by Dylan Allen
“I don’t need you to take up for me, Reggie. That is a lie, and she knows it. I’m leaving.” He stands.
“Please stay, I really want to talk about this idea,” I implore him, and he turns to me, his handsome face is so pained, I immediately retract my plea. “I’ll call you later.”
He nods gratefully. “I’m too upset with your mother to think straight.”
“Take a number and get in line,” she says dryly.
He storms out.
She shakes her head after him. “That boy has always been so dramatic. He’ll understand one day. Like you did once you had Eva,” she sighs. I want to tell her that’s wishful thinking but keep that to myself.
“You could have been kinder,” I chide her.
“I could have been born in Japan. But I wasn’t.” She looks at her watch. “You said you wanted to talk, and I’m here, and I have forty minutes before I need to be downtown, so…”
“Mama?” My son sticks his head into the kitchen.
“Yes?” My mother and I respond at the same time.
She smiles sheepishly. “Some habits die hard,” she says, and holds her arms out to my son. My heart swells with affection, as I watch him crawl into her lap.
“What is it, Darling?” I ask him, when he settles into his grandmother’s lap.
“Eva said Hanna is having Papa’s baby. Is that true?”
By the time I press a kiss to my sleeping son’s brow, it’s 8pm. He’s the last one to fall asleep tonight, and I creep stealthily out of his bedroom. I feel the need for a workout and a good stiff drink. The pandemonium that ensued after Henri asked about Hanna lasted all day. Telling them about Hanna and answering their questions was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. They’re confused, excited, worried about me, and worried about their father.
But it’s done, and I’m glad. Now, I can be, too. I get into the shower and wash my hair, get back out and make two braids for it to dry in overnight. I’m tempted to throw away my flat iron, but that feels like overkill.
Last year, Time magazine did a write up on Marcel. They described me this way. “
His wife, the famously beautiful socialite extraordinaire, Regan Wilde-Landel, is by far his greatest coup. Twenty years his junior, she makes him look like he might just know what he’s doing. She’s not just beautiful and the belle of every ball. She also comes with a very impressive pedigree of her own. It’s not the five-hundred-year-old French Duchy of her husband’s ancestors, but it’s nearly as rich. Regan Landel is the face of the modern American woman. She’s the best dressed, most well connected, most philanthropic, and her parties are the most coveted invitation. She is, unapologetically, embracing full-time motherhood, and yet, manages to look like she just stepped off a runway. She’s the woman we look at and think, there’s no way that’s real. The one we all either want to Fuck, Marry, Or Kill.”
That, in a nutshell, is who everyone thinks I am. And I was prepared to let them think it, until the day I died, because I was afraid of being without my family. All because I was so afraid, I’d end up like my mother.
Now, I’ve landed in worse waters than she’s ever been in, and they just keep getting murkier.
The chime of my doorbell startles me out of my dark thoughts. I open the nest app and see a small package on my doorstep. It’s addressed to me, but I can’t make out the return address.
I turn on the flashlight on my phone and peer closely. There’s a row of postage stamps that have Colombia printed on the top. My heart does a double take, and I clutch the package to my chest and inhale, searching for a whiff of him. I don’t know if it’s my wishful thinking, but I catch a trace of coconut, and the ache of longing, that I normally ignore, floods my veins, and I can’t do anything but surrender to it.
I hurry through my chores; secure the house for the night, clean my kitchen, and brush my teeth.
And then, I climb into bed to enjoy my dessert.
I tear the package open and pull out a hard-sided book with a dust cover and a stack of letters tied together with a gold ribbon. When I open the book, a piece of paper flutters out and lands on my feet. But my eyes remain riveted to the inscription. Written in a little boy’s hand, “You’re my Venus, I’m your Mars,” with a note that’s written in an adult’s below it that says, “True then. True now. True always.”
I run a finger along the ribbon, my heart thundering in my ears, as I bend down to pick up the piece of paper that fell. I unfold it and start reading.
Regan,
I’ve been writing you these letters since I heard the news about your grandfather. I didn’t intend to mail them. And then, I found this book - with the inscription I wrote when I was ten years old. I wanted you to have it then. And I want you to have it now, just as you have my heart.
I know you’re not in a place for more than friendship. But I want to at least be that. So, when you’re ready, write to me, call me, send a smoke signal…wherever you are, I’ll find a way to answer. Because, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said… “The only way to have a friend is to be one.”
In the meantime, here are the letters I wrote you. Read them in order the first time.
Love,
Stone.
I read it ten times before I put it down. He couldn’t have known that this is exactly what I needed. Or that today would be the day I’d be open to receiving this. But like every other time this man has entered my life, his timing has been uncanny.
I untie the ribbon and start with the next one.
