“What’s top surgery?”
“Duh—the opposite of bottom surgery. Don’t you know anything?”
“You mean a mastectomy?”
“A double mastectomy. That’s the easy part.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t have any choice when I’m eighteen.”
“What if our health insurance doesn’t cover it?”
“It costs less than $10,000.”
“You don’t have that kind of money.”
“At this rate I will soon.”
Lynn remembers where that conversation led, how Jean-Pierre’s fury built as the tension escalated. When Jules demanded that his father get his name right or he’d never speak to him again, Jean-Pierre spit back, “I do call you by your proper name, Juliette. That’s the name your parents gave you and that’s how it’s going to stay.”
“Not for long, Dad. I’ve been talking to Mum, and she’s agreed to file the government form for a legal name change.”
“I don’t believe it— She’d never do that— Not without talking to me first.”
With the road passing beneath her at 120 kph, little traffic to pay attention to, hopefully no cops lurking behind the overpasses, Lynn lets her mind locate the start of that particular episode, the one that essentially ended their marriage. Jules had just returned from school. Walking through the front door, he launched into a tirade about having to carry around the “ugly lumps on his chest,” having to wear a tight-fitting spandex top like a corset with a loose-fitting sweatshirt over it to hide what still showed. That day, Jean-Pierre didn’t back off. After hearing his bitter exchange with Jules regarding the name change, Lynn came into the living room to defuse the bomb about to detonate. “What’s got into you?” she asked Jean-Pierre.
“What’s got into you?” he snapped back. “You’ve been playing along with Juliette’s charade. Now you’ve agreed to a name change?”
“Only one parent has to sign the form.”
“That may be good enough for the government, but not for me.”
“Jules’ psychiatrist has written a letter of support. I was hoping it would persuade you to co-sign the form.”
Jean-Pierre slammed his fist on the coffee table, knocking the book on the top of the stack to the floor. “The two of you are in on this?— You’ve been scheming behind my back?”
“You and I have discussed it for months,” said Lynn, picking up the book and replacing it carefully on the table.
“Not an official name change.”
“Sure we have— Where have you been?”
“I feel like I’m not living here anymore. This is my house and nobody tells me anything.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s our house, too. You’ve turned a deaf ear to what you don’t want to hear.”
“Maybe I should live somewhere else,” said Jean-Pierre.
“Or maybe Jules and I should.”
Jean-Pierre charged out of the house, slammed the door, and went for a long walk in the rain. By the time he returned, soaked to the skin, Jules had already eaten and gone to a nearby friend’s to spend the night. Lynn handed Jean-Pierre a towel and bathrobe. While he showered, she set the dining room table and lit candles. After dessert they made love. Angry love. It was the last time she made love of any kind. With anyone.
As he always had, Ralph took charge. He reminded the maître d’ that he’d requested a table in a quiet corner. “Better for talking business,” he said to Lynn
“Yes, I guess that’s what this evening is about. I thought you might be able to help me in my fight against the wind farm projects in my county.”
“I’ve been thinking about your situation. I know you were hoping that my firm could represent your citizens’ group— ”
“ —Not your firm, Ralph— You.”
They’d barely sat down. No Hi, how are you? It’s been a long time since our twentieth high school reunion. It’s great to see you. Lynn fiddled with her knife, trying to determine what to say next. Ralph continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, explaining that one of his clients had won the right to install turbines on a few of the sites in Prince Edward County and that it would be a conflict of interest for him to represent her group. He referred her to a lawyer working for a nonprofit environmental organization.
“I want you because I’ve heard you’re the best.”
“This lawyer is very good. I’ve even lost a case to him.”
Still arrogant. She asked if he’d toured the sites for the proposed wind turbine installations. He shook his head no and reached across the table, put his hand on hers. “Please give that knife a break. Save it for your steak. It looks as if you’re getting ready to use it on me.”
“I think I’ll have salmon,” she said.
“I was hoping we might have chateaubriand for two.”
“Not tonight.”
“Well, maybe you can cook it for us sometime soon. You know— After you take me on a tour of your county.”
She caught his gaze and held it. Odd how it seemed that he was holding hers instead. Intensity in those light blue eyes. Penetrating, but not threatening. They communicated curiosity infused with warmth. Back in college, she’d thought of them as kind. They told you he was interested in what you had to say without telegraphing that he might be interested only because he was trying to figure you out. Deceptively kind eyes that could put you off guard. His appearance hadn’t changed much, except the color of his hair, silver now instead of reddish-brown, thick as ever. He was wearing it a little longer, slicked down with gel, a clean part—banker-ish. Only the slightest of wrinkles in his face and neck. Still trim. Well preserved. Amazing for sixty-two. Too damn good.
That’s how the evening began. Only hours old, part of it seems as if it occurred a month ago, barely echoes of the conversation left, part of it as if it’s happening all over again, right here, as if Ralph is in the passenger seat. She can’t say the rest of that evening was uneventful. He refused to answer her question about where the boy who loved the outdoors had gone. He seemed to keep bringing the conversation back to the past. She was sure he’d end up at prom night and what they’d never satisfactorily resolved, but he didn’t. She let him reminisce about hiking in the Eastern Townships, willing to let herself tag along in the conversation as she used to tag along with him and his father as they orienteered their way to small mountain ponds for picnics. She let him tell the story about the day the two of them sailed his family’s Y-Flyer from the marina to the beach to join their mothers for lunch. After a swim, they headed upriver and upwind toward Lake Champlain, he at the tiller and tending the mainsail, she trimming the jib. A few miles from Fort Lennox, the sky turned dark and the wind picked up. Ralph came about and headed back. The boat made good speed surfing the growing waves, the centerboard whining as the