The Last Time I Saw You by Elizabeth Berg

Author:Elizabeth Berg
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Contemporary Fiction, Family & Friendship
ISBN: 9781588368928
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-04-06T07:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

CANDY SULLIVAN LETS ESTHER OUT OF HER LITTLE CARRYON, and the dog runs excitedly around the room, sniffing deeply at this place and that. Candy and Cooper once watched a documentary on hotel cleanliness—or lack thereof—and Coop said, “You see why I don’t like to travel?” But it wasn’t true that he didn’t like to travel—he relished his getaways with his male friends. It was traveling with her that gave him pause. She had figured that out, finally, and only last year went to Paris alone, which at first scared the hell out of her, but then she actually enjoyed it quite a bit. To linger before a painting in the Musée d’Orsay or over a platter of cheese at an outdoor café, to watch the waters of the Fontaine d’Agam or sit in the stained-glass-colored light of a cathedral, without worrying about someone else’s level of tolerance for such things! To take in a sunset while sitting beside the Seine and allow it to be the religious experience that it was, to come to tears over the astonishing beauty in a totally uninhibited way! She ate three croissants with raspberry jam for breakfast one day, and had no breakfast at all the next. She deliberated over a little painting for sale at a gallery on Rue des Beaux-Arts, worrying and worrying about the cost of just under two thousand dollars, but then got it anyway, and after she brought it back to her hotel room and propped it up so that she could see it from the bed, she decided it was worth three times what she’d paid for it. It was of a rolling field of lavender in late afternoon, the sun a deep gold wash, and she wanted to be buried with it, she told Coop on the phone the next day, when she called to check in. That was when the idea of being buried was still an abstraction.

He’d said at that time that he missed her, that he was eager for her to come home, but then when she came home, he didn’t seem so glad after all. The first thing he said to her after she cleared customs was, “Christ, what took you so long?” When they got home and she showed him the painting, he said, “Huh. How much was that?” Later, he just seemed sad—sighing over his dinner, seeming to avoid her by planting himself in front of the television and then his computer, and when finally she called him on it, he said, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, here we go again. Don’t blame your moodiness on me!”

She considered not responding, but then she said, “I’m only asking you to tell me what’s going on. You seem upset. Or sad, or something. If I’m wrong, you can tell me. You don’t have to get mad.”

“You’re the one who’s mad!” he said.

She stared at him, her stomach aching, then said, “And yet you’re the one who’s yelling.”

He shook his head wearily, his eyelids at half-mast.

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