Dear Venus,
Last night, I drank enough to forget my own name. But I can’t forget yours. I can’t stop thinking about you. You asked for distance, and I’ve given it to you, even when it’s killed me to do so. So, these letters are my entreaty, my fair lady. I will write you, and one day, I’ll have the nerve to send them. Until then, I want you to meet me where the gods gather to make love…and we’ll build our world there.
Yours,
Mars
Oh my God. I am undone. I keep reading. My heart feels like it’s been hooked to a source of electricity and is humming in my chest.
Dear Venus,
You're my most beautiful someone.
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
I had a revelation as I lay awake missing you, reveling in the way it hurts…because that pain means that my heart works. Sometimes life puts you in touch with the people you need to meet – to help you, to hurt you, to leave you, to love you, and to gradually strengthen you into the person you were meant to become.
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
Don’t let anyone tell you that your dreams are too big.
They don’t have your vision.
They can’t see what you see.
Your belief in them, and yourself, is all you need.
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. It’s such an asinine saying. Surely, the eggs aren’t glad to be scrambled and cooked before some asshole eats them? So why do people say that instead of saying…nothing good comes easy? Isn’t that clearer and truer? I make a great omelet, by the way. They’d be awesome with your lemon ginger scones.
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
Today, I just miss the hell out of you,
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
If you aren’t already mine, why am I so afraid to lose you?
Tell me…
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus.
I’ve found that my heart was stretched by its experience with you. Now, it won’t go back to its old shape. Can you help?
I miss you,
Mars.
By the time I’m done, I can barely breathe for the happiness that’s swelled inside of me.
If the last three months have been a trial, this feels like a reward. Yes, my life,
as I knew it, is completely broken. But I have all the tools I need to reshape it.
I put his letters away and email my lawyer, asking for his first available appointment.
When that’s done, I pull out my stationary and write Stone back.
A Surprise Dollop of Cream
Stone
I rush inside and tear the letter open, my heart damn near in my mouth by the time I’ve opened it.
Dear Mars,
You are spectacular beyond measure or compare. Your letters were like a surprise dollop of cream in the center of an already very delicious lemon ginger scone.
Until we can have that omelet…I would love to take you up on your offer of friendship. I’ve missed you. And have so much to tell you. If you agree, call me - 713-779-5555.
Yours,
Venus
I’d like to take the word friendship, stick it in a self-destructing rocket and launch it to the moon. But it’s better than nothing, and it’s a start. And, damn, if I don’t miss her, too.
I pick up the phone and call her.
“Hello?” Her voice is husky with sleep, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in a long time.
“Goddess, it’s me.”
There’s silence for a beat, and then I hear a whimper, and then she clears her throat.
“Stone, is that really you?
“Yes. I got your letter. Thank you for writing to me.”
“Oh, I’ve missed you. So much. Oh my God, thank you for all of those letters. I’ve read them every day. I’m blabbering. Sorry. I’m just so nervous. And happy. Hi,” she practically sings that last word.
My soul sighs in relief. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but she sounds good. The knot of dread that’s been eating away at me starts to loosen.
“Hi. And I miss you, too. I’ve been really worried, Regan.”
Her sigh is too weary, and I hate that I can’t see her. “It’s been a rough few months, as I’m sure you know. But, I’m so glad I know the truth.”
I don’t know which truth she means, so I focus on the one that is at least somewhat my business. “You and Hayes…you’re…related.” I use the most sterile word I can manage.
There’s a pregnant pause before she clears her throat. “Yeah…I guess. I can’t wrap my head around that part, if I’m honest. I’ve been more focused on the other dumpster fire.”
“Your grandfather…I heard, so what’s happening?”
“Nothing, he’s dead. Any accomplices he had are, too. I just…I feel like I need to find a way to make things right.”
“Make what right?”
“Everything, my father wasn’t the only person he hurt. But…I don’t want to talk about the past – not now. I want to know how you are. How was the refugee camp?”
I love that she remembered and that makes talking about it less burdensome. “It was hard, and I was so ready to leave. But I signed up for an extra month because they need so much help.”
“And because you love a challenge,” she teases
“That I do.” And I love you, too. The thought comes unbidden. And I’m glad we’re not on FaceTime, so she can’t see the panic that freezes my face for a second.
“I’m so glad you’re making the most of your time there… and I’m learning to love challenges again, too…” she trails off.
“Don’t be cryptic, Regan,” I scold.
“Don’t be impatient, Stone,” she shoots back. And we laugh at the same time. Just like that, our grooves click into place and that knot is finally loose again.
“Okay, I had an idea, and at first, I thought it was crazy… but it’s actually happening.”
“Spill it, Goddess,”
She squeals. “Okay, okay. Last week, I took a large chunk of my inheritance and bought a property in West Houston that used to be a boarding school. And I’m going to turn it into a transitional housing space, with a community center, and courses, and counseling, and even, eventually, a fully functioning outpatient clinic on sight. And guess what?” She gasps, breathless with giddiness, but doesn’t pause long enough for me to speak. “I’m going to call it Venus Rising. After the goddess who inspired me so much.” She sounds like a game show host announcing that I won the grand prize.
