by Kaira Rouda
My wife reappears at the table, and I scurry over to pull her chair out before the waiter can. I’m not a barbarian. After I settle her in, I pat her shoulder once before I return to my seat. She tenses under my touch. We need to move on to a nonfinancial topic. We are locked in a no-win conversation. I’m eager to change the subject, to set her mind at ease. She hasn’t ever worried about money in her life. There’s no need for her to start now. She has all we will ever need, already.
“I have a plan,” I say. And I do. But I don’t know why I just said that. It’s the corner I’m in, I suppose. My plan is for me only. I will not share it with Mia. She will find out soon enough. Perhaps beginning tonight.
“What’s the plan, Paul?” she says, extracting her napkin from the table, unfolding it before it disappears onto her lap.
The waitress whom I waved over appears at our table and thinks I want her to pour the champagne. The bottle is empty. I finished the last of it when Mia was in the bathroom. I would like to ask her to be our server, but instead say, “I’ll have a Tito’s on the rocks with a lime. Mia, anything?”
“Ah, sir, I’ll get your waiter,” the waitress says, although I know in a place like this she has been trained and told to help out whenever asked, whatever is asked by a customer.
“Mia? A chardonnay?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” Mia says. When the woman leaves, she adds, “So far it appears that your plan is to drive us into debt. I took a look today, and all of the credit cards are maxed out—did you know that? Do you have a secret pile of cash somewhere you aren’t telling me about?”
You, dear, are my pile of cash, I think, but I don’t say it. I know I should feel shame, but I don’t. We will be fine. She is loaded and things will work out.
“You’re overthinking this, Mia,” I say. “We are fine, we’re a team. I will take care of my family, my boys. I expect to take an offer next week.” I also expect her to smile and nod, but she doesn’t. I will take the stupid job, just to show her I’m wanted. I soften my tone, tilt my head to the side. “Honey, I can’t believe you’d doubt me, after all we’ve been through. I’m a good provider, a good husband. You know this. Everything will be fine. So you see, this conversation is a waste of time. It’s causing too much drama. Stress is bad for you, bad for your health. And you know how I hate drama. Now let’s get back to a nice evening. Sound good, honey?” She needs to help me douse the flames. Please, Mia. Help me help you.
Mia tilts her head, mirroring me, and tosses her hands in the air before dropping them to the table as a new waiter, perhaps someone’s assistant, appears at our table with my drink and Mia’s wine. I am pleased. I’ve decided to drop the entire working for John thing. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. For one thing, she knows everything, which she should have told me sooner. For another, well, I do have a plan.
I hear Mia let out her breath, a quiet whoosh. I wonder what else she’s heard about me, what else she has been waiting to question me about. Is this the first raindrop leading up to a torrential downpour, or is this little shower, this little job situation, all she has been worked up about, the cause of all the tension in the car? At this table? Ping.
My house salad arrives with mild fanfare, silver cover removed with theatrical flair. I take a bite. The lettuces are dark green, arugula, kale and perhaps even a dandelion green. I taste sweet onion and tangy blue cheese. The dressing is vinaigrette, not too tart. Appreciation of fine food is an important facet of successful men like me. I have this down. It’s an art I like to teach younger people, younger women especially. Gretchen has been a quick study.
“Pepper for your salad?” a voice says. Our waiter has returned from Siberia.
“Yes, please. Two rounds,” I say, making eye contact with him. I’m challenging him nonverbally. Lucky for him, he submits. He quickly finds something very interesting in my salad to look at.
“Ma’am, you need anything at all?” he asks. Who is this guy? Some sort of guard dog for distressed restaurant diners? If she said, Yes, I need a better, kinder, wealthier, truer husband, would blue eyes here be able to deliver? Is that type of man on the menu here, or anywhere?
No, he isn’t. We’re all like me, ladies, just differing degrees. We are more than willing to put up with your emotions, as long as you keep your end of the bargain. Look good, take care of the kids, maintain a clean home, have sex when we want it and for God’s sake, don’t question us or our motives. Never do that.
9:00 p.m.
16
In lieu of ordering a better version of me, my wife smiles and says to the waiter, “I’m doing fine. Everything looks wonderful. Thank you for your kindness.”
What the hell is going on? Your kindness? Has she lost a limb, or did she just have a minor spat with her husband? Everyone is going crazy around here but me. I take another bite of salad and chew slowly, trying to figure out what conversational topic would be most tame. The boys. No, they are at a movie, with a sitter, and that is a reason for my wife to stress until they are back home, safely tucked into their beds. My job. Nope. Her job. Nada. I know. Lakeside.
“Honey, aren’t you excited to be back at the cottage?” I ask. This is safe and happy ground. This is why we’re here and having the best day possible. “Everything looks great and soon, your gardens will be in full bloom. Even the strawberries.”
