Jack’s mother acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. When she tried to take Jack’s hand, he turned unexpectedly and hugged my legs.
I could tell that the mother was annoyed. She turned to a friend, and I heard her say, “What the hell does she know? It’s not like she’s a doctor.” Nick—listen, watch closely now, this next part is magic. There is such a thing. Believe me.
One night after a very long day at my office, the intrepid country doctor decided to grab a bite to eat on her way home.
I was just too tired to deal with making something, or even deciding what to make. No, Harry’s Hamburger would do me just fine. A burger and fries seemed perfect to end my day. I needed a little guilty pleasure.
I guess it was a little past eight when I strolled inside. I didn’t notice him at first. He was sitting by the window, eating his dinner and reading a book.
In fact, I was halfway through my burger when I saw him.Picasso, my housepainter.
I’d had very little contact with him since he left me those beautiful wildflowers in the mason jar. Occasionally, I’d hear him fixing something on the roof as I was leaving for work, or catch him painting the house, but we seldom spoke more than a few words.
I got up to pay the check. I could have walked out without saying hello because his back was turned toward me, but that seemed rude, ungracious, and snobby on my part.
I stopped at his table and asked him how he was. He was surprised to see me and asked if I’d join him for a cup of coffee, dessert, anything. It was his treat.
I gave him a lame excuse, saying I had to get home to Gus, but he was already clearing a spot for me and I just sort of sat down in his booth by the window. I liked his voice—I hadn’t noticed it before. I liked his eyes, too.
“What are you reading?” I asked, feeling awkward, maybe a little scared, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“Two things . . . Melville”—he held up Moby-Dick —“and Trout Fishing in America. Just in case I don’t catch the big one, I have a backup.”
I laughed. Picasso was pretty smart, and funny. “Moby-Dick, hmmm, is that your summer reading or a guilt hangover because you never finished it in school?”
“Both,” he admitted. “It’s one of those things that you have on your to-do list in life. The book just sits there looking at you saying, ‘I’m not going away till you read me.’ This is the summer I’m getting all the classics out of the way so I can finally concentrate on cheap summer thrillers.”
We talked for more than an hour that night, and the time just flew. Suddenly, I noticed how dark it was outside.
I looked back at him. “I have to go. I start work early in the morning.”
“Me, too,” he said, and smiled. “My current boss is an absolute slave driver.”
I laughed. “So I’ve heard.”
I stood up at the table and for some goony reason, I shook his hand.
“Picasso,” I said, “I don’t even know your real name.”
“It’s Matthew,” he said. “Matthew Harrison.”
Your father.
The next time I saw Matt Harrison, he was floating high above the world, up on my roof. He was hammering shingles like a madman, definitely a good, very conscientious worker. It was a few days after we had talked at Harry’s Hamburger.
“Hey, Picasso!” I yelled, this time feeling more relaxed and even happy to see him. “You want a cold drink or something?”
“Almost done here. I’ll be down in a minute. I’d love something cold.”
Five minutes later he entered the cottage as brown as a burnished copper coin.
“How’s it going up there where the seagulls play?” I asked.
He laughed. “Good and hot! Believe it or not,
I’m almost done with your roof.”
Damn. Just as I was starting to like having him around.
“How’s it going down here?” Matt asked me, sliding into my porch rocker in his cutoff jeans and open denim shirt. The rocker went back and bumped the trellis.
“Pretty good,” I said. “No tragic headlines in the trenches today, which is always nice to report. Actually, I love my practice.”
Suddenly, behind Matt, the trellis broke away from its hinges and began to tumble toward us. We both leaped up simultaneously. We managed to press the white wooden frame back into place, our heads covered with rose petals and clematis.
I began laughing as I looked over at my handy-man. He looked like a bridesmaid gone wrong. He immediately responded by saying, “Oh, and you don’t look like Carmen Miranda yourself?”
Matt got a hammer and nails and resecured the trellis. My only job was to hold it steady.
