Falling

by Jane Green

  SEVEN

  I’ve made delicious cake,” says the extremely well-groomed and flawlessly made-up woman who ushers Dominic inside, where a perfect lemon almond cake sits atop a white china plate stand. Cans of flavored seltzer are stacked on the counter, next to a silver ice bucket filled with ice, glasses, and whimsical napkins with an illustration of a glass of wine and text: It’s 5 o’clock somewhere!

  “And I have cookies and fruit for the kids. Hi, Jesse!” Lynn says, as she leans down and gives Jesse a high five. “Weldon’s in the playroom, sweetie. You want a juice box or some cookies before you go?”

  Jesse shakes his head before running up the stairs to the room above the garage that was once a bonus room but has now been repurposed into a playroom, complete with basketball hoop for a passion Weldon’s dad very much hopes he will soon develop.

  Dominic sits down at the stool at the counter, looking around. “This house is beautiful,” he says to Lynn, getting up quickly to examine the open shelving on one side of the kitchen. “I love these shelves.”

  “They aren’t new!” Lynn says.

  “I know, but I never noticed them. I just built shelves for a new tenant so I’m noticing shelves in a way I hadn’t before.”

  “I didn’t know you were handy.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” says Dominic.

  “Really?” Lynn raises an eyebrow. “Want to tell me more?”

  Dominic blushes. He had no intention of flirting with Lynn, the mother of Jesse’s best friend since preschool. He knows Weldon’s dad, even though he doesn’t see him much, since Tom commutes into the city every day. Tom is more of a weekend dad, the kind who throws himself into coaching Little League and driving his kids everywhere on the weekend, because during the week he’s lucky if he even gets to see them.

  Dominic has lived in this town his entire life. He grew up going to school with the kids of policemen, garbage collectors, actors, and writers. He grew up in a time when everyone knew everyone else, when there were few class distinctions, when nobody cared how much money anyone had, or how big your house was. Very few families even lived in big houses back then. Now the McMansions in town have reached absurd proportions, much like the one he is sitting in now.

  Dominic remembers the house that was here before. The Bennett house. He used to go to school with the Bennett kids. He got stoned, many times, in their unfinished basement, while the laundry tumbled around and around in the giant old machines on one side of the room.

  That house is long gone. Lynn and Tom squeezed within the property lines a giant gabled manse that stretches out, almost meeting the edges of the plot. There is room for a small pool, with a high white fence to keep the neighbors out.

  The floors of the giant house are a bleached driftwood gray, shiny chandeliers hanging wherever you look. Beautiful furniture has been tastefully arranged by a decorator, huge clamshells filled with tall white orchids, shelves dotted with the odd vase, a shagreen box, three artfully stacked coffee-table books. Everywhere there are vast gaps of empty space. Dominic has often wondered if there is a junk room somewhere, a small cozy space that houses all the stuff, a room that feels like part of a home. Because this isn’t a home. This is a magazine spread. He often finds himself wondering how Lynn and Tom actually live in this space rather than tiptoeing around trying to keep everything perfect.

  More and more frequently, Dominic finds himself around families like this. The husbands are gone most of the week, the wives rattling around in these giant, beautiful, soulless houses. He is aware that as one of the few fathers present, he is something of an . . . attraction? Distraction? He is aware—and it has taken him a very long time to fully realize this—that with his golden Italian-American complexion, his thick dark hair, his big brown eyes, and, okay, he’ll go there, his butt (every girlfriend he has ever had has gone on and on about his butt), he’s a welcome addition to the Mommy and Me groups.

  If he hadn’t gotten involved with the parents of other children, he would have gone out of his mind with boredom when Jesse was young. It wasn’t that he didn’t adore his son, but there were only so many days he could take him to the playground, or the bookstore, or the museum, or the maritime aquarium in Norwalk. The jellyfish were beautiful, but only for the first two hundred times. After that, even the seahorses got old.

  Having a young, handsome, single man in regular attendance was the most exciting thing that had ever happened at the Mommy and Me groups. A couple of women were standoffish and rude, never looking at him, barely responding when he said hello. They were the worst kind of new Westport, he felt: horribly entitled snobs. Later, though, he discovered that both those women had huge crushes on him (not that they would ever have done anything about it) and couldn’t bring themselves to even meet his eye lest they turn beet red.

  Regardless, Dominic found he loved the groups. He loved how the women gossiped, how they knew everything about everyone in town and had no compunction about sharing what they knew “within these four walls only.” The women would look at each other solemnly, crossing their hearts that they would never tell anyone. But Dominic knew they would spill the beans about everything they’d learned as soon as they left the driveway.

  He loved that he got to see beyond their black Range Rovers and gigantic, multicarat diamond studs, to realize their insecurities and their fears. He also got to see their kindness, and their humor, and their willingness to help anyone in their community. He got to learn who they were before they became power mommies.

  It was only a matter of time before Dominic fell for one of them. They all made such a fuss—flirting, welcoming him with open arms, teasing him, loving seeing him blush. They loved that he fixed things, that he was “good with his hands.” He’d walk into their houses for playdates and notice broken light fixtures, or shelves that needed putting up, or doors that didn’t close properly, and he’d grab his toolbox from the truck and get to work. No charge, naturally, while the women simpered and smiled, thrilled at having a man around who knew what to do.

