suddenly he laughed out loud, feeling better than he had in years, and he wished that he could have thrown a snowball at someone. He made one round, firm ball of the crisp white snow, just for the hell of it, and tossed it at a tree. It made him feel like a kid again, and he was still smiling when he went upstairs to his bedroom. It was warm, and the fire was still burning brightly. And it suddenly began to feel like Christmas.
It was only when he got between the clean sheets on the big canopied bed, under the down comforter, that his heart began to ache again, and he wished Carole was there with him. He would have given anything to spend a night with her again, and it made his soul ache just thinking that he would never again do that. She would never spend another night with him, he would never be able to make love to her again. Just letting his mind run over it made him long for her, but he knew as he lay staring into the fire that it was pointless. He couldn't keep doing this to himself, and he couldn't go on pining for her forever. But it was so damn hard not to. It had been so good for such a long time, and he still wondered at the flaw in him that had allowed him not to see what was happening when he had begun to lose her. Maybe if he had seen it then, he could have stopped it. It was like torturing yourself for a life you had been unable to save. The fife he had lost was his own, the victim was their marriage. And he wondered if he would ever feel the same about anyone again. He wondered how she could be so sure of herself in going off with Simon. He couldn't imagine ever trusting anyone that much again. In fact, he was sure he wouldn't.
It was a long time before he fell asleep, and when he did, the fire was finally dying. The embers were a soft glow in the room, and the snow had stopped falling beyond the windows. And when he woke up in the morning, the woman who owned the inn was knocking on his door with warm blueberry muffins and a pot of steaming coffee.
I thought you might like this, Mr. Waterston. She smiled at him, as he opened the door to her with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He had sent all his pajamas to storage, and kept forgetting to buy new ones. But she had no objection at all to seeing his long, lean, muscular body. It only made her wish she were twenty years younger.
Thanks so much, he said, smiling at her, still looking sleepy and a little bit tousled. And when he drew back the curtains, he stood staring at how beautiful it looked. The snow lay in graceful drifts and her husband was outside shoveling the driveway.
You'll want to be careful driving today, she warned.
Is it icy? he asked conversationally, but he didn't look worried.
Not yet. But it will be later on. They say it's going to snow again this afternoon. There's a storm front coming down from the Canadian border. But he didn't mind at all. He had all the time in the world, and he could drive through New England in twenty-mile increments if he had to. He was in no rush to do anything, not even go skiing, although he was looking forward to it. He hadn't skied in the States since he'd lived there. He and Carole had gone to Sugarbush in the old days, while he'd lived in New York. But he had already decided to go someplace different. He didn't need any more pilgrimages to places where he had memories of her. Especially not over Christmas.
Charlie left the inn an hour later, showered and dressed in ski pants and a parka, carrying the thermos of coffee he'd bought from them. And he got on Interstate 91 without difficulty, and headed toward Massachusetts. He drove steadily for a long time, and he was surprised by how clear the road was. The snow scarcely slowed him at all, and he never even needed to put on the chains the rental company had provided. It was easy driving until he reached Whately, and then it began to snow lightly, and he watched the snowflakes collect on his windshield.
He was tired by then, and he was surprised
It was only when he got between the clean sheets on the big canopied bed, under the down comforter, that his heart began to ache again, and he wished Carole was there with him. He would have given anything to spend a night with her again, and it made his soul ache just thinking that he would never again do that. She would never spend another night with him, he would never be able to make love to her again. Just letting his mind run over it made him long for her, but he knew as he lay staring into the fire that it was pointless. He couldn't keep doing this to himself, and he couldn't go on pining for her forever. But it was so damn hard not to. It had been so good for such a long time, and he still wondered at the flaw in him that had allowed him not to see what was happening when he had begun to lose her. Maybe if he had seen it then, he could have stopped it. It was like torturing yourself for a life you had been unable to save. The fife he had lost was his own, the victim was their marriage. And he wondered if he would ever feel the same about anyone again. He wondered how she could be so sure of herself in going off with Simon. He couldn't imagine ever trusting anyone that much again. In fact, he was sure he wouldn't.
It was a long time before he fell asleep, and when he did, the fire was finally dying. The embers were a soft glow in the room, and the snow had stopped falling beyond the windows. And when he woke up in the morning, the woman who owned the inn was knocking on his door with warm blueberry muffins and a pot of steaming coffee.
I thought you might like this, Mr. Waterston. She smiled at him, as he opened the door to her with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He had sent all his pajamas to storage, and kept forgetting to buy new ones. But she had no objection at all to seeing his long, lean, muscular body. It only made her wish she were twenty years younger.
Thanks so much, he said, smiling at her, still looking sleepy and a little bit tousled. And when he drew back the curtains, he stood staring at how beautiful it looked. The snow lay in graceful drifts and her husband was outside shoveling the driveway.
You'll want to be careful driving today, she warned.
Is it icy? he asked conversationally, but he didn't look worried.
Not yet. But it will be later on. They say it's going to snow again this afternoon. There's a storm front coming down from the Canadian border. But he didn't mind at all. He had all the time in the world, and he could drive through New England in twenty-mile increments if he had to. He was in no rush to do anything, not even go skiing, although he was looking forward to it. He hadn't skied in the States since he'd lived there. He and Carole had gone to Sugarbush in the old days, while he'd lived in New York. But he had already decided to go someplace different. He didn't need any more pilgrimages to places where he had memories of her. Especially not over Christmas.
Charlie left the inn an hour later, showered and dressed in ski pants and a parka, carrying the thermos of coffee he'd bought from them. And he got on Interstate 91 without difficulty, and headed toward Massachusetts. He drove steadily for a long time, and he was surprised by how clear the road was. The snow scarcely slowed him at all, and he never even needed to put on the chains the rental company had provided. It was easy driving until he reached Whately, and then it began to snow lightly, and he watched the snowflakes collect on his windshield.
He was tired by then, and he was surprised
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