I made a mistake in seeing Meg before leaving for Cape Cod.
I was already struggling with my feelings for her and wanted simply to get out of town so I could give Priscilla the engagement ring and get on with my life.
Murray, the head of marketing, asked me to drop off a file for Meg at her house, but I could have refused—in truth, I should have refused, but I think I secretly wanted to see her and make sure she was all right.
So, here I was, sitting at her kitchen table listening to her tell me a story about a mug from her shelf I happened to find attractive when really it was her that enchanted me, but that was my story.
Yes, I was sitting dutifully listening to her story when all I really wanted was to take her in my arms, but could never admit that, so instead, I sat and listened.
It was pathetic. The only other alternative was to turn and run, and perhaps I should have if I were really serious about Priscilla.
I think Meg sensed my indecisiveness and was using the story of the mug to bewitch me—to captivate me one more time to make me stay.
Her voice was almost a whisper as if we were lying in bed talking—and I felt hypnotized by the soft sound as it drew me into her dream.
“My grandmother was a waitress in Paris in the Twenties," she said in hushed tones as if confiding a secret.
"She worked at a small café in Place St. Michel. Believe it or not, she met Hemingway there. He’d often come in to write. He told her he was a journalist and hoped someday to be published.
She read one of his poems and thought it very poor, but she liked him. They had a brief affair and afterwards, she kept his favourite mug as a keepsake. Years later she saw his photo in a newspaper and saw he accomplished something. She hung onto the mug and left it to me when she died.
I thought of selling it several times, but knew it’d be difficult to establish provenance—besides it was a quite unremarkable mug. The only value it had was the aura of once having belonged to a famous writer.”
She eyed the mug thoughtfully and sighed. I sighed too, thinking of my own failed writing career that I forsook to pursue a stable life with Priscilla.
Then, she turned and stared out at the red maples now stirring in the October breeze—fluttering like a blood-red flag.
“That damn mug is like all the other things cluttering my life. Things I want to get rid of, but can’t. It’s as if I’ve invested something in them, But don’t have any good reason to let them go. Still, I should, I really should.”
Her pained expression told me it wasn’t about things.
I found myself saying the very words I tried so hard to avoid.
“I can’t do this Meg—you know that.”
“I know you want to be married and you’re not like most men. You’re not a bastard.”
She was staring at the trees again as if they were a flag of defeat.
“Did you know Hemingway was newly married when he had the affair with my Gran? Well, look where that got her.”
“Exactly,” I said, reaching across the table and touching her hand gently.
She pulled away. There was a tear in her eye.
In the uncomfortable silence I knew something was demanded of me, but couldn’t give it.
“Just leave the file on the table, Drake and I’ll look at it when I have time.”
It was an opportunity to rise to the occasion, but I already failed the test.