  Amy was different. She didn’t flirt, and didn’t tease, although she did talk. They started organizing their own playdates outside of the Mommy and Me group, and after a few weeks she confessed her unhappiness. She was trapped in the wrong life, she said. She was desperately lonely, she said. She and her husband had nothing in common, other than their daughter, Sara. She was convinced her husband was having an affair with a young colleague in his office who Amy had just discovered was accompanying him on all his business trips.

  Dominic tried to be a good friend, to listen and advise without getting too involved. Amy could talk to Dominic, she said, because he was a man and understood her feelings in a way her girlfriends couldn’t. Then they stopped talking about Amy’s problems, and started talking about themselves. They found themselves smiling every time they saw each other. Amy would open her front door, beaming, and Dominic would find that he couldn’t stop beaming in return.

  They were both high on the other’s company, on what neither of them acknowledged out loud was an unspoken attraction. Acting on it, Dominic knew, was a terrible idea. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had affairs with married women in the past—he hadn’t always been the thoughtful, considerate man he was today—but it would only lead to heartache for everyone involved. It wasn’t as if Amy was his soul mate.

  There were times, though, late at night, when he couldn’t stop thinking about her, wondering whether perhaps she was the woman he was supposed to be with. He would tell himself that he only felt that because she was unavailable. He had always been drawn to the unavailable because it wasn’t real, it posed no real threat, it could only ever be an exciting fantasy.

  And then something did end up happening. It couldn’t not have happened. It was only a matter of time, no matter what Dominic may have tried telling himself. They had dropped the kids off at a gym class and were waiting togeth
er in her car. They had done this many times before, but that day, neither of them could look at the other, and all Dominic could think about was touching her. The conversation had halted, and without thinking about it, without planning it, they were kissing, and it was electric, and amazing, and passionate, and life-changing.

  Or it could have been, had Amy’s husband not announced, two days later, that he was being transferred to Chicago and they were all moving. It was for the best, said Dominic, who was simultaneously devastated and relieved.

  He had learned his lesson. However much he might flirt, however much some of these mothers might flirt back, he wasn’t going to get emotionally involved again.

  “So who’s the new tenant?” says Lynn, cutting him a generous slice of cake, but none for herself. “I’m off the carbs,” she announces, sliding the plate over to him. “You can clearly eat whatever you want, but it’s paleo all the way for me right now.”

  “You look great,” says Dominic, because it’s what he is supposed to say, although she does look great. Who wouldn’t look great, he thinks, with daily workouts and hours of pampering?

  “Really?” Lynn is delighted. “Okay.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I’m only telling you this because I trust you and I know you’ll be honest with me. I haven’t told anyone else, not even my husband, so you have to swear not to say anything.”

  This is why I love these playdates, thinks Dominic, delighting in being, once again, an honorary mom. “Swear,” he says solemnly.

  “Okay. I went to the dermatologist last week. I got the works.”

  “What does that mean, the works? Botox?”

  “Oh, honey, Botox was just the beginning. I had Botox, Restylane, Sculptra, and Thermage. I had my lips reshaped and my crow’s-feet removed. Look!” She pouts and turns her head slightly to one side. “Cheekbones! I’ve never had cheekbones in my life!”

  “You do look fantastic!” says Dominic, recognizing his place in these friendships—he’s the handsome guy who makes these women feel good about themselves, brings a little bit of excitement into their lives without ever crossing the line. “If you weren’t married I would—”

  “You would!” Lynn bursts into peals of delighted laughter before squeezing his arm in a completely nonsexual but appreciative way. At least, that’s what he hopes. “So tell me about the tenant. Is she young and hot?”

  Dominic takes a bite of cake as he thinks about how to respond. The truth is, there is something about Emma that is enormously compelling, even though he would never think to describe her as young and hot. It’s not that she isn’t either of those things, but her qualities are quiet. She is attractive, yes, in her midthirties, he guesses, and seemingly industrious, and clever; a good person.

  But finding someone attractive is not the same as being attracted to her. It was great that she came to the bar the other night, and she was cute and funny when she was slightly drunk, and that English accent of hers is adorable, but there’s nothing more. He just likes her. She’s someone he can see being the perfect tenant—reliable about paying the rent, pleasant to have around. But other than that, she’s really not his type.

  Gina, on the other hand? Gina is his type. Physically, at least. Italian American like him, she’s fiery as hell, and smoking hot. She gives him shit all the time, but in a way that is completely familiar to him, and honestly, it might be the hottest sex he’s ever had. Gina is up for it all the time, and there’s nothing she won’t say or do. She’s definitely not the girl he’s going to marry—she’s never done anything beyond spending the night and is always gone before his son is awake—but for right now, he’s having fun, making no promises. It seems to work for both of them.

  “The tenant seems great,” he says, pushing Gina or, rather, Gina’s mouth out of his head. “I don’t really know her. English. Quiet. Retired banker. I try not to get too close.”