I felt his strong, very solid leg brush against mine, then I could feel his chest press against my back as he hovered over me, banging in the last nail.
I shivered. Had he done that on purpose? What was going on here?
Our eyes met and there was a flash of something bordering on the significant between us. Whatever it was, I liked it.
Impulsively, or maybe instinctively, I asked him if he’d like to stay for dinner. “Nothing fancy. I’ll throw some steaks and corn on the grill . . . like that.”
He hesitated, and I wondered whether there was someone else. He certainly was good-looking enough. But my insecurity evaporated when he said, “I’m kind of grubby, Suzanne. Would you mind if I took a shower? I’d love to stay for dinner.”
“There are clean towels under the sink,” I told him.
And so he went to wash up and I went to make dinner. It had a nice feeling to it. Regular, simple, neighborly.
That’s when I realized I didn’t have any steak or corn. Fortunately, Matt never knew that I ran over to Melanie’s for food . . . and that she threw in wine, candles, even half a cherry pie for dessert. She also told me that she adored Matt, that everyone did, and good for you.
After dinner the two of us sat talking on the front porch for a long time. The time flew again, and when I looked at my watch, I saw that it was almost eleven. I couldn’t believe it.
“Tomorrow’s a hospital day for me,” I said. “I have early rounds.”
“I’d like to reciprocate,” Matt said. “Take you to dinner tomorrow? May I, Suzanne?”
I couldn’t take my eyes away from his. Matt’s eyes were this incredibly gentle brown. “Yes, you absolutely may take me to dinner. I can’t wait,” I said. It just came out.
He laughed. “You don’t have to wait. I’m still here, Suzanne.”
“I know, and I like it, but I still can’t wait for tomorrow. Good night, Matt.”
He leaned forward, lightly kissed my lips, and then went home.
As it always has in my life—so far, anyway— tomorrow finally arrived. It came with Gus. Every morning he goes out to the porch and fetches the Boston Globe. What a retriever; what a pal!
Picasso took me around the island in his beat-up Chevy truck that afternoon, and I saw it as I never had before. I felt like a tourist. Martha’s Vineyard was full of picturesque nooks and crannies and stunning views that continually surprised and delighted me.
We ended up at the lovely, multicolored Gay Head Cliffs. Matt reminded me that Tashtego in Moby-Dick was a native harpooner and a Gay Head Indian. I guess I’d forgotten.
A couple of days later, after he’d finished some work in the house, we went for another ride.
Two days later we went out to Chappaquiddick Island. There was a tiny sign on the beach: PLEASE DON’T DISTURB, NOT EVEN THE CLAMS OR SCALLOPS. Nice. We didn’t disturb anything.
I know this might sound silly, or worse, but I liked just being in the car with Matt. I looked at him and thought, Hey, I’m with this guy and he’s very nice. We’re out looking for an adventure. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time. I missed it.
It was at that very moment Matt turned and asked me what I was thinking about.
“Nothing. Just catching the sights,” I said. I felt as if I’d just been caught doing something I wa
sn’t supposed to.
He persisted. “If I guess right, will you tell me?” “Sure.”
“If I guess right,” he said, and grinned, “then we get to have another date. Maybe even tomorrow night.”
“And if you guess wrong, then we never see each other again. Big stakes riding on this.”
He laughed. “Remember, I’m still painting your house, Suzanne.”
“You wouldn’t screw up the paint job to get even?”
Matt pretended to be offended. “I’m an artist. Picasso.”
He paused before winking at me, and then nailed his guess. “You were thinking about us.”
I couldn’t even bluff, though I did blush like crazy. “Maybe I was.”
“Yes!” he shouted, and raised both arms in triumph. “And so?”
“So keep your hands on the steering wheel. And so what else?”
“So what would you like to do tomorrow?”
I started to laugh, and realized I did that a lot around him. “Boy, I have no idea. I was going to give Gus a badly needed bath, do some food shopping, maybe rent a movie. I was thinking, The Prince of Tides.”
