Page 81 of His Third Wife

“I’m fine. They brought my car here. I can take you home.”

“I’m okay. Don’t think I’ll be going home for a while.”

“Where are you going?” Kerry asked.

“Over to the Westin probably. You know my office has a room on standby there.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jamison said. He kissed Kerry on the forehead softly and ran to catch up with his ride.

“His Third Wife”

I don’t know what made me get into my car and drive straight to the Westin when I left the police station. Or do I know and what it was just remains too embarrassing to express in any weak word that would make me feel foolish or stupid? I tried to call my mother to talk me out of it. Only I didn’t say that. I just reminded her that Tyrian had to be at camp by 7 AM the next day. She’d have to let herself into my house and get clothes for him to change into. He needed his swimming trunks and sunblock—he’d get such bad burns on his shoulders. She pointed out that it was 4 AM. She wasn’t complaining. I know she heard something panicking in my voice. “You’re a grown woman now,” she said. “You make your choices. You pay for them.”

I hung up the phone after saying good-bye, opened the car windows, and turned up the music. Peachtree is a brilliant spectacle of lights just before daybreak. Not anxious like Las Vegas or busy like New York City. Just random bursts of ordinary lights, a few up-to-date animated billboards and forgotten We’re Open electric blue front-door signage. All of this glittering brightness dotting a sleepy strip that’s so empty it dares you to race to the next red light. It’s like the world is over. Like one of those eighties movies where you wake up and everyone’s gone, stolen in the middle of your dream, leaving you alone to drift forever.

This old Faith Evans song was playing on the radio. I started singing along, trying to forget where I was going and hoping maybe I’d drive right past the Westin and get on the highway that led home, but the music pulled me back to somewhere that I’d been. It was a memory of Jamison and I riding in his car. With the windows open. Listening to this Faith Evans song. Maybe we were driving along Peachtree. But the sun was out. It shined into his old Cadillac from every window. I leaned my head into his chest and let his hand dangle over my shoulder. We’d just been married a year or two, so we must’ve been about twenty-three. The song was a little too fast for my mood, but Jamison sang along and I squealed at the torturous sound of his voice. Not even a sweet moment like that could make his singing voice sound good.

I was about to tell him to stop singing when he pulled the car over. He didn’t park. Just pulled over and left the car running.

“What’s this?” I asked. “Where are we?”

He said he wanted to dance with me.

“Dance? Here? Now?”

Jamison jumped out of the car and ran around to my side to open the door. “Come dance with me,” he said. “We never dance.”

I tried to keep the door closed, but I was losing, and laughing. “We always dance,” I said.

“Okay. We do, but I want to dance right now,” he said. He pulled me out of the car and I almost fell into him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and started singing again. “If you only knew, what you really do! . . .” He sounded like a wounded baby bird.

“Please stop!” I hollered, wresting away from him and that horrible sound. He wouldn’t let me go though. He held me tightly in place in front of him and started humming the words in my ear. Soon, I stopped fighting and swayed with him. Right on the side of the street that may have been Peachtree.

I was crying when I pulled into the Westin and gave the valet my car key. There was no way away from my memories. From a whole past life with someone who was a part of me. A real part of me. Someone who had ached with me and loved with me. Not even my bitter heart could protect me from that.

Jamison opened his room door and saw my tears. He pulled me into his arms like he had that day when we’d danced to Faith Evans and told me everything was going to be okay.

We were both too tired to talk about what had happened at the Rainforest or at the police station. The sun was threatening to shine soon outside the window. We could talk then. We crawled into the king-sized hotel room bed like it was ours and spooned just in case we were dreaming and reality was to arrive with daybreak to separate us again.

I was drifting into some restless sleep when Jamison whispered in my ear.

“Would you marry me again?” he asked drowsily like he was already half asleep.

“What? Hunh?” I asked, though I’d heard him clearly in my ear.

“Marry me.” This time his words sounded less like a question and more like an offering.

“Marry you?”

Jamison laughed. “Why do you keep answering me with questions?”

“Because I can’t believe what you’re asking,” I said more clearly than I had before. “This is crazy. Too fast.”

Jamison cleared his throat and turned me around to face him.

“Then I’ll ask it slowly. Would you marry me?” he asked slowly. “That work for you now?”

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