“I wish,” Harrison said. “But there is the problem of the water pressure in the bathroom.”
“And that really funky smell in the kitchen. Why does life have so many responsibilities?” she groaned. “Why can’t we all pick up when we like and start over?”
“Maybe we could,” he said. He squeezed her tighter to him. “Would you be willing to go on tour with me?”
“More than willing. But I can’t leave my kids. Are you willing to settle in a small town with a Putt-Putt course?”
He smiled sadly. “Absolutely. Someday.” He looked down at their entwined fingers.
“I had a feeling it would go this way,” Amy said. “We’re too old toabandon our lives. Too young to hang it all up. It’s the wrong time or the wrong place, I don’t know, but, Harrison, I’m so grateful for the time I had with you. You did the impossible and made me believe in love again. You’ve definitely made me believe that excellent sex is still a possibility.”
He laughed.
“I wish I was twenty all over again,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” Harrison said, and rested his chin on top of her head. “If you were twenty and went on tour with me, you wouldn’t have your kids, and I would never be available.”
“True,” she sighed.
“I will never forget this,” he said. “I will be an old man on my deathbed and this is what I’ll remember.”
“I won’t forget, either,” she said quietly. “Never.” She kissed his chin. “Can we at least be friends?”
“The very best of friends. Lovers, when time permits. Confidants. Windup Santa competitors.”
Amy laughed, but her heart ached. She had a sinking feeling that they would not see each other again. She knew how things like this went—they’d make promises, follow up with a few phone calls. But eventually, life would creep back in, filling up all available space, and one week would stretch to two, and two weeks to two months, and before long, it would be a year.
She was startled by the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye. She wiped it away.
“Ah hell, I don’t want to make you sad, Amy.”
“You never did. You’ve made me very happy.” She looked up at him. “You were exactly the right person for me to meet at the very right time. The rest of it is just life. People come and go, but sometimes, one will lodge in your heart and take up the empty space.”
“You’ve taken up every inch of space in mine. It’s not fair.”
“At the risk of sounding like my mother…life seldom is.”
There was nothing left to be said, and they remained sitting there, the warmth of their bodies keeping them together.
They made love that night, slow and steady, drawing it out as long as they could by mutual, unspoken agreement. And then they held each other until their arms fell asleep and their joints stiffened, and they laughed at how unlimber they were.
It was the banter of two people who didn’t want this to end but could see no other option. The best thing to do in the middle of the night was to ignore the pain of it. That’s what you did in middle age—you learned to accept all the disappointments and keep going.
27
On the last morning of their vacation, or respite, or interlude—whatever they were calling this two-week marvel—Harrison was acutely aware that neither one of them mentioned the inevitable parting. He believed that they were so compatible that they both knew, instinctively, that the other would not appreciate a tearful goodbye.
Eight days to Christmas. He was planning on flying to Scotland a couple of days before. What else was he going to do? He had no family to go to. No place he needed to be. If he thought about it, he could get maudlin. And at the very least, Clay and his girlfriend would be there.
Amy was folding up her easel and had a roll of wrap for her paintings. They were lined up against the wall, one after the other, as if she’d stood back to admire them at some point. Harrison certainly admired them—the free-spirited Bossy Posse quintet, and of course the first one, the painting of the lake. He unthinkingly reached out to touch it.
“That one doesn’t quite go with the rest of them, does it?” Amy asked, cocking her head to one side as she studied it.
“I suppose you could paint the Posse onto the distant shore.”
She laughed. “This painting should be a lesson to me—I should notpaint what I think others want me to paint. I should only paint what is authentic to me.”
“Who wanted you to paint this?”
