Ethan spent that Saturday searching the bungalow from top to bottom—every closet, drawer, nook and cranny—hoping to find a trace of something left behind, a crumb of a clue, something he might have missed. He tried to go to bed early but despair engulfed him, and he just stared at the ceiling, mind racing. He reread Brooke’s letter and examined the canvases she had left piled neatly in the corner, really seeing them for the first time. Ethan appreciated art, but not in the way an artist appreciates people. He had considered himself a big-picture guy, one who saw things from a bird’s-eye view, but as they say, the devil is in the details, and he still couldn’t help wondering if he could have prevented Brooke from leaving if he had paid more attention.
Brooke’s specialties were portraits and landscapes. The faces she painted were of people she found interesting or familiar. Her landscapes were scenic views of places she loved, most often a particular area in Napa Valley with an enormous country house beset on a sprawling vineyard and a church in the background. Ethan once asked her about the location, and she told him that it was where her family had spent summers when she was young. She also told him that she hoped to get married there one day, as if she wanted Ethan to make a mental note. At the time, he had assumed it was because that’s where she wanted to marry him.
As Ethan sorted through the paintings she left behind, he noticed that some of the portraits shared a resemblance to her and wondered if they were her family members. Then he noticed that mixed in with the landscapes of Napa were some scenes of Dancing Rabbit in Big Sur, where he met her, and he wondered if it was a way to let him know where she had fled. But why? Why wouldn’t she just tell him or let him know in her note? He decided that he was grasping irrationally, full of self-abnegation.
And isn’t denial the first phase of grief? Or is it anger…?
He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter; he had plenty of both, as well as a shortage of answers, evidence, and consolation.
He called Bailey, his loquacious confidant.
Bailey answered as if he were expecting the call. “Can’t sleep, Gov?”
“Can’t sleep,” Ethan admitted. “Any chance you’d take a drive up north with me?”
“What for?”
“Maybe she’s back there, at that place in Big Sur—”
“What if she is?”
Ethan didn’t have an answer.
“You’ll make an ass of yourself if you barge in on them,” Bailey said, “like a…for lack of a better word, stalker.”
“You really think it’s true,” Ethan swallowed, “that they ran off together?”
“I really don’t know, but there’s nothing you can do about it if they did.”
“I could find out why.”
“I think you know the reason, Gov.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry to be blunt.”
“That’s what you call it?”
Bailey chuckled. “Despite knowing how much you hate being alone, that’s exactly how they left you.”
Ethan went silent, now fully aware of the difference between alone and lonely.
“You’re a big personality, and you’re big, like seven feet tall, I figure you can handle it.”
Ethan said, “I’m six five,” as if it made a difference.
“A handsome giant who expects everyone to do things his way, on his terms, works well in business. You’re a great boss. But people have free choice when it comes to matters of the heart. Some things you can’t force, change, or control.”
“I’m not controlling.”
“I didn’t say that you were. But you are a force. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Something must have gone to Ethan’s head because it ached. He wondered if the two people closest to him were so afraid to tell him that he was too controlling and they were unhappy. “Are you saying that I’m more cult than innovation? More David Koresh than Jeff Bezos?”
Bailey laughed. “If you want to grab a drink, I’ll indulge you. Drinking is the appropriate response to your situation. No one will blame you if you go on a binge all weekend and stumble into work Monday morning with a horrendous hangover, but they may question your decision-making ability if Brooke has to get a restraining order against you. Uber over to Father’s Office. First six rounds are on me.”
“That’s okay,” Ethan said. “I should keep a clear head.”
“That’s probably good form,” Bailey said, sounding relieved that he didn’t have to wake up on Sunday morning with a hangover himself. “Call me if you just want to chat, or if you’re about to do something stupid, okay?”
After they hung up, Ethan dosed off and awoke ten minutes later. It was futile to try to sleep. It was quiet, unusually so, which made the thoughts in his head grow louder. It wasn’t only that Brooke had left, but also the way she left, that she didn’t tell him in person.
Seriously, who leaves a Dear John letter on the bed when they move out? Was it an English thing? Was she too polite to utter such words to my face?
It made perfect sense to Ethan why Bailey and Emily assumed that Brooke and Jack ran off together—bad timing and all—but he still maintained that Brooke’s departure was completely out of character; it wasn’t the girl he knew, or thought he knew, and he couldn’t accept that his compass was that far off.
Ethan thought of something Jack used to say in all his glum wisdom: Imagination is responsible for love, not the other person.
Could that be the reason it was so different with Brooke? Had he invented who he wanted her to be? Had he confused good manners for respect, great sex for love, a free spirit for his kindred soul?
Were his delusions responsible for this mess?