the tree (God forbid he walk). They speak as little as possible.
Lucy heads to the kitchen, barely cracking a smile at Vivian; it doesn’t reach her eyes. When Oscar returns from one of his runs, Vivian is close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“You’d think someone would bother moving that thing,” he says.
Vivian can practically hear his eye roll.
“You’re more than welcome to,” Lucy says.
Vivian snickers.
“Ha,” Oscar says flatly. “Want to help? Doesn’t seem like you’re thrilled to be here with her, either.”
“I’m not planning on leaving,” Lucy says. “Not until I have to.”
“Good luck hanging around here with her,” he mutters.
“Strange way to talk about someone you claim to love.”
“I blew up my life for her.”
Vivian can’t imagine how devastated Carla is right now, and for that, she is truly sorry.
“She deserves better than you,” Lucy says.
That catches Vivian off guard. If anything, she’d expect Lucy to say something like You two deserve each other.
Oscar barks a cool laugh. “She’s wrong about you, you know? Told me you’re so sweet and sheltered. You’re a piece of work just like she is.”
With every word, Vivian feels even more confident in her choice to leave him. He’s nauseating.
“Must run in the family then,” Lucy says.
After his next hopeful jaunt outside, Oscar returns with his duffel packed and his hands shoved into his pockets.
“The road’s clear. I’m leaving.”
It’s bright enough that Vivian has to squint up at him. “Okay.”
He doesn’t move from the doorway. “I guess this is it.”
Her heart pounds. Two years of loneliness, adrenaline, and stolen moments, and it all ends here, in broad daylight, in the same spot she once strapped on a kid-sized life jacket and ate popsicles. This is it. Okay. Goodbye to all that.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucy
Oscar leaves. Caleb leaves. Lucy takes her time getting groceries, replacing what went bad. Vivian’s been watching her all last night and this morning, waiting for the chance to apologize or double down or whatever she wants to say. There’s nothing wrong with dragging out Vivian’s anticipation. After all, if things had unfolded differently, Vivian would’ve waited all summer to confess to Lucy.
The thing is, Lucy isn’t capable of giving her the silent treatment for any longer. It goes against her nature; her soft side is—well, most of her sides are soft. Putting up a cold front has been exhausting. After she puts away the groceries, she finds Vivian sitting at the end of the dock with her feet in the water.
As Lucy approaches, Vivian turns, pushes her sunglasses up, and shields her eyes with her hand. From where she’s standing, without makeup, dressed in a plain one-piece, Vivian looks smaller, meeker somehow.
“Hi,” Vivian says.
“Hi,” Lucy says, a little sheepish. The tension between them is as thick as lobster bisque.
“Can we talk?” Even Vivian seems a little shy.
“Yeah.” Lucy sits a few feet away, reclining against a post.
She exhales. “I worried you were done with me for good.”
“That worries you?” As far as Lucy can tell, Vivian has wanted her to disappear ever since they met.
“I don’t want to ruin things between us,” Vivian says almost shyly.
“Well, you’ve been doing a pretty good job of it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just—”
Lucy throws her hands up. There’s no use in having the same fight over and over. “You just need the money—yeah, I know, I’ve heard.”
Vivian swallows. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Then what?”
Exasperated, Lucy steels herself for the newest excuse.
Vivian straightens up. “I am incredibly sorry I went back on my word. I never should’ve done it. It was selfish—I’ve been appallingly selfish.”
This is not what Lucy expected. At all.
“This place should belong to you as much as it does to me. Let’s forget about selling it for now. At the end of the summer, you and I can make the decision together, fifty-fifty. If we decide to keep it, we’ll share access to the house; if we sell it, you’d get half of the money.”
Lucy flinches. “You don’t really mean that.”
“Even if he only left the house to my side of the family, it’d be a cop-out for me to stick to that. It’s not like I respect any of his other decisions.”
What a delightful way to think about it. “True. But won’t your mom care if you keep it?”
“She’ll get over it. If I steamroll you, I’m just as bad as he was.” Vivian takes a deep breath, straining to find the right words. “I haven’t given you the respect you deserve. I don’t want to be that kind of person anymore—not some self-centered, rich asshole who swoops in from out of town to fuck you over.”
“Are you sure you’re serious?”
“Yeah, I am. I want to do right by you.”
Lucy is stunned. A fresh start. She lets herself imagine it all—more money than she’s ever fathomed having: She could help out her mom. If she lands the Portland job, she could afford to live somewhere nice there—maybe even buy a place. Beyond that, she wants to see Paris. Or maybe Edinburgh. She imagines green hills rolling with fog, lilting accents, curling up on a tartan armchair by a crackling fireplace to read. Heaven. She could pay off her student loans without much of a dent, go on to get her master’s in education, maybe even try writing a novel of her own.
She’d have to give up her dad’s house, yes. But with money like that, surely she could afford to rent a cabin for a week or two every summer. Still, she isn’t ready to make a decision, or even let her guard down.
“You’d really give all that money to someone you basically just met? You don’t even like me.”
Vivian’s face falls. “That—that’s not true.”
Lucy isn’t sure what to believe. “So, what, you’re trying to buy my friendship?”
Hurt, she recoils. “No.”
That had sounded meaner than Lucy intended. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, I deserve that one.”
“What about starting your business?” Regardless of what they do, opening her bar in New York would probably be out of the question.
Vivian takes a shaky breath. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It can wait. I can get another job for now.”
“Okay, so we ‘decide together,’ ” Lucy says, making air quotes. “Let’s say by Labor Day.”
That gives them three weeks at most. “What happens if I still don’t want to sell? If I never want to sell?”
“We’ll…figure it out if we need to.”
Lucy can’t see her bending, not with something as big as this. She’s stubbornly opinionated, fussy when Lucy loads the dishwasher with silverware facing up instead of down.
“That’s specific.”
