Spread the Word
Love is a many splendored thing
When I returned from the ladies’ room and traversed the floor amidst the flow of “Moon River,” I spied Jack with Jane in his arms and stars in his eyes. As I approached, I could hear Jack’s fervent words of declaration …before that magical night … I never dreamed I would fall for another woman… never planned for this to happen…
My sudden presence startled them, but they did not seem disconcerted. They quickly drew me into their embrace. Jack my husband, and Jane my best friend.
It was Jane who had introduced us, Jack and me, on September 24th, 2017. She had barely known Jack herself; he was a friend of her sister’s husband’s brother or the brother of her friend’s sister’s husband or some such convoluted, to-the-fourth-degree-removed combination.
It was Jack’s gaze — attentive and intense — that drew me.
The combination appealed to me. Attention could be feigned by a frivolous person in a superficial social situation. Intensity in itself could signal neediness. Their conflation made the whole more reliably indicative of strong character than the upside of each taken separately.
At least, that’s how I figured it. And my conviction was fortified by observing Jack’s interactions with others. He invariably showed strong interest across the diversely peopled board. Surely, that couldn’t be faked. What would be the motive to suck up indiscriminately?
Jack’s wife had died of cancer scarcely a year before we met. He professed to have been happily married (check) and appeared to have good relationships with his three grown children (check, check, check). These were the clinchers that — once confirmed — convinced me of Jack’s good character.
The final assurance in this regard was provided at Thanksgiving dinner, two months after we’d met. Jack’s daughter and sons welcomed me warmly, then segued seamlessly thereafter between eager engagement with Jack and me, and easy reminiscence of their mother.
There was no awkwardness; no resentment of me or their father. Jack’s daughter, Louise, beckoned me discreetly to the kitchen to tell me that the family was thrilled to see their dad so happy after the unremitting devastation of his past year.
The flags thus were flying high over the rainbow in every color thereof, save red. When, on New Year’s Eve, Jack asked me to marry him, my joy was untempered by doubt. We wed on Valentine’s Day of this year.
Now here we were, four days short of Thanksgiving, in a three-way clinch. More accurately, with me imprisoned by the encircled arms of my husband and best friend. Crushed, literally, as well as in the obvious sense.
How does one begin to process the death scene of her romantic dream? I felt myself float above our threesome and as in the prototypical out-of-body experience saw scenes from my life flash before me. Namely, snapshots from the glorious, whirlwind year of Jack-and-me. Magnificent pictures from that first family Thanksgiving … our wedding on Worldwide Love Day … our honeymoon after moon after moon …
Jack’s words jolted me from reminiscence.
… my cherished wife, who I’d never have met, had you not introduced us that momentous night. And for that, Jane, I’ll love you forever.
Right back at you, Jack, for bringing my dear friend such joy, I heard Jane say, as — jarred by their embrace — I dropped back into their circle — our circle — of love.
This is a much modified version of a piece that — as I had feared — bombed upon its recitation in my erstwhile writers’ workshop. In its original form it was not intended to be read aloud; indeed, given my misdirection as set-up for the ending twist, a mindful triple-take would have been necessary in order to get it. I’ve tweaked to untangle some of the troublesome strands in hope that a second read would suffice.
I wrote this story by way of a break from the cynicism that pervades my work on the theme of romance. Habits die hard; upon my rereading, my jaded self could construe an alternate interpretation of the events: Lovers concocting cover story.
