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as good as it got |
| AS GOOD AS IT GOT is the story of three women who have one thing in common: they have all lost their men in their lives. They find themselves on the coast of Maine at Camp Kinsonu, a retreat for suddenly single women. |
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Cindy: Cindy thought she had the perfect marriage to her husband, Kevin. Until she found a pair of panties under their bed that didn’t belong to her…Not the first time her husband cheated, but will he come back this time around? Ann: Martha:
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All three women come to Kinsonu to share their stories, participate in camp activities and wonder at Patrick, the very hot, supposedly gay handyman. One thing is sure, no one will go home unchanged. Sharpe delivers a cheeky overcoming-adversity narrative that's laced with wisdom and humor. -- Publisher's Weekly |
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| “I have to tell you something, Cindy.” Kevin spoke gently, as if he were talking to a special needs child. “I’m leaving.” Cindy was so stunned that this didn’t compute at all. “Leaving.” “Yes.” He couldn’t look at her, and she couldn’t look away from him. “Leaving...” She had become suddenly stupid and nothing made sense. “...me? Our marriage?” “Yes. Yes.” He was impatient now, anxious to get this little unpleasantness over with. He couldn’t mean it. Twenty-one years of marriage, solid in every way but his affairs, which she’d chosen to put up with. He always came back. He would always come back. It was an unspoken agreement. His breaking that agreement was worse than breaking his vow to be faithful. Way worse. They were married. He had to stay with her until death. That was how it worked. She stood and started pacing. “Why are you saying you’re leaving this time and not the others?” “Because...I love her.” She stopped to stare at him until a harsh laugh broke out, a bitter middle-aged woman’s laugh, not hers. Nothing he could say could have been more horrible. Not that this woman had bigger tits, a tighter ass, straddled him better than a bronc rider—all that Cindy could forgive and understand. But love was reserved for the wife, and sex for the mistress, everyone knew that. “You love her?” She screeched the words, which she thought was pretty understandable given the circumstances, but he wouldn’t. “I knew you’d get this way.” His jaw set like cold rock; they were back on familiar ground. She threw out her arms then brought her hands back to grip her head, fingers bent like claws. “What should I do, Kevin? Say, ‘There, there, I understand. I’ll be gone by morning, don’t give me another thought?’” “You’ll be taken care of. By me, financially. And Patty has—” “You are in love with someone named Patty?” Control was gone, she might as well face it. “I hate that name.” “She’s found a place that will help you—” “What?” If Cindy thought finding out he loved someone else was bad, the pain of finding out this woman had done research to help Cindy get over the agony she caused, was so acute Cindy just stood there, trying to get more words out over little gasps that stood in for breathing. “It’s in Maine. It’s a camp. For women who—” “You plotted with her to send me off to camp? Like I’m a child you want out of the way?” “She was trying to help.” “That...bitch.” “She’s not—” “Bitch.” “You don’t know—” “All-bitch Patty, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pick—” “Stop it.” He stood abruptly, gesturing, and knocked over his soup so that the thick green liquid flowed, lava-like, over the table, chunks of ham standing in sharp relief as the rest settled into the thick cotton cloth. “We’ll talk about it in the morning when you’re calmer.” “Calmer.” She laughed bitterly again, regretting her fury, regretting everything but her daughter and her marriage to this wonderful handsome man who was her whole adult existence. “I’m supposed to take the ruin of my life calmly? Go away quietly to the camp your mistress picked out, so you and she can screw in our bed? In our house? In—” “I’m staying at her place tonight.” He walked out of the room, and then upstairs. She stood in the dining room, staring at the split-pea mess on her beautiful table, which had belonged to his Grandma Matterson. He was supposed to back down at the sight of the thong his mistress left in their bed. He was supposed to apologize. He was supposed to get rid of the woman, or promise to be discreet going forward, swear it was just sex and that he was always faithful to Cindy in his heart, where it mattered. She crumpled back into her chair, the humid hammy smell of the soup making her want to throw up. He wasn’t supposed to want to leave. #
Her cell rang. Fighting the familiar painful
pressure of tears, Ann Redding fished in her purse, wishing she’d
stopped at Starbucks for an iced café mocha. Today’s
bullshit excuse for a job interview had wrung her out, now this
