Jubilation, FL

It's not a good idea. Nordan and Sara both know it.

Both are over forty. Both love their spouses. Both are drunk. Both naked––and not thin. Both wonder if the other is lying when they say, nearly simultaneously, "I’ve never done this before."

And they’re friends¬––or think they are. It’s difficult to tell. They were total strangers before they checked into adjoining hotel rooms in Jubilation; a planned community featuring Key West-styled homes in sherbet colors with white picket fences. The resort is Gingerbread Victorian, with a permit-only beach where the sand is raked into traditional Zen patterns three times a day. There are no homeless people in Jubilation. No tattoo shops. There’s nothing sordid, or dangerous. You can’t even walk down the side streets unless you have security clearance; surveillance cameras are everywhere. It’s not the kind of place you’d have an affair in.

But here they are, naked––and a little cold. It’s off-season.

“Two things before we go any further,” Nordan says––all business, all courage, all confidence. In the moonlight, his goose bumps are disconcerting; make him look a little like a plucked turkey.

“I want to be clear. My wife is so great; I don’t even have a pool because I’m afraid she’d run off with the pool guy. Mary Anne is the most glorious control freak on Earth. Kicked my ass into shape. I have to warn you, if she finds out about this, she’ll hunt you down like a feral dog and chew your heart out.”

Sara is unfazed. Doesn’t even blink. “That’s a given,” she says. “More bourbon?” She pours the last of it before he can answer. Nordan takes a mouthful, swallows it so fast he coughs.
An alarmed look passes over Sara’s face. “We don’t have to do this.”

“No. I want you. I want to.“

“So, what’s the second thing?”

“The second thing is that I would never leave my wife. For all her goofy shit, she’s fierce. Not many women like that anymore.”

Sara is relieved. She takes a sip from Nordan’s glass, looks at him closely––the plucked skin, the pleading eyes, the ‘What the Hell am I doing?’ look on his face. She has no idea how she’s going to explain this to her therapist.

“Okay,” she says. “There are two things you should know.”

“Fair enough.”

“First, my husband is the kindest, most gentle man I have ever met. I clearly don’t deserve him. He’s like a surfing, golfing St. Francis of Assisi. If he ever finds out, he may want to kill you, but he’s so kind-hearted, and not very well organized, so he couldn’t pull it off. I’d have to do it. I’m kind of his ‘go-to’ guy. Just thought you should know.”

“Noted. The second thing?”

“Well, afterwards, I’m planning to burn your body and sprinkle your ashes on my roses. “

“Makes sense.”

“Absolutely. Bone marrow is a superior fertilizer, plus I’ve kind of gotten kind of used to you hanging around––so, it would be the best of both worlds,” she says, then corrects. “Well, for me of course. You’d be mulch.“

It is at this moment that Nordan realizes why people should not talk before having sex.

“Okay, “ he says. “That’s––”

He is fumbling for just the right word, one that won’t ruin whatever shreds of desire that remain. He decides on “sweet,” and she smiles, which unfortunately encourages him so he just keeps on talking. “Yep. That’s sort of sweet. Twisted, but slightly endearing.”

Sara looks so beautiful standing there in front of him, like a freaking Botticelli, so it makes him nervous. Her skin reminds him of vanilla ice cream, not the no-fat crap, but the expensive stuff with 27% saturated fat––the Lipitor stuff. He’d like to tell her that, but already has, and doesn’t want to repeat himself. Might ruin the moment. So he tries to remember a poem by James Dickey about adultery. Something about not being able to die in this room, about having this moment only, stealing a little bit more life from life. Nordan would like to remember this poem because he knows it would be the perfect thing to say, but he’s had so much bourbon all he can manage is, “Said the Raven. Nevermore.”

Sara looks confused. Nordan’s mood turns frantic, hopes she isn’t having second thoughts. “Nevermore,” he says again, as if trying to make a point. Better to bluff, he thinks, than look like an idiot.

“Great,” Sara says. What am I doing with this idiot?

Nordan can feel her think this. He shrugs, looks a little sheepish, and slaps himself on the forehead––and that changes everything. Suddenly, it’s clear to Sara that this man has crawled into her brain, pitched a tent, and, somehow, is a part of her now. It’s too late to turn back, so she takes the glass out of his hand and pulls him into her arms.

“Maybe we can stop talking now,” she whispers, throaty, and before he can say anything else, she kisses him. Open mouth. Greedy.

He shudders with pleasure, fear. They both do, actually.

Neither is quite sure how they got to this point.

