I force myself to snap out of this inertia. “Yes. Just give me a minute to change.”
We decide to leave Oscar at home so that we can focus on each other. This is Nate’s suggestion, not mine.
In the car, after we exhaust the conversation about what happened that morning at the restaurant (the electrician’s visit and the all-important staff meeting with Graham in charge), Nate turns on the radio. From that moment on, we drive in silence, as if we are both relying on the destination to provide the solution to our marital troubles. That’s where we will finally reconnect. The journey to get there is merely incidental.
But for me, the lack of conversation in this enclosed space becomes as aggravating as a pair of tight shoes. My nerves are strained. I’m trying not to feel angry again, but my thoughts race dangerously. Nate knows I’m considering a separation, and he admits he must do better for us. Yet he’s staring at the road, probably obsessing about the restaurant, worrying about the staff’s performance, and wishing he were there to manage them, instead of sitting in this car with me.
As the miles pass, I grow increasingly frustrated. This excursion feels pointless. I want to sort things out, but I’m tired of rowing this boat, and I refuse to be the only one in this relationship who ever picks up the oars. I’m done with that. So I don’t initiate conversation. I simply gaze out the window.
Peggy’s Cove is a small, picturesque fishing village, best known for its famed, iconic lighthouse, which sits atop a rugged granite outcrop overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It’s crowded today because of a recent storm. The locals have come out to watch the cove’s wild waters, with waves crashing violently against the rocks.
Nate gets lucky and finds a parking spot on the upper lot behind the Sou’Wester restaurant. As soon as I open the car door, I hear the ferocious roar of the ocean beyond. I step out and breathe in the fresh, salty fragrance of the sea. Then I take in the small fishing village with its colorful boats, weathered buildings, lobster traps, and nets piled on thewharf. Seagulls squawk and spiral above us. I look up. The air is cold. I can see my breath, but the winter sun is bright and warm on my face.
Nate locks the car. “I can’t believe how much this place has changed.” He’s referring to the freshly paved road to the restaurant, the modern sidewalks, and the public washrooms, which have made the village more accessible and tourist friendly.
We walk to the front of the restaurant for our first proper view of the ocean, where monstrous waves explode against the rocks, shooting foamy plumes fifty feet into the air.
“My God, look at that.” Nate stares, awestruck. “It’s like a volcanic eruption.” He then turns his attention to the new viewing deck that juts out over the rocks. “That’s impressive.”
“The safety railings are a good thing,” I say as I walk toward it. “But half the fun of coming here is rock hopping.”
“No one’s stopping us.” He glances to the left, where the granite boulders are crawling with visitors.
We stroll to the wooden deck and marvel at the mighty power of the North Atlantic. For a fleeting second, I forget the problems in my marriage because my daily life seems insignificant compared to these breathtaking forces.
An older couple approaches, and the woman asks me to take their picture. I happily comply and wait while they pose in front of the rail. I arrange the proper frame and the right composition and wait for a wave to break in the background. I even take a quick video that I know they’ll appreciate when they review their photo gallery later.
“Here you go.” I hand their phone back to them, and they thank me. I then discover that Nate has wandered off. He’s standing at the edge of the deck, near the path to the lighthouse, waving at me to join him.
Moments later, we step from the well-maintained gravel path onto the uneven granite. We pick our way over patches of ice in hollows where the sun has yet to reach.
It’s a short walk to the lighthouse, but in front of it, the north wind hits us with a sharp bite, so we decide to not linger but to venture ontothe crests and valleys of the sloping granite landscape. We stroll to the highest point where we can watch the waves crash and explode below us, as loud as cannon fire.
“It’s unbelievable!” I shout.
He nods, and again I grow frustrated with his silence.
The wind off the water is frigid, so I gather my wool scarf tighter around my neck. My nose runs, and I sniffle. “Should we head back to the restaurant?” I ask.
“Sure.” He pauses. “But I’d like to get something off my chest first.”
“All right.” I tug my scarf higher to cover my mouth and ears and hunch my shoulders stiffly because I’m starting to shiver.
The wind whips at Nate’s hair. “I want you to know that I don’t want a divorce. I love you.”
I’m pleased to hear it, and my stiff muscles relax slightly.
“But I don’t want to shut down the restaurant either,” he says.
Another wave crashes onto the shoreline, and my heart sinks.
“I did a lot of thinking this morning,” he says, “and if you could just give me one more year. If you could help me get through this reno ...”
“Nate . . .”
“No, listen ... please, hear me out. I talked to the electrician this morning, and it turns out it’s not as bad as I thought it would be, and the building will be worth a lot more if we do some upgrades. I talked to Martina about things we can do in terms of operations, and if I haven’t turned the situation around a year from now, I promise I’ll shut it down. And just so you know that I’m serious about making our marriage work, I’d like us to go to couples counseling. You suggested it once, and I wasn’t ready, but I am now.”
I stare at him in shock, and I’m certain that he’s just saying what he thinks I want to hear. He’s dangling a carrot to get me on board with the restaurant renovations and prevent me from leaving him.
