Lauren
Widow: a woman whose spouse has died
She’d never expected to fall in love when she was eighteen. That hadn’t been part of her plan. She’d had her life mapped out in her head. She was going to college, and after that she’d get a job in New York City. She was going to soak up bright lights and busy streets and learn everything she could about design until she was ready to start her own business.
That had always been her dream.
And then she’d met him.
Their relationship started with a single look. Until that moment she hadn’t realized so much could be conveyed without speech. It was more than interest. There was a connection.
It was the summer before she left for college and she was spending the long, hot humid months doing what all the other local teenagers did, namely working hard to make money for the winter. She had three jobs, one of which included bussing tables at a seafood restaurant.
She was clearing one of the tables on the sunny deck, counting the hours until she could go home, when a man strolled up to the takeout window.
Something about the way he moved caught her attention. He had a quiet way about him, an understated confidence that was lacking in many of the boys her age who were wrestling awkwardly with their own identity.
He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt and his cap was pulled down over his eyes.
As he pulled a sheaf of notes out of his pocket, his gaze settled on Lauren.
She had long legs and blond hair. She was used to boys looking at her. They’d reached an age where everything was about sex, who had “done it” and who hadn’t.
All her closest friends were having sex and boasting of their experiences. Cassie had lost her virginity in a field near Chilmark and had to explain away poison oak to her parents. Kelly’s first experience had been on the hood of her dad’s Cadillac in a deserted parking lot.
Because she didn’t want to expose her most private fears, Lauren pretended she’d had sex, too. She doubted she was the only one, but her reasons for holding off were probably different from most.
She was afraid she might have a phobia. The thought of sex made her heart race and her palms grow sweaty. That wasn’t normal, was it? It was all the other girls talked about, so she assumed it was supposed to be exciting, not terrifying.
Because she didn’t trust her reactions, there was no way she was experimenting with anyone from her school. What if she freaked out and humiliated herself? It would be all over the island in hours that Lauren Stewart was frigid.
This man was different. He was older for a start, and a stranger. Definitely not a Vineyarder. Nor did he look like a tourist. His fingers were stained with oil and his work boots were scuffed. A seasonal worker, she decided, and wondered why her brain was asking a thousand questions about him.
She had no idea how long the moment would have lasted or what might have been the outcome because her imagination chose that moment to conjure up a disturbingly vivid image of what it might be like to be kissed by him. It was real enough to knock the air from her lungs and trigger a curl of heat low in her belly, a reaction she’d never had before. As a result, she stumbled into a chair and knocked over a bottle of beer.
Her face burned with humiliation and by the time she’d cleared up the mess and dared to glance over in his direction, he was gone.
He hadn’t smiled at her or nodded. Hadn’t acknowledged her in any way. But she knew that if someone had asked him, he would have been able to describe her in detail.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified to discover she was in fact capable of experiencing the same feelings as her peers.
Until she’d laid eyes on the unsmiling man in black, she hadn’t felt an urge to find out if she really did have a problem. She’d even wondered if she’d go through life without ever having sex.
But suddenly it was all she could think about.
She was still working out how to discreetly discover his identity when she saw him again.
She’d crept out of the house late at night and gone for a walk on the beach.
There was only one other person there, and she’d known even from a distance that it was him.
She’d had a choice to make. She could step forward, or she could step back.
* * *
“Thank you all for being here.” Her voice echoed around the cavernous space.
A week before she’d been planning Ed’s birthday party. Now she was speaking at his funeral.
She focused on the stained-glass window at the back of the church because that was easier than staring at the people seated in rows. It was bitterly cold. Lauren couldn’t stop shivering.
The night of the birthday party was a blur in her mind. She remembered the police stepping into the house, the sound of Gwen wailing, gawping guests slinking from the house muttering condolences instead of birthday greetings.
And now she was supposed to say something meaningful when none of it held any meaning.
“I first met Ed when I was eighteen and I knew right away that he was the perfect man for me.”
That was true, wasn’t it? The fact that there was one box he didn’t tick on the list of ideal attributes for a life partner didn’t mean he wasn’t perfect.
“We met by chance on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard where I grew up, and we immediately had a connection.”
I was crying. Ed was drunk.
We were both brokenhearted.
Both of us in love, but not with each other.
Choices, she’d discovered, had consequences.
She stared hard at the floor, terrified that her sleep-deprived brain might confuse her speech with her thoughts. What if she made a mistake and said the wrong thing aloud?
What if, for once in her life, she told the truth?
“Ed and I knew we were going to be together forever.” Except that Ed had broken that promise and died. Why? He watched his weight and exercised. People like him didn’t die slumped over their desks. She felt cheated. Angry. Devastated. It took a sob from someone in the front row to remind her she was supposed to be talking. “It was romantic.”