Sara and Nordan are supposed to be on a retreat. They’ve both won this year’s Bennington Foundation Leadership Award, along with 22 others. It’s a very prestigious award. There’s no application process, nomination only. Leaders from both the arts and sciences are chosen every year.

Nordan was honored because he’s a consultant who teaches poetry to business executives from Fortune 500 Companies. He once told Ed Bradley on 60 MINUTES that poetry in the workplace humanizes and makes change. "It’s the ultimate form of revolution," he said and then called it a ‘slick gig,’ and drove off in his Maserati.
The piece was titled, "Corporate America’s Abby Hoffman."

Sara’s award was given because she’d written a memoir about her own personal search for grace. It was elegant and heartfelt and more or less true.

Sara is one of those women. Big-boned. Bleached blonde. Seems taller than she is. She’d been a police beat reporter for the CNN affiliate in Twin Cities for nearly 20 years.

She’d been shot at while covering drug raids. Beaten up at a race riot. She once went undercover at a strip joint and knows that pasties hurt if you pull them off too quickly.

When Sara turned forty she wasn’t interested in a monthly regime of Botox, as the News Director suggested, so she left television to write a memoir. Her agent cautioned her that she’d need a new angle, something fresh.

"Maybe you could join a convent or something."

So she did. Sara was between husbands at the time, her second had just left, so living with cloistered nuns seemed to make a lot of sense. "I’ll spend a lot less on make-up," she told her friends. The book proposal created a bidding war between publishers and brought a high-six figure contract. But once the check was cashed, reality set in. All that kneeling, and not speaking, and averting one’s eyes drove Sara crazy after three weeks so she left––but wrote the book anyway.

"They’ve taken a vow of silence," she told her agent, "It’s not like they’ll tell anyone."

CLOISTERED was a NEW YORK TIMES bestseller for a week. That was in 2000, the same year she married Mike––who is ten years younger, takes in stray animals, volunteers at soup kitchens, and has no marketable job skills. Sara hasn’t written a thing since. She and Mike are just about out of money, but that’s okay. The Leadership Award provides a guaranteed income of $100,000 a year, for two years.

Which is good for Nordan, too. He recently came to the rude discovery that he’s fallen out of fashion, and is now forced to teach at a community college.

So Nordan and Sara have come to Jubilation to get the check, although the Foundation President would not describe the situation so indelicately. According to the website, every year, before the money is given out, award recipients are brought together at resorts around the country and, for fourteen days, they take part in networking sessions with titles like, "How to Unleash Your Inner Leader."

"It is our desire to create a think-tank atmosphere," the Foundation Director is quoted as saying. "When you make it easy for leaders to cross-pollinate, their communities will benefit tenfold."

Sara and Nordan are pretty sure this is not the kind of cross-pollination the Director had in mind.

"Well," Nordan says.

"Well," Sara says.

Outside, a seagull squawks.

When they were first introduced, Nordan told Sara he was the biggest egomaniac she would ever meet. He meant it as a joke, but he is. And she knows it. And yet, here they are–Sara standing at the edge of the bed watching Nordan watch her. Her lips are now bruised from his. Her breasts, full and round.
"Just like those little cheese wheels," Nordan says. "The ones in red wax. Gouda, is it?"

Sara guesses that’s a compliment, but it’s difficult to tell. She’s lactose intolerant. "Sure," she says. She’d like to say something more, something to compliment him, but she knows of no cheese product that Nordan reminds her of, and he’s told her repeatedly that he hates compliments.

"I’m a realist," he said. "There were two years in college when I was handsome. The baby fat had dropped away and I played NCAA basketball with a full head of hair that wasn’t implanted from somewhere else.

"Now, I’m one hot fudge sundae away from morphing into Jabba the Hut."

Nordan is clearly a man who likes his dairy.

Sara finds it hard to believe Nordan is completely unaware that he is still handsome, still has an athlete’s grace. His body may have grown thick with age, but it’s powerful and muscular. His broad chest is covered with golden hair, like fleece. He reminds her of a lion. Sara’s never seen anything quite like Nordan. Her husband Mike is smooth and nearly hairless, like a boy. Nordan is sweaty, unwieldy and passionate. He shudders when she touches him, which is a little unnerving. It makes her wonder if he’s been in prison for the last seven years instead of a suburb in Connecticut.

Of course, she thinks, soccer moms and guards both carry whistles. Lights out by 9 p.m. This is why she doesn’t live in the suburbs.

Still, when Nordan lifts her into his arms and kisses her, she is lost in it. It feels as if they are skydiving through each other’s lives.

"This is such a bad idea," he says.

"You’re right," she says.

But they don’t stop.