Mia exhales. Her face is pinched. She looks terrible. She sounds exhausted. “I guess the first step is to fix the cottage up and put it on the market,” she says. This, now, is her sadness. It’s not over money. It’s that we may have to give up the cottage. Ridiculous. At least now I finally understand. Relief floods over me, leaving only smoldering embers.
“No, of course we’re not selling the cottage. I’m not letting that happen. Everything will be fine. I promise. Remember when you thought we couldn’t buy the cottage in the first place, but I surprised you, handled the mortgage all by myself? Please don’t worry about the cottage, it’s ours. Everything is under control,” I say. I’m so happy to know the actual cause of her distress isn’t me, but the thought of losing her second home. She’s not upset about my job or our pesky money problems. She just doesn’t want to give up the lake. Perfect. She’s still my sweet Mia. I can’t really explain it, but I feel like jumping up out of my chair and grabbing her face between my hands and kissing her firmly, taking her, right here, right now.
But that would be Tom Cruise–ish weird, and not my style. I turn on my biggest smile instead.
“Trust me. You’ll have this cottage for as long as you live. Heck, the boys will inherit it. It will be a Strom family asset, for generations,” I say, not adding, just like the Boones. Greg Boone was upset because I’m a better card player than he is. Beat him every time they invited us to the lake. That was the entire problem, if you want to know the story. He called me a cheater. Au contraire, Mr. Boone, I am a winner. In the heat of the moment that night, though, I might have called Greg a thing or two, with my hands clenched by my sides. I know I can appear threatening but most of the time, my bark is worse than my bite.
“Just like the Boones,” Mia says, as if once again reading my mind. Her face is soft, though, and she takes a thoughtful sip of her wine.
Mia and I never did discuss why Greg and Doris stopped inviting us to the lake. It wasn’t like a big blowup or anything, and it wasn’t as if I’d hit on Doris, I would never do that. I mean, have you seen her? Short, short hair, too perky, too annoying. Like I told you, the only thing I can think of is because I beat Greg at euchre all the time. Maybe Mia did something wrong, I don’t know.
“You talk to Doris a lot still, don’t you?” I ask. This is a new realization on my part—Doris and her role in my life both here at the lake and back home in Grandville. And it’s time to ask Mia about it. My salad is finished, fork at four o’clock on my plate. It occurs to me I didn’t offer a bite to Mia, b
ut then again, she’s having salad for dinner.
“Not a lot, really, not since her kids started private school, but she’s a good friend. It’s helpful, you know, since I didn’t grow up here like you did, like she did. Since she’s lived in Grandville forever, she knows where all the skeletons are buried,” Mia says. She glances out the window, or perhaps she is checking her own reflection, a candlelit mirror.
“You look lovely, honey,” I say, pondering her friendship with Doris and what interest she might have in Grandville’s skeletons. Do they discuss my wayward brother, my family of origin? Does Doris share her love of mall spying with my wife?
Mia smiles and seems to blush a little, acknowledging I caught her looking at herself. It’s funny, Mia just isn’t one of those women who checks herself out in every mirror she passes. I’ve often admired her lack of vanity, except when I wished she’d pay a little more attention to herself. Tonight, though, she seems drawn to the window. I already checked. There is nothing out there beyond the glass. Just inky darkness.
“I do see Doris around the neighborhood, and of course, up here,” she says. I realize she is still talking about the Boones. Interesting. “I miss spending time with them. They’re a fun couple and great neighbors, here and at home. Doris has been good to me, despite our falling-out as couples.”
“Yes, I’m sure she has. And as for the couple time, their loss as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never figured out why they stopped inviting us. But hey, I’d be open to hanging out with them whenever you’d like. Maybe next weekend? The fantastic foursome, reunited just in time for summer,” I say. I’m magnanimous. Forgiving. Easygoing. A gentleman.
Mia’s mouth drops open. She’s shaking her head back and forth as if she’s having a stroke. She covers her face with her hands and I hear a muffled sound like a cat mewling. She drops her hands on the table. I reach to hold one but she yanks it away.
“Ugh. You’re ridiculous. You know there won’t be a reunion, and you know why.”
I arrange my expression into one of mild curiosity. “Do I?”
“Of course you do. Greg says you cheated at cards, that when you two stepped outside so he could talk to you about it, you yelled at him and took a swing at him. You sucker punched our neighbor, our friend. That’s what you did. Of course, Doris and I didn’t have a clue, didn’t hear a thing. You came in the room, told me it was time to go. Thanked Doris for a great evening and left her husband bleeding on the back deck of their home. Incredible,” she says.
Now I tilt my head, blink my eyes. “I’m hurt, Mia.”
She looks at me, her mouth open. “You’re what?”
“You heard me. I can’t believe you’d actually think I was capable of such a thing. Greg is a tool, a sore loser, that’s all. He lost in euchre and instead of taking it like a man he’s telling stories to make me look bad. Disgusting. And, honey