traffic...She blinked at her cell display. “Hi, Ma.” “I heard about the ghastly traffic on the radio, thought I’d call. You stuck in it?” “Up to my eyeballs.” Her mom made tsk-tsk noises and Ann smiled, probably her first sincere one all day. Forty-three years old and Mom’s sympathy still helped make everything feel better. “How did your interview go?” “Terrible. The guy picked my brains for two hours on sales and marketing strategies, then told me gee, they weren’t quite ready to hire. He just wanted ideas. Complete waste of time.” Another inch. The yellow Scion behind her bounced to a stop, apparently just avoiding her rear bumper. Ann’s personal hell would be like this. An eternal traffic jam, freedom and space just out of reach, no way of getting where she needed to go. Ha. Forget hell, her life had become that now. She glanced at her gas gauge, hovering on empty. She should have filled up on her way in. “Your old friend Betsy Spalding just called. I gave her your cell number, hope that was okay.” “Wow. I haven’t spoken to her in years.” “She heard about Paul.” “Right.” Ann’s pleasure died in the kick to her stomach. By now she should be used to it. People found out. People couldn’t wait to tell each other. Did you hear? Ann’s husband killed himself. Gasp. No. Really? Lost all their money and then some. She got fired and he couldn’t take the guilt. Put a metal wastebasket over his head so the bullet wouldn’t make such a mess. Neighbor walking by heard the shot and called 9-1-1. Gasp. No. Really? Along with the horror of news that bad, the dark pleasure, and a certain pride that the tragedy happened to someone they could claim connection to, the frisson of anticipation that they’d be the next one passing the tidbit along in the guise of deepest pain and sympathy. Did you hear? “Betsy runs a camp in Maine for women who are ‘suddenly single’ as she put it.” “Oh for God’s sake.” The kick turned her stomach sour and sick. “She’s going to try to sell me?” “I think she wants to offer you the chance to go. Apparently it’s a great place for support and for—” “Right. I’m so broke I’m living with my parents, but I’d be glad to fork out money for some touchy-feely estrogen camp.” She closed her eyes, loathing the bitchy bitterness she couldn’t seem to control anymore. Her mother sighed, that bone-weary sigh she reserved for trying to make her children understand how much of an endless trial they were. As usual, it worked. “Just talk to her, Ann. They have scholarships. It might be good for you to have a change of—” “Ma. I need to find a job.” Her voice cracked and she nearly caused an accident blindly edging her Mercedes forward when the Civic in front of her hadn’t yet edged. “I don’t have time for—” “You have all the time you want right now. Your Dad and I think the camp would be good for you. You’re holding too much in.” “I’m—” Ann’s throat muscles contracted so tightly her throat felt like it had caught fire. “Ma . . .” Think about it, okay? She’ll probably call you right away. She said she would.” “I bet.” Ann rolled her eyes. Ambulance chaser. “Thanks for the warning.” “Not warning, heads-up. I want you to listen and think it over seriously. Your dad and I are worried about you.” “I’m fine Ma. I’m always fine. You know that about me.” She clicked off the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, breathing hard, open-mouthed, to try and release tension. An ambulance wailed by on the shoulder, followed by a police car. Ann shuddered and lost the fight to one tear in each eye. Up there where the jam started, someone’s life might just have changed in one unexpected instant they’d wish they could take back for the rest of their lives. Soon someone else getting dinner or reading or watching TV or driving home from work might pick up his or her phone with no thought to it being anyone but a child, or a friend, or a telemarketer. I’m sorry to have to tell you, there’s been an accident... Sometimes it seemed ludicrous that so many other people’s lives were going on normally, that their days and nights continued in smooth uninterrupted patterns. Ann’s life had been like that once, though there were days now when it seemed she’d always been coping with this anger and guilt and grief and upheaval. Given Paul’s suicide and the surprise disclosure of their financial ruin, at times she felt those bad days held more of the truth. The perfection of their charmed life had existed mostly in her mind. How could she not have noticed how bad his depression was getting, how far he’d withdrawn from her and from everyone? Why hadn’t she— “Jesus, Ann.” She’d promised herself no more going down this road. Six months later, it was ridiculous. No, pointless. No, damaging. Her phone rang again, an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” “Ann? This is Betsy Spalding. A voice from your past.” A voice gentler and lower than Ann remembered. As if in the years since Betsy had been a high school bimbo cheerleader, she’d found great inner peace. Or had a lobotomy. Or was more likely affecting that annoying sorry-for-your-loss hushed monotone people felt obliged to speak to Ann with. Ann equaled loss for most people these days. Her mental state, her financial state...just call her the empty part of the glass. The Civic moved an entire half