Page 79
Story: Lookin’ for Love
seventy-eight f
Arizona
N ick and I fell in love with Arizona’s wide-open spaces, piercing blue skies, and majestic sunsets. We began our trip in Scottsdale, drove to Sedona, and from there traveled to the Grand Canyon.
“Can you believe it’s one-hundred-and-ten degrees?” I thought back to my years in Florida when I’d break a sweat at eighty. “This is paradise.”
“We have to move,” Nick said.
“Were you thinking of Scottsdale?”
“Where else? There’s money here, and I’m sure I can find work.”
Money wasn’t a priority for me, but a wealthy area meant more demand for manis and pedis.
“I picked up one of those real estate magazines in the lobby,” Nick said. “Let’s call a realtor and check out some properties.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow. Let’s take the book with us and think this through.”
“Are you backing out?” Nick’s impulsiveness often got the better of him.
“We need to sell our condo before we can think about buying another place.”
Disappointment registered on his face. “You’re right. It’s just so perfect here.”
“It’ll happen,” I said. “I want this as much as you.”
w
We met with a realtor when we arrived back in New Jersey. He explained we’d take a hit since housing prices had fallen and encouraged us to wait a year or two.
“He’s full of shit,” Nick swore as we left the Century 21 office. “Let’s talk to somebody else.”
“I think we should listen to him. Do you really want to lose $20,000?”
“It’s only money. This is our life.” He stormed across the parking lot. I followed at a slower pace.
Nick’s moodiness meant trouble. I wasn’t surprised when he skipped our evening AA meeting and met some friends from work. My sober spouse was slowly disintegrating.
We saw little of each other over the next few days. I knew it was up to me to reestablish our line of communication.
“Can we talk?” I began.
“About what?” Nick continued to brood.
“Arizona. I think we should listen to the realtor.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m just disappointed.”
“Me, too, but if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. God’s timing isn’t always the same as ours.”
“God? What does he know?”
“More than we’ll ever know,” I said.
Reluctantly, Nick came around to my way of thinking. We decided to give it a year.
A year turned into almost two.
“Ava, guess what?” Nick surprised me early one evening in the spring of 1995. He picked me up and danced me around the living room.
“You sold the condo and we’re moving to Arizona?”
“Better. I found a new job!”
A new job meant he’d lost interest in moving. I hid my disappointment and pretended to share his enthusiasm.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I met with the editor-in-chief of the Burlington County Times right here in Willingboro. He was impressed with my writing and asked me to come on board. I can practically walk to work. I’ll be making more money, too. Maybe we can afford that couch we wanted.”
All I wanted was to leave New Jersey. A couch wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
“Now that I’ll be working close to home, maybe you should look for something here in town,” he said.
Martie had made me the manager at Bella’s. She planned on opening a second salon and hoped I’d transition to manage the new location. Martie believed in me and had been there in the early days of my sobriety. I felt a responsibility to stay with her until we moved to Arizona, but each day I tiptoed farther from my dream of life in the Southwest.
“And we’d have more time together,” Nick said.
More time with my husband was enough of a reason to switch jobs.
“Maybe I’ll check out Blissful, that salon down the street.”
Blissful had a HELP WANTED sign in the window.
Please let it be a nail tech job.
A young, bubbly blond greeted me. “Are you here for an appointment?”
“I’m here about a job.”
“We’re looking for a mani-pedi person,” she said.
“That’s me! Oh, sorry.” I held out my hand. “I’m Ava Ravelli.”
“Katie Winslow. C’mon back and we can talk.”
Katie and I immediately hit it off. I agreed to start in two weeks.
w
Martie, my coworkers, and clients had been my family for nearly nine years. Giving my notice wasn’t easy.
“You’ll always have a home here,” Martie said.
They threw me a small going-away party. My tears were a mixture of grief and relief.
If I thought I’d see more of Nick, I was mistaken. Most days he left the house around eleven in the morning and didn’t get home until after midnight.
When I expressed concern about the long days, he said he had a few free hours each afternoon.
“Is that when you go to your meetings?” I asked.
“Screw those meetings. I’m too busy.”
Each time I brought up Alcoholics Anonymous, he had an excuse. I knew Nick well enough to keep silent, at least for now.
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