“Sounds great, sounds perfect. I loved Pat Conroy’s book, all his stuff. Never got around to the movie. Afraid they’d mess it up. If you want some company I’d love to tag along.”
I had to admit, it was great fun being with Matt. He was the polar opposite of my former Boston boyfriend, Michael Bernstein, who never seemed to do anything without a logical reason, never took a day off, probably never turned down a pretty winding road just because it was there.
Matt couldn’t have been more different. He seemed to take an interest in just about everything on the planet: he was a gardener, bird-watcher, avid reader, pretty good cook, basketball player, crossword-puzzle champion, and, of course, he was very handy around the house.
I remember looking down at my watch at one point during our ride. But I wasn’t doing it because I wanted our date to be over; I was doing it because I wanted it not to be over. I felt so damn happy that day. Just taking a ride with him, going absolutely nowhere.
I breathed in everything around me: the sea grass, the minty blue sky, the beach, the roaring ocean. But mostly I breathed in Matthew Harrison. His freshly laundered plaid flannel shirt, his jeans, his glistening rose-brown skin, his longish brown hair.
I breathed Matt in, held him there, and never wanted to exhale. Something very nice was happening.
Now, you may be wondering about Matt Wolfe, the lawyer? Well, I called Matt several times, but all I ever got was his answering machine, and then he never called me back. It is a small island, though, so maybe he knew.
Nicky,
I saw Matt Harrison every day for the next two weeks. I almost couldn’t believe it. I pinched myself a lot. I smiled when no one was around.
“Have you ever ridden a horse, Suzanne?” Matt asked me on Saturday morning. “This is a serious question.”
“I reckon. When I was a kid,” I said with a light cowgirl drawl.
“A perfect answer—because you’re about to be a kid again. Right now, today. By the way, have you ever ridden a sky blue horse that has red stripes and gold hooves?”
I looked at Matt, then shook my head. “I’d remember if I had.”
“I know where there’s a horse like that,” he said. “In fact, I know where there are lots of them.”
We drove up to Oak Bluffs, and there they were. God, what a sight.
Dozens of brightly painted stallions stood in a circle beneath the most dazzling jigsaw ceiling I’d ever seen. Hand-carved horses with flared red nostrils and black glass eyes galloped in their tireless tracks in a circle of joy.
Matthew had brought me to the Flying Horses, the oldest carousel in the country. It was still open for business, for kids of all ages.
We climbed aboard as the platform tilted and rotated beneath us, and we found perfect steeds.
As the music began, I clenched the silver horse rod, rising and falling, rising and falling. I fell under the carousel’s spinning spell. Matt reached out to hold my hand and even tried to catch a kiss, which he succeeded at admirably. What a horseman!
“Where did you learn to ride like that, cowboy?” I asked as we rode up and down, but also around and around.
“Oh, I’ve ridden for years,” Matt said. “Took lessons here when I was three. You see that blue stallion up ahead? Blue the color of the sky? Wild-blue-yonder blue?”
“Reckon I do.”
“He threw me a couple of times. Man, did I take a nasty spill or two. That’s why I wanted to make sure you got National Velvet first time out. She’s got an even temper, lovely coat of shellac.”
“She’s beautiful, Matt. You know, when I was a kid I did ride some. It’s all coming back to me. I used to go riding with my grandfather out in Goshen, New York. Funny I should remember that now.”
Good memories are like charms, Nicky. Each is special. You collect them, one by one, until one day you look back and discover they make a long, colorful bracelet.
By the end of that day, I would have my first in a series of beautiful charms about Matthew Harrison.
KATIE
KATIE WOULD never forget the very first time she saw Matt Harrison. It was in her small, comfortable office at the publishing house, and she had been looking forward to the meeting for days. She had loved Songs of a Housepainter, which seemed to her like the most memorable short stories, quite magical, condensed into powerful, very moving poems. He wrote about everyday life—tending a garden, painting a house, burying a beloved dog, having a child—but his choice of words distilled life so perfectly. She was still amazed that she had discovered his work.