car-length, which was exciting enough for Ann to speak pleasantly, even though she was in the mood to tell Betsy where she could put her camp. “Hi, Betsy. Mom just called, said she’d spoken to you.” “Yes, it was good to talk to her.” Ann let the silence hang. Betsy called, she could get around to her sales pitch all by herself. “So...how are you?” Said with that emphasis on “are” which communicated that Betsy knew. Oh, how she knew. And how dreadfully sorry and yadda yadda. “Ducky.” The word flew out like a hurled dagger. “You?” “I’m...fine. Thanks.” Ann lifted her hand from the wheel and let it drop back. “Actually, since you knew me, I’ve turned into a bitch. Sorry.” “Stress is an inevitable reaction to what you’ve been through.” “Right.” Ann rolled her eyes. And here came the wind-up for the pitch. “I don’t know if your mom told you about the camp I run.” Bingo. “She mentioned it.” “For women in your situation.” Ann snorted. Who the hell was in her situation? How many women had been fired because of one lousy year missing quota following five years overshooting it, and then had their husbands blow half their heads off instead of facing that they’d ruined the family? Possibly others, but others weren’t her, which meant one, as far as she was concerned. One woman, currently sitting in traffic hell, nearly out of gas, money and patience, and no chance of escaping any time soon. “What do you mean in my situation?” “Women who’ve lost the men in their lives. Who feel cut adrift from the life they knew, from dedicated sources of emotional and financial support. Whose occasional feelings of hopelessness alternate with a manic determination to fix everything, cycling back into hopelessness when the task seems too great. Who have unrealistic expectations of rescue mixed with periods of brutal awareness that there’s no rescue at hand.” Ann’s mouth opened for a retort, then snapped shut. Another half car length opened up in front of her, and she filled it. Okay. So there were other women in her situation. #
A few steps into her apartment, breath too high and too rapid which
would only lead to pain and panic, Marth Danvers stopped and forced her
inhale-exhale down low and slow. All day long, over and over, the
same cycle. And ahead of her stretching out as far as she dared
let herself imagine, more of the same desperate emptiness. Unless
Eldon woke up.Five and a half weeks ago, Eldon Cresswell, Vermont’s favorite state senator, widely considered a shoo-in as the next governor, had been the subject of daily news stories for an endless, agonizing week while he lay first in a stroke-induced coma, then in the limbo horror of waking and sleeping cycles without real consciousness. As of yesterday, he’d spent a full month in that state, referred to non-euphemistically as “persistent vegetative.” Sooner or later this milestone would go public, since patients who failed to wake during the first thirty days had a much lower chance of ever doing so, though recovery wasn’t unheard of. Nine counts breathing in, three held, fifteen breathing out. More than almost anything Martha wanted to rush to the hospital to be with him. A deep part of her believed that if Eldon could only hear her voice he’d wake up. But there was one thing she wanted more than to speak to him, and that was to avoid their love being discovered by the press and having Eldon’s good name dragged through the mud by people who wouldn’t understand. Now was the worst possible time to bring on the scandal they’d managed to avoid for nearly twenty years. The flash of white on the dull metal top of her TV caught her eye as she moved past. The envelope that had come earlier in the mail. She peered at the postmark, from Maine, and tore it open eagerly. Once upon a time a good man loved a good woman so deeply, he faked a stroke in order to escape the punishment of public life and the chains that bound him to a heartless and icy female. No longer could he stand living the lie. As soon as he was free, on the wild, beautiful island he’d bought for them in Maine, he wrote to her, begging her to join him so they could put their years of isolation behind them forever... Instead, a brochure. Camp Kinsonu for Women. Stronger Every Day, Stronger Every Way. And a note. Hello, Martha. A donor who wishes to remain anonymous has secured a place for you at Camp Kinsonu for the early August session, starting on the 4th. Please look over the enclosed and let us know if you will be attending as soon as possible. We look forward to being able to share with you the healing process that has helped so many other suddenly single women. Sincerely, Betsy Spalding Martha went over the note three times, heart rate shooting up higher with each successive reading. There was only one person besides herself who knew she was suddenly single, not counting the Eldon’s wife, the Cold One. And only one person she knew well who had the kind of money to send her to a place like this. And only one person who would care enough to want to help her through this pain. A person the media claimed was unable to speak and think for himself for the last month. Eldon Cresswell. Her Eldon. |