  “That sounds like the perfect approach,” says Lynn, who places her hand on his arm again and squeezes it just a second too long.

  EIGHT

  Patience has never been a virtue of Emma’s. She wants the house to look gorgeous, cozy, and welcoming, but immediately. She doesn’t want to sit around waiting for primer to dry before she commits to more sanding, more coats of paint, and still more sanding after that. The prep never seems to end.

  Finally, the shelves are done, and dry. There was so much paint left over that she carried on painting the orangey brown wood paneling on the walls. She is nervous about Dominic’s reaction but can always strip it if he hates it. Would he hate it? How could he hate it? Look how much better it looks already! Look how this room has been transformed with just a coat of paint!

  Her glass desk is perfect at the end, a small love seat in a slub linen pushed to one side, piled with printed pillows and a cashmere throw. White ceramic Chinese stools offer occasional seating, sitting atop the new sisal carpet that stretches to each corner. It is officially the coziest, prettiest office ever, with an orchid sitting on the desk next to a bleached wooden lamp that cost next to nothing.

  The rest of the cottage is still dark and dismal, but this room? This room! Emma pulled off the white slatted blinds, most of which were broken, and stapled a large piece of sheer canvas over the window. It is completely private and allows a soft light to filter through. And simple linen panels hang on either side, hiding the staples and framing the window.

  It is gorgeous, she thinks, every time she walks in. She sits on the sofa, looking around the room and admiring the transformation she has wrought in such a short space of time.

  Even the vertical planking no longer bothers her. Now it is a glossy pale gray, and four large black-and-white prints of delicate flowers cover most of the wall.

  She picks up her phone to check the time. Almost five. Dominic said his barbecue was kicking off at five—time for the quickest of showers and some clean clothes in order to meet his friends.

  Reluctantly, she uncurls herself from the sofa and heads out of the one perfect room in the house, gingerly walking over the brown carpet in the hallway to make her way to the bathroom.

  • • •

  Emma has never enjoyed walking into parties alone where she doesn’t know anyone. She has never been particularly good at small talk, although she had managed to hold her own after years of working in the city and attending social events that would be good for business.

  She had never liked those kinds of parties, or truthfully, any parties at all. She was much better on a one-on-one basis, or with small groups of people she knew well and felt comfortable with.

  Much the same thing used to happen at each party she attended in her years of living in New York. It was either in some fabulous apartment in New York—a loft in the East Village, a classic eight on the Upper East Side—or at someone’s weekend house, whether a shingle spread in Southampton or a renovated farm in Millbrook. The women would all be beautifully dressed (white linen shifts in the Hamptons; jeans, heels, and gauzy tops in both the city and the country), and would all shriek with excitement upon seeing each other, gabbing furiously as the husbands converged around the drinks, usually served from a permanent wet bar tucked into a small nook somewhere in the apartment or house.

  The men would drink single malts and straight vodkas, while the women invariably chose some cute, pretty signature cocktail for the night. As the evening progressed the women would keep to their side of the space, and the men would keep to the other.

  Occasionally the twain would meet, particularly if a sit-down dinner was involved, but even then, the men would shout to each other across the table, leaving Emma bewildered at their lack of manners. There’d been more dinners than she could count where she sat next to a man she hadn’t met, and peppered him with questions about himself, only so she didn’t have to sit in an uncomfortable silence. She was never obtrusive, but polite and gracious, only to have him break off in midconversation to
shout something to a friend sitting across the table.

  Either that, or Emma would eventually run out of questions, and then, instead of asking her anything about herself or initiating any other subject of any kind, her dinner partner would just carry on eating in silence, leaving Emma chewing her chicken, or short ribs, wondering how early she could leave without causing offense.

  Emma’s mother may have been a nightmare, but she was a stickler for manners, for being gracious, and always—almost always—immaculately behaved. What would she have done in these situations, Emma used to think, imagining her mother turning to her father and saying, with a sniff, “NQOCD.” Not quite our class, dear. It was quite as awful an expression as “not PLU,” which her mother used frequently—not people like us—but, of course, Emma’s mother never realized that these expressions were only ever used tongue-in-cheek, never seriously.

  Emma thought back to one party in particular, in East Hampton. She’d been dating a man named Evan, the only man she knew at a party filled with the usual mix of braying bankers and their trophy wives, who showed off their worth with crocodile clutches and heavy gold men’s watches dragging down their tiny wrists.

  The dinner was interminable. She sat next to an imperious know-it-all, and afterward, when they all retired to the vast sun porch, she almost sank with relief at the prospect of a quick escape.

  After the meal, the men disappeared, apparently to the barn, which housed whatever it is men like to do late at night, leaving Emma in a room filled with women she didn’t know, none of whom had spoken to her all night.

  She excused herself politely, removed her heels, and slipped silently out the back door, walking back to the house they were staying in. She gratefully crawled into bed and was fast asleep by the time Evan joined her, hours later, so drunk that his snoring woke her and kept her awake for the rest of the night. She ended things as soon as they arrived back in New York.