It hadn’t been romantic at all.
It had been practical. Sensible. A decision made by two people who favored planning over impulse.
She stared at the extravagant display of lilies at the back of the church and knew she’d never be able to have lilies in the house again.
“Ed proposed to me on the beach at sunset.”
There were murmurs of approval and sympathy from the mourners who were listening avidly. She wondered what they’d say if she told them the truth.
There had been no proposal. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word.
Ed had flung an arm round her.
You’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. We both chose badly, which is what happens when you let your emotions make decisions. Let’s get married. I like you. You like me. That’s a better basis for marriage than love. Love is for poets and artists. Getting married because of love is like building your house on quicksand. You never know when the whole thing is going to collapse.
She hadn’t been able to disagree with that.
She’d been emotionally numb and frightened about the future.
Lauren remembered Ed hugging her, telling her it was going to be okay, that they’d rescue each other, and the ache in her chest was almost unbearable.
They’d done that. They’d rescued each other. But now he’d abandoned her.
What was she going to do without him?
They’d had a deal—
“We married right away—” Her voice broke slightly and she cleared her throat. “When Mack was born I remember thinking our family was complete. Perfect. Our life together was perfect.”
She glanced at Mack, who was seated next to Jenna, her features a frozen mask. Lauren’s heart broke for her. She’d done everything she could to give Mack a stable, secure family life but she hadn’t been able to save her from this.
She choked out a few more words. How great Ed was as a provider, what a great friend he was and how much he would be missed.
Standing at the front of the church, trying not to look at the sea of faces, she felt lonelier than she ever had in her life before.
No one had ever told her that it was possible to be an adult and still feel as terrified as a child.
She had a sudden yearning for home, for the community she’d grown up in.
When her father had died, Lauren had flown home and stayed three weeks. The fridge had been so full of food, they hadn’t had to worry about shopping or cooking for the entire duration of her stay. Casseroles had appeared in their kitchen, along with homemade cake. Neighbors made a support list. Her mother was asked to write down anything that needed doing from mowing the lawn to emptying the trash and the tasks were divided between everyone. They’d felt enveloped by the community.
Lauren didn’t feel enveloped. She felt alone and exposed.
She sensed movement and saw her sister reach out and take Mack’s hand.
Jenna, who had taken the first flight she could find so she could be by her side. She was wearing a navy coat and her hair was curling rebelliously in response to relentless English rain. Jenna, whose love and loyalty was never in question.
And Lauren remembered that she wasn’t alone.
She felt a rush of gratitude. Having her sister there helped her to stumble through the last few lines of her speech without blurting out anything scandalous.
She kept thinking about that last conversation she’d had with Ed.
She’s not the problem.
What exactly had he meant by that? She didn’t know, and now she never would.
Saying her own silent farewell, she walked back to her seat.
She felt Jenna slide her hand into hers, as she’d done when they were growing up.
Sisters always stick together.
Lauren tried not to think about how she’d cope once Jenna left. Maybe she could persuade her to move in. There were schools in London. Jenna could teach anywhere and Greg wouldn’t struggle to find work either. Almost everyone she knew needed a therapist, even if they weren’t aware of it themselves.
But she knew Jenna would never leave Martha’s Vineyard.
Maybe she’d go back for longer this summer. In the past they’d been restricted by Ed’s need to be in London, but Ed didn’t need to be anywhere ever again. And if Greg was working then perhaps she, Jenna and Mack could spend some time together.
She was about to lean across and tell Mack she didn’t have to speak if she didn’t want to when her daughter rose to her feet.
She walked to the front of the church. For once her back was straight, as if she’d finally accepted her height.
Since the night of the party she’d been even less communicative.
Lauren told herself it was natural for Mack to be withdrawn. She’d lost her father. Lauren had already found a grief counselor who specialized in teenagers. She intended to call her as soon as the funeral was over, and she couldn’t wait for that moment to come.
Lauren willed her daughter to have the strength to get through the next few minutes.
There was an expectant silence broken only by the occasional cough and a muffled sob.
Mack said nothing.
The silence stretched for so long that people began to fidget. Expectation turned to impatience.
Lauren felt a rush of fierce protectiveness.
Why had she allowed Mack to do this? She was sixteen years old. It was too much.
She was about to stride up to the front of the church like a mother hen reclaiming her chick, when the chick opened its mouth.
“I’m supposed to say a few words about my father.” Mack’s voice was clear and steady, cutting through the tense atmosphere of the church.
Lauren relaxed.
Her daughter had aced drama. She could do this.
“The problem is,” Mack said, “I don’t exactly know who my father is. You’d have to ask my mother about that. All I know for sure is that it wasn’t Ed.”