Page 9 of Nothing Less than Magic
“I thought you said you watched it on YouTube.” I shake my head, wondering if he’s intentionally trying to provoke me. “What didn’t work for you?”
“All of it, meaning none of it. Nothing you said saved my relationship. In fact, it probably made things worse, and they were pretty bad to begin with.”
My first inclination is to argue with him, tell him he wasn’t putting in the work, but I realize how insensitive that would sound. “I’m sorry. The death of a relationship is very painful, and it’s tough that you had to go through that.” It was my stock response when I was seeing recently divorced patients.
He holds my gaze, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s laughing at me.
“No offense,” he says, “but you should probably work on your delivery. It sounds a little rehearsed. There’s nothing to be sorry about, anyway. It was for the best; otherwise, we would’ve ended up miserable.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him what happened, but I’m here to relax, to recuperate, not to analyze him or give counsel. Besides, I’m clearly not as good at my job as I thought I was, evidenced by my own marriage—or lack of one. The last thing I want to do right now is remind myself of that fact.
Still, I’m curious about Knox, intrigued by this mystery relationship of his. Or maybe it’s just true what they say, that misery loves company. Though why I assume he’s miserable is probably projection on my part. I really don’t know anything about him.
Knox rises to his feet and refills his thermos with the last of the coffee, signaling that our conversation is ended.
“What did you say your last name was?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” But on his way out, he calls back to me, “It’s Hart.”
What an odd fellow.
I clear my breakfast dishes and clean out the coffee machine, weighing the wisdom of brewing another pot, ultimately deciding against it. I’ve had enough caffeine for one morning. A quick glance at my phone shows there are no new emails or texts. Knowing Ronnie, my assistant and gatekeeper extraordinaire, she’s forwarded all communiqués to her own phone, so I can rest.
I had sort of hoped Lolly would call. Pretty unrealistic. But putting our grievances aside for one day—this day of all days—doesn’t seem too much to ask for. It’s not like we couldn’t pick up where we left off of not talking to each other as soon as we finished memorializing our parents.
You could always call her, I remind myself. But what’s the use? She’d either ignore her phone or hang up on my face. Frankly, I don’t need the rejection right now.
Instead, I decide to do a little reconnaissance on Austin’s fiancée. It won’t be easy, because other than her first name, I don’t know anything about her. I get my laptop from the bedroom and set it up at the kitchen table. We’re lucky in that we get decent Wi-Fi here. Not all the neighbors do, but for whatever reason, we get a strong signal. It was one of our conditions for buying the cabin.
I jump onto Google and search “Austin Carter and Mary.” No last name, just Mary. I get more hits than I know what to do with, so I add “San Francisco” and “Attorney” to my search in hopes of winnowing down the results. The first thing that comes up is Blagojevich, Lemons and Rawlins. I scroll through the firm’s staff pictures to see if there is a Mary there, because it makes sense that Austin would’ve met her at work. It’s safe to say that the dating pool is deeply diminished after thirty.
There’s no Mary, so I soldier on.
Austin doesn’t do social media, the obvious place to look. And there doesn’t appear to be an announcement of their engagement in any of the local papers. I hoped that perhaps they’d attended a newsworthy event or benefit (something he and I would occasionally do) and I could find a picture of them on the social pages. But so far, nothing.
After an hour of searching, it becomes clear that Austin’s fiancée is as elusive as cheap rent. I slam the lid of my laptop down, chiding myself for being childish. What kind of marriage expert spies on her ex-husband?Hey, it’s only natural to be curious. Besides, if I see them together, it’ll give me closure, I further rationalize, realizing this internal argument I’m having with myself makes me sound like a loon. Okay,loonisn’t an official term in the DSM-5, but we all know if I keep this up, I’ll be bordering on one.
Knox pounds on the roof as if to agree. I flip him the bird, even though he can’t see it.
I decide that getting out of the house will make me forget about Austin, Lolly, and my parents. The sun is shining off the lake, and it seems like a good day to take the boat out, except I don’t know how to clip the electric motor to the battery. I should’ve paid more attention when Austin did it.
What the hell, it’s nothing I can’t learn from a YouTube video. I grab my phone and a jacket and head to the dock. There’s a whisper of a breeze, and the scent of pine needles fills the air. But the sun tricked me into believing it was warmer than it actually is. Still, I don’t let the chill dissuade me from going out on the water. A nice bracing ride will do me good.
Austin was supposed to pull the boat out of the lake on his last visit and store it before the rain comes. We are below the snow line but will occasionally get flurries that coat the ground, making it look pretty before it quickly melts. But lucky for me, Austin forgot. The aluminum boat is still tied to the dock, rocking in the gentle current.
I lug the battery, which weighs as much as a small cow, from the boathouse and manage to drop it onto the floor of the boat, then go back for the motor. I’m sitting on one of the captain’s chairs, studying how to hook everything up, struggling with which wire goes where, when I realize I forgot my life jacket. The lake is as calm as an empty parking lot, and I’m a good swimmer, but I’m coming off a concussion and shouldn’t take any chances. What if I have a blackout on the water and fall out of the boat? These are the things I think about.
I make the trek back to the boathouse and snap myself into one of the vests we purchased when we first got the cabin. Austin isn’t much of a swimmer, and neither of us started out as boat enthusiasts. The first time we attempted to get in kayaks, we wound up in the drink. I’ve mostly mastered getting in and out now, thanks to a fancy failsafe launch. Because what’s the good of living on a lake if you never use it?
Once I figure out that red goes to positive and black goes to negative, I try to attach the motor to the mounting bracket. This is no easy feat. The electric motor doesn’t want to stay and keeps falling off the bracket. My frustration is growing to the point where I’m considering giving up and going inside. I punch the motor, which only hurts my knuckles, and let out a curse, then scream when I realize there’s someone on the dock behind me.
“Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I couldn’t stand to watch you any longer.” Knox steps into the boat like he’s been doing it his whole life. He doesn’t even grab the edge to steady himself the way I do every time I get in, afraid I’ll be pitched over the side. Nope, he just climbs over me, and on the first try fits the motor into the mounting bracket and tightens the bolts. I don’t know whether to be thankful or to hate him for making it look so easy.
He hops out of the boat with the same dexterity as when he got in.
“Thanks,” I say, and to prove I know what I’m doing, I rev the engine and accelerate. When I sayengine, you have to understand that we’re only talking about thirty pounds of thrust, meaning this thing tops out at five miles an hour. Still, it jolts alive like I’m on the high seas and lurches forward. I’m moving now, though it feels like I’m dragging something behind me. Something heavy.