And then he walked through the door of her office, and she was even more amazed. No, make that entranced. The most primitive parts of her brain and nervous system locked onto the image before her— the poet, the man. Katie felt her heart skip a beat, and she thought, My, my. Careful, careful.
He was taller than she was—she guessed about six foot two. He had a good nose and strong-looking chin, and everything about his face held together extremely well, like one of his poems. His hair was longish, sandy brown, clean and lustrous. He had a deep workingman’s tan. He smiled at something, hopefully not her height or her gawkiness or the goofy look on her face—but she liked him, anyway. What was there not to like?
They had dinner that night, and he gallantly let her buy. He did insist on picking up the tab for a couple of glasses of expensive port a little later. Then they went to a jazz club on the Upper West Side, on a “school night” as Katie called her work nights. He finally dropped her off at her apartment at three in the morning, apologized profusely and sincerely, gave her the sweetest kiss on the cheek, and then off he went in a Checker cab.
Katie stood on the front steps and was finally able to catch her breath, maybe for the first time since he had walked through the door of her office. She tried to remember . . . was Matthew Harrison married?
He was back in her office the following morning— to work—but the two of them skedaddled off to lunch at noon and didn’t return for the rest of the day. They went museum hopping, and he certainly knew his art. He didn’t show off, but he easily knew as much as Katie did. She kept thinking—who is this guy? And why am I allowing myself to feel the way I’m feeling?
And then—why am I not trying to feel like this all the time?
He came up to her place that night, and she contin- ued to be astonished that any of this was happening. Katie was infamous with her friends for not sleeping around, for being too romantic, and way too old-fashioned about sex; but here she was with this good looking, undeniably sexy, housepainter-poet from Martha’s Vineyard, and she couldn’t not be with him. He never, ever hustled her—in fact, he seemed almost as surprised about being in her apartment as she was that he was there.
“Hummuna, hummuna,” Katie said, and they both laughed nervously.
“My sentiments exactly,” Matt said.
r /> They went to bed for the first time on that rainy night, and he made her notice the music of the raindrops as they fell on her street, the rooftop, and even the trees outside her apartment. It was beautiful, it was music; but soon they had forgotten the patter of the rain, and everything else, except for the urgent touch of each other.
He was so natural and easy and good in bed that it scared Katie a little. It was as if he had known her for a long time. He knew how to hold her, how and where to touch her, how to wait, and then when to let everything on the inside explode. She loved the way he touched her, the gentle way he kissed her lips, her cheeks, the hollow of her throat, her back, breasts— well, everywhere.
“You’re absolutely ravishing, and you don’t know it, do you?” he whispered to her, then smiled. “You have the most delicate body. Your eyes are gorgeous. And I love your braid.”
“You and my mother,” Katie said. She loosened the braid and let her long hair cascade over her shoulders.
“Hmmm. I love that look, too,” Matt said, and winked at her.
When he finally left her apartment the next morning, Katie had the feeling that she had never been with anyone like that, never experienced such intimacy with another person. My God, why not? she asked herself.
She kind of missed Matt already. It was insane, completely ridiculous, not her; but she did miss him. My God, why not?
When she got to her office that morning, he was already there, waiting for her. Her heart nearly stopped.
“We’d better do some work,” she said. “Seriously, Matthew.”
He didn’t say a word, just shut her office door, and kissed her until Katie felt as if she were melting into the hardwood floor.
He finally pulled away, looked into her eyes again, and said, “As soon as I left your place, I missed you.”
THE DIARY
Nicholas,
I remember all of this as if it happened yesterday. It’s still vibrant and alive. Matt and I were riding on the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven road in my Jeep. Gus went along for the ride. He sat on the backseat and looked like one of the lions that guard the front of the New York Public Library.