For the past two weeks, Nordan and Sara have spent every night drinking and watching the sun set in what could only be described as a boozy filibuster haze. They never seemed to stop talking. They talked about the NBA, the NFL, rock and roll, Japanese baseball teams, his career, his dreams, his ambitions, his wife’s Mary Anne's obsessive love of Lily Pulitzer resort wear ("She's wearing pink flamingos in Connecticut, for chrissake."), and his uncle, a five hundred pound circus clown with narcolepsy.
Sara recounted minute details of her first, second, and current marriage. Funny stories, nothing too sad. It seemed like an endless cocktail party, but every now and then one or the other would say, "Shit, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I’ve never told anybody this."

And then they’d both stop talking.

On day six, Sara confessed that when she was seven years old, she actually believed she could grow up to be a superhero. She was laughing when she told Nordan she’d climbed onto the roof of her family’s double-wide trailer with a bed sheet wrapped around her neck and jumped, breaking her right leg.

She expected Nordan to laugh too, but he was quiet.

"It’s a true story. I swear," she said. "What kind of an egomaniac believes they’re a superhero?"

Nordan cleared his throat. "In my case," he said. "It was a garage. I was eight. It was my sister’s blanket and my left foot."

Sara looked concerned. "Shit,” she said. “Did you ever wonder why we’re on this porch? You and I? It’s not some sort of destiny thing, is it? I’d hate that. I don’t even read my horoscope."

Nordan thought about it a minute, then shook his head. "Naw. We’re here because we’re poseurs. We have to stick together." Then he poured her another bourbon.

That’s when Sara decided she liked Nordan.

Yet, in all those drunken nights, she never imagined having sex with him, even though they had adjoining rooms. Then, on night thirteen, things changed.

It began innocently. Sara fell asleep in her wicker chair while Nordan was rambling on about steroids and batting averages. So he picked her up in his massive arms and carried her into her room––and she’s not exactly a small woman. "Time for bed, Slugger," he said and placed her gently on top of the sheets. He brushed her hair out of her eyes and covered her with a blanket. Then kissed her forehead. "Sweet dreams," he said.

The noble gentleness of the gesture, the quiet innocence of it, stunned her. Who is this guy, really? She suddenly wanted to find out. So, the next night, their last night together, Sara called for a 'no-bullshit zone.’

"Tell me about Seth," she said. Seth is Nordan’s only child, from his first marriage. He just turned 14. "You said his birthday was last Saturday, right? What’s he like?"

Nordan looked surprised. "I can't believe I mentioned Seth, let alone his birthday. But, Hell, you know me; I don't listen to a word I say––"

"Shut up then and tell me about him."

"What’s to tell? Seth’s my kid. A real slacker like his old man. When he comes to visit, we hide out together in the basement and watch ESPN. I bitch about the Lakers. He pisses about the Timberwolves. It’s pretty great."

"Do you see him a lot?"

"Every other Christmas. Every other summer."

"Is that hard?"

"It just is. How about you? Your kids?"

"Just one," she said. "Hannah. She died a long time ago."

Nordan wasn’t expecting that at all. "Jesus. How old?"

"Six days."

"How long ago?"

"14 years."

"That’s horrible."

"It just is. Hannah suffocated in her crib. The mattress was too soft. I didn’t know."

Nordan reached over to take Sara’s hand, but she moved it away.
"I’m fine. It was a long time ago.”

What Sara didn’t say was that she could have saved Hannah. She heard her baby fussing, but didn’t get up to check on her. She was too tired. So Hannah died. Right in the next room. Hannah with her perfect fingers and buttermilk skin. Her Buddha eyes. And it was Sara’s fault. But she didn’t have to tell Nordan any of this because he heard it in her voice––all the details she couldn’t speak––and that scared him. So they sat in silence and watched the moon slip in and out of the clouds. They rocked back and forth. The chairs creaked. After a time Nordan said, "Your daughter and my son would have been about the same age."

"Sorry, I brought it up."

"No, it’s good. I just realized that they could have dated. Man, that would be something, or what? Your kid would speak five languages and mine would show her how to dye her hair rainbow colors with Jell-O. Wouldn’t that be something?"

Sara didn’t know what to say. She never thought of Hannah as a young girl, or dating. But as soon as Nordan said it, she did. She imagined evenings spent with Nordan, driving around in her Jeep, looking for their kids in tattoo shops, or behind the bleachers at football games.

"It would be something," she said and laughed and leaned over and kissed Nordan on the cheek.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, just as he had earlier at dinner when she had handed him her piece of key lime pie, which she remembered, at the last minute, contains sweetened condensed milk.

"You’re all right," he said then.

"I’m lactose intolerant."

