Page 111 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Of course, the second could be a con too. I’d failed at my marriage. He’d expect something I wasn’t sure I was able to give. I copied it into the cons column and added, “Patti’s ghost.”

It was impossible to compete with a ghost. Anyone who’d ever read Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca knew that.

Another pro: He likes me.

I smiled.

But liking someone was no guarantee of anything.

Cons

He had a successful marriage.

He lives in Montana.

I wasn’t sure Montana was the best place for me. I hadn’t lived there for most of my adult life. The pace and values were totally different from the bustle of the Bay Area. I was used to the climate and the pace of California. I’d miss it when winter had its icy talons dug in deep in Montana land.

I got up and moved the clothes to the dryer.

Another con: I haven’t learned how to be me first.

Since the divorce I’d been “not married,” but I’d begun to figure out that wasn’t all there was. I needed to rediscover who I was, without a man to orbit around, either positively or negatively. It was true I’d have the year to travel with my sisters, but would that be enough?

I wrote down a few more cons, but couldn’t come up with any more pros.

There was my answer, in black and … er … green.

The data on the paper was depressing. It may list all the facts, but it didn’t make me feel any better about my decision. There had to be more pros about Joe than I was remembering.

But what did it say about me that I couldn’t remember. I stuffed the paper in my back pocket.

The clothes tumbled.

A fishing pole of my own. That would be nice. It had been fun fishing with Joe. Maybe if I practiced, he’d be impressed the next time I saw him. The times we’d spent together, lines floating in the water, sun overhead, had been peaceful, content.

Conversations over dinner. He was a smart, well-read man. He had his novel to give him purpose. Would photography provide me the same kind of fulfillment?

Kissing Joe had been magic.

Why was I willing to give that up? It wasn’t that he never wanted to make love, it was that he wanted to take it slow and steady. I had been the one in a rush, afraid the opportunity would disappear if I didn’t snatch it up right then.

The clothes slowed and tumbled to the bottom of the massive dryer. I pulled them out and started folding.

~ ~ ~

Once I got back with the clothes, we ate lunch: sandwiches Liz had picked up in town. Then we went back to stowing things we’d strewn about and strapping things in. By late afternoon, we were ready to go to town for cocktails followed by dinner at Firehole BBQ Co., a place we’d gone to once before and deemed worthy of a return visit, no matter how messy.

“I’m looking forward to getting to the East Coast,” Liz said as we settled in with our ribs and sides of coleslaw, beans, and macaroni and cheese. “Especially the Hudson River Valley. There was a group of artists there in the mid-1800s. Their paintings are so moody, it’s wonderful.”

“Are you going to drag us to lots of museums?” Kathleen asked with a groan.

“As long as you can put up with it. And then a little bit more.” Liz’s eyes sparkled. “Art is good for the soul. Besides it will give you inspiration for your weaving.”

“I don’t need inspiration. I need to learn to weave faster.”

“What you need is patience,” I said. “The same thing you’re always telling me about my photography. Look in the mirror and say the same thing.”

“You’re right about that,” Kathleen said, waving a barbeque bit speared by a fork in my direction. “Weaving sometimes feels more tedious than driving that damn combine harvester up and down the field.”

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