Soon to be a major motion picture, Part Two

That night, in front of a fire, he tells her she is better than that. She says she knows; he was the one who taught her that. This stings him. They were together once, but it was a lifetime ago, before her divorce. She says that, since the divorce, she just wants to rediscover who or what she is. She doesn’t remember what it feels like to have fun or to be with someone who wants to be with her. He listens and looks at her as if she were his father confessor. He tells her he is sorry. She takes his hand and tells him the girl who he wronged doesn’t exist anymore. She holds his hand too long before she lets it go.

She says she is going to take a walk, to clear her head. Through the dimly lit lobby to the pool outside, she sees her Australian. She can’t believe it; what is he doing here? I’m staying here, he says with a smile. They sit by the pool under the cabana and put their feet in the water. Soon he leans over to kiss her, holding her face with his hands. On the other side of the pool, across the deck, a door opens and he walks out. His eyes are immediately drawn to the couple and his face hardens. He turns and walks back inside.

The next morning, she slips back into her room. She sees the bed rumpled on one side, but he is not there. She gets into the shower. When she walks out of the bathroom in only a white towel, he is standing on the other side of the door. She freezes, caught. She looks guilty. He looks angry. Hurt. Almost afraid. Well? he asks. She is immediately indignant, after all they had been through, after all she had been through. Well what, she replies. It is not a question. It is the end of the conversation.

They are pulling into a vineyard. It is raining, and the top of the convertible is up. The winery is crowded with visitors in from the rain. They sip in silence on a chardonnay that the taster politely explains, but they are barely listening. The taster mentions that it would be good with fish like halibut or even Mahi Mahi. He makes a side comment about fish from Australia, and she looks at him sharply. He has made several passive aggressive attacks and she is done with it. It is none of his business, she says with finality. Maybe he should be more concerned about “her” and less concerned about the Australian. He makes a snide jab which obviously stings, and she throws the rest of the chardonnay in his face. She leaves the winery, and the taster and his co-worker, a redhead who looks a lot like her, bring him towels to clean up. He laughs that he ought to go after her; she has the keys. It is clear that the redhead sympathizes. He stays at the winery for the rest of the day, drinking freely.

The redhead takes him back to the hotel. She offers to take him to her place for a nice meal – she cooks – it’s not the first time during the drive that she offers. He politely declines again, and she leans over to kiss him. He begins to respond then pulls away before she reaches him, thanking her for the ride. He slightly stumbles in the lobby, but quickly sobers to walk into the hotel room to see her crying in front of the fire.

He sits down next to her, unable to look her in the face. He is angry, even bitter, and a little intoxicated. She looks resigned and ashamed. Finally, he simply whispers, it’s not like you. She begins to cry again. Without looking up, she leans her head on his chest. His face falls into her hair, and her shoulders heave. He gets up and reaches for her, sliding his arms under her legs and around her back, and lays her down in bed like a mother lays her child. She reaches for him and he lays down carefully next to and holds her, her face buried in his chest. Soon she is holding him, his face buried in her neck.

The sun wakes him in the morning, arms wrapped around her, fully clothed from the night before. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, which is silently vibrating. The caller ID says “my wife.” He pulls himself away gently and goes to the bathroom, answering the phone. How did it go? she asks. Did they like the script? He didn’t get the meeting, he says. She says she is sorry, then she begins to cry and keeps apologizing over and over. He sits at the edge of the bathroom with his head in his hand, letting her apologies in.

They are in the car again, top down, sun shining. They are smiling peacefully as he drives, saying nothing. They take turns and drive through the night and into the next day, until he pulls up into her driveway. As she walks toward the house, he stops her and says thank you. She smiles and shakes her head. For what? she asks. He doesn’t answer, just looks her in the eye with the gratitude of the redeemed. He watches her walk into the house, then gets in the car.

It is evening when he walks back into his home. There are still papers scattered on the desk where he tosses his keys. He looks up to see his wife, who looks a lot like Sara Ramirez, coming toward him. She is choked up, and says “I’m sorry.” He takes her in his arms and says that man that she wronged doesn’t exist anymore. She sobs, overjoyed.