Deena Goldstone - Surprise Me

“But not now.”

He nods but doesn’t look at her. They stride ahead, hand in hand. A bright red cardinal in the muted landscape hops from one barren tree limb to another, always a few yards ahead of them, leading the way, and Daniel tells her softly what has been so hard for him to tell others. “I’m proud of you.”

And she rests her head on his shoulder for a moment as they walk. The comfort they give each other.

This time when Isabelle arrives at Boston’s Logan Airport, Bev is waiting for her. She will drive her to Winnock and Daniel.

It was almost eleven years ago that Isabelle first met Bev, when Daniel took her into the bakery for coffee and a sweet roll on the morning she was leaving. They were celebrating, it felt like, because Daniel had given her what she needed to go home and continue to work: his belief that what she was writing was worthy. That’s what she had come for, even if she hadn’t been able to articulate it beforehand.

They walked into Bev’s hand in hand, Isabelle’s cheeks reddened from the cold, a little out of breath from keeping up with Daniel’s pace on the long walk, and Bev knew immediately that here was Isabelle — tall, graceful, young, oh, so young, although Isabelle was thirty-one at the time. To Bev, who was almost twice her age, Isabelle was blissfully young.

They sat at Daniel’s table in the front window and Bev brought them both ceramic mugs of steaming coffee, and Daniel introduced them.

Almost in unison, they said essentially the same thing: “Oh, I’ve wanted to meet you,” from Isabelle, and “Finally, we meet!” from Bev. And then the women smiled at each other and knew instantly that they would be allies, that they both cared about Daniel and that such a feeling would unite them, not divide them.

Daniel asked for his cinnamon bun and Isabelle ordered a cranberry scone, and Bev rested her hand lightly on Daniel’s shoulder as she left, a silent signal of approval that Isabelle noticed.

“You’d better pay attention to her,” Isabelle said once Bev was back behind the counter.

“I always pay attention to smart women.”

“This one in particular, I think.”

“Isabelle,” he said, sitting back in his seat, grinning at her across the table, happy to be able to tease her a little, “are you taking care of me?”

“Yes, I’m pointing you in the right direction. You think you have a monopoly on that skill?”

And Isabelle was right. In the following year Bev and Daniel found their way to each other, slowly, with hesitation, because they carried with them two lifetimes of experience that might have been impediments but in the end weren’t. They turned toward each other at just the right time. Daniel was sixty-two and deep into the pleasure of writing his Winnock stories. Bev was fifty-nine; her husband had been dead for more than a decade, and she had all but given up on the possibility of loving someone again. Daniel stepped through the very small and rapidly closing window of hope.

Isabelle’s first thought when she sees Bev now, waiting for her at the baggage claim, is how much she has aged, her lovely chestnut hair overtaken by gray, the lines on her face deepened into wrinkles. Time has honed her strong face into angles that weren’t nearly so prominent a decade ago, but Bev must be close to seventy, Isabelle reminds herself. Daniel is seventy-two.

And of course Isabelle is no longer the young girl who came to Daniel repeatedly for directions to a life she wasn’t even sure she could manage to live. She is almost forty-two, and her child is all but grown. She chose wisely and married well. She has helped her brother Aaron through many rough years marked by estrangement from their parents and alcohol abuse. She has run a business by herself and successfully. And she is now a bona fide author. A small press in Berkeley, Indian Rock Books, published her novel, My Side of the Story —a title that made Daniel laugh outright. And although it reached a very small audience, she is working on a second. She is a woman in the middle of her life, with skills and accomplishments she would never have predicted when she first walked into Daniel’s office.

“Isabelle!” Bev cries out when she sees her, in relief, in pleasure. The two women hug, then Bev pulls back and they look at each other, taking a measure of the other. Are you ready for this?

“How is he?”

“Angry,” Bev says. And Isabelle nods. Of course.

Quickly they move toward the exit doors, through them, and out to the parking lot.

“Every e-mail I get is about how impossible it is to finish this latest book, how stupid it was for him to begin it, how incompetent he is to write what he wants to write.”

“And nothing about the cancer, or what the doctors have said?”

“No. Not after the first news.”

Isabelle watches Bev as they reach her minivan. She takes Isabelle’s suitcase and puts it in the car, lowers the hatchback, avoids Isabelle’s eyes.

“Tell me, Bev.”

And Bev does, with tears spilling down her face. “We’re talking about a short time left. He has a particularly aggressive kind of lung cancer — that’s what the doctors have told him.”

Isabelle puts a hand on Bev’s arm, in sympathy, in support, so she can continue.

“He’s on oxygen now, and it’s hard for him to leave his cabin, which of course, knowing Daniel, he wouldn’t do anyway. I wanted him to move into town with me when he first got sick so he wouldn’t be so isolated out there, but would he?”

Isabelle shakes her head; the answer is obvious. “Of course not.”

“He has to finish his book, he told me. He can only write out there.”

“That sounds like Daniel.”

“But something’s shifted in the last weeks.” Bev shakes her head slightly, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “I’m afraid he’s defeated.” And then Bev looks directly at Isabelle. “I can’t abide the thought he’ll die without finishing that damned book.”

As they drive north out of Massachusetts and into southern New Hampshire, Isabelle marvels at how vividly green everything is. It’s early summer and there is lush, verdant foliage everywhere — towering pine trees, green-leafed maples and oaks, mountainous shrubs with emerald leaves and white flowers (maybe a kind of rhododendron; she isn’t sure), and eight-foot-tall blueberry bushes.

“I’m not used to all the green,” she tells Bev. “We’re in a drought in California, and the whole state is this gray-green color, as if some alien being has sucked the chlorophyll out of every living thing. And look at that.” Isabelle points out the window as they pass a large area of wetlands with an old covered bridge spanning part of it and a great blue heron picking its way along the grassy flats, high-stepping on spindly legs. “We’re rationing water out west, and here you have ponds and rivers. Water everywhere.” She knows she’s chattering about nothing because she’s afraid to ask the questions she needs to ask: How much pain is he in? What will I find when I see him? How have you managed, Bev? How can Daniel be dying? How can that be? And so she stops talking.

In the charged silence, with so much left unsaid, Bev steers them toward more benign territory. “Tell me about your son.”

And Isabelle smiles at her. Yes, I can talk about Avi and feel a little better. And so she tells Bev about his summer work in Alaska, about how incongruous it is that she raised a child who only wants to be outside doing something dangerous when Isabelle pretty much considers freeway driving to be as dangerous an activity as there is in her world.

“He’s confident and thoughtful,” Isabelle says in summary. “What I would have given to have those qualities at his age.”