I certainly feel like I’ve won something. “Regan. That’s incredible, I’m so proud of you.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. “Thank you for the inspiration. And I can’t wait to show you everything. It all needs updating, and I’m having three newly constructed buildings added to the property.”
“So, are you and Marcel funding it completely? Or are you raising money?” It’s a sly move to get the information that’s foremost on my mind. If she can sense that I’m fishing, she doesn’t call me out for it.
“There is no Marcel and me And soon not in any sense at all. I… met with my lawyer a couple of days ago.” She says the words in a rush and I hear them before they sink in.
“Oh…so, like a divorce lawyer?” I’m almost afraid to ask and hold my breath when she takes a second to answer.
She laughs softly. “Yes. A divorce lawyer. Like you said, no reason to stay is a good reason to go. My children are the only reason I’ve been holding it together and I don’t think, no I know that it’s not what’s best for them anymore. So, I’m doing it.”
“Wow, are you okay?”
“I’m great.” And she sounds it. Relief and motivation are twin fires lighting in my mind at the same time.
“Yes. Of course, you are. So, what next?” I rub my hands together in anticipation.
“Well…I’ve got to get my finances in order so I can figure out how to pay for my project.” Her emphasis on the last word is tinged with light rebuke.
I check my excitement at her divorce. Getting a divorce doesn’t mean anything. Her marriage was the least of my worries. I know Regan wants to hit a reset button on other parts of her life. Talking about us, right now, would be premature. She read my letters, so she knows how I feel.
“Oh yeah, tell me more.”
“So, I have a trust fund that vested when I was thirty, and I used some of it to buy the property out right.”
“But years of fundraising for other people’s good deeds was good practice. I paid for the property out right, but I’ve created a non-profit, with a board of directors, to oversee staffing and programming and to help me raise money.”
“Who’s on the board so far?”
“Matty, my mother, and Tyson, if I get him to sit down long enough to sign everything.”
“Save a spot for me. I want to help.”
She shrieks. “Really? Oh, I’m so glad. You can be on the board, or just brainstorm, or help me think through the clinic. Whatever you want to do.”
“All of it, Venus. I want to do it all.”
One Month Later
HOUSTON, TX
Freedom
Regan
The slam of my bedroom jolts me from sleep. I sit up and find Marcel standing at the foot of my bed.
“Marcel, what are you doing?”
I fumble for my phone to check the time.
“Give me that,” he roars, and before I see him move, he grabs the phone from my hand and tosses it onto the bed.
I scramble to sitting and command my voice-controlled lights to full power. “What is going on?”
“I was served divorce papers in my office yesterday,” he says, in his deep, even toned voice. My pulse jumps. I knew they were being served. I should have expected he’d come straight here.
“Yes. Well, you can’t be surprised. We haven’t lived together in six years.” I keep my voice even, despite my heart beating like a bass drum.
“So what? You are my wife. There is no divorce, unless I say so.” He brings his hands together in a clap, as if signaling the end of the discussion.
I scoff. “Maybe in feudal France. But here, in Texas, I don’t need you to agree.”
He puts one hand on his hip and points at me. “I will not al
low you to do this. You will not drag my name and my children’s names through the mud because you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous, Marcel. To be jealous, you’d have to have been mine in the first place.”
“What does that mean? I am your husband.” He throws his hands up.
“Marcel, you are my spouse.” I wrap my comforter around myself and smooth my hair and try to look as dignified as the circumstances will allow. “You haven’t been my husband in years. I don’t want to live with you anymore. I don’t want your last name. I don’t want…”
The crack of his hand across my cheek comes from nowhere. It’s not a forceful slap, but only because Marcel is small and weak and lazy.
His gasp is louder and sharper than mine. “Oh, mon dieu…look what you made me do. You know I am not the kind of man to hit a woman.”
He starts to pace frantically, pulling at his hair. I take in his day’s growth of gray stubble and creases in the houndstooth Façonnable blazer he wears when he travels. He must have come here straight from the airport.
I touch the stinging spot on my cheek and eye him warily.
“I want you to leave. We have a prenup. This shouldn’t be messy. And we live separately anyway. The children will visit you, as they normally do, in the summer. When and if you come here, they can spend time with you in your home.
“This is my home. The children will visit me and so will their mother. You cannot do this,” he roars.
The last thing I need is for him to wake the children. “Get out. Or I’ll call the police.”
His gaze turns murderous. “You will not get away with this. You will not. Maybe you can get a divorce, but I will not let you have a life. You will not make a mockery of my family.”
“Are you kidding? Who is making a mockery of whom? Our nanny is having your baby, Marcel. You’ve been having affairs for as long as I’ve known you. I am tired of it, and I don’t need you.”