"Well, you’re all right, too."

And then she laughed.

And hours later, when she kissed him out of gratitude for this vision Hannah, he said it again. "You’re all right." Then kissed her back, quickly. "Bruised as Hell, just like me, but all right."

And then she unbuttoned her shirt.

That’s how it all began. Nordan carried her into his room and placed her on his bed. They undressed in silence. They tried to make small talk, but much of it revolved around dairy products.

And now, three hours later, somewhere around 2 a.m., after speaking about Gouda cheese at great length, Nordan finally finds his courage, runs his teeth along her neck, her breasts.
Sara feels her skin bruise under them, feels him grow hard against her leg.

Nordan’s thoughts bounce like tennis balls. It’ll be great. Nobody will get hurt. It’s only sex. No big deal. Game. Set. Match.

Love.

He stops, again. Shudders. Then holds her so tightly she can barely breathe. For some reason, he’s suddenly afraid to let go.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shh.”

“You okay?”

“Give me a minute, I’ll be fine.”

His breath is rapid, and for the first time in a long time Nordan feels afraid. He has no idea why. When the moment finally passes, he lets her fall out of his arms. "That was weird," he says, his voice hoarse. "I just had this feeling like there’s a storm raging around us, and I didn’t even know it was raining.”

The moment feels airless.

"I better go," Sara says and stands. "I have an early plane to catch."

"Right."

Nordan picks up her bra from the floor and looks at it for a moment. "We still friends?"

"Sure."

The word feels brittle. Nordan catches her arm. "Look, I don’t know what the Hell’s going on but when you touch me, I don’t hate it. I always hate to be touched--"

"I have to go."

"I’m talking too much again, aren’t I?"

"It’s an early flight."

"Okay. Here’s the deal," he says, and then stops. Takes a deep breath. "I get you. And underneath all my bullshit, you get me, too."

And it's true. Sara knows it. So she runs. She runs out onto the porch and out the screen door and onto the perfectly groomed Zen-themed beach.

And Nordan follows her.

And they're both naked.

And it's April.

And the air temperature is 69 degrees, with a light chop off the Gulf.

Nordan and Sara are still a little drunk, and working off adrenaline, so they aren't thinking about any of this. Nor are they thinking about the "Caution, No Swimming" sign they pass, nor that it's nesting season for sea turtles.

And, most of all, they aren't thinking about the fact that the Red Cross suggests that the optimal temperature for Gulf water is about 80 degrees. Colder than that, and you risk hypothermia. It’s a very slim risk in Florida, but still. Maybe Nordan and Sara don’t know that. Either way, it doesn’t matter. It's 72 degrees when Sara dives in, and Nordan blindly follows. Once wet, it's quite clear that the Red Cross knows exactly what they are talking about.

"Shit!" they both scream.

Nordan lunges for Sara out of a primal need––for warmth, mostly––and pulls her close to his hairy body. He's panting hard from the cold and feels his heart beat in his teeth when he asks, "Would it be better if I told you I just wanted to ‘do’ you? I could say that."

Sara laughs and a cloud moves away from the moon. The night shimmers. "Look, sea turtles," she says and points to the beach.

There are five, perhaps six, it's difficult to tell. They are lumbering mountains, some as big as Nordan, maybe 200 pounds or more. A few swim in the waters nearby, mating. They are graceful as they circle each other, but nearly drown as they try to mount.

"They’re worse than us," Nordan says.

"Shh," Sara laughs.

The hotel lobby, and also the beach, has signs that warn guests not to swim at night and not to make any noise or use flashlights when walking the shore. Sea turtles are endangered.

"Any disruption of their mating could have serious long term implications," the signs state in large red letters. Nordan suddenly remembers that, and wonders what the "implications" are, and who should be more worried about them––the turtles or swimmers. He pulls Sara closer, and watches. The turtles are terrifying and beautiful, uncaring as gods.

"They live to be 100 years old," Sara whispers, "and come to the same spot every year to mate."

Apparently, they’ve not heard of Club Med, Nordan thinks, but remembers a verse from "Song of Songs" and says, "I will arise now and go about the city in the streets and seek whom my soul loveth."

Sara kisses his cheek. "I love you," she says simply.

The words sound so sweet, a horrible panicked look crosses Nordan’s face.

"Calm down," Sara says. "I love you like pie. Like key lime pie."

"But you’re lactose intolerant."

"That’s the breaks."

And so he kisses her hard. And she, him.

And for a long time they hold each other and watch the turtles and their awkward dance. They watch until their fingers go numb, then their feet, then hands, then legs.

They watch until they can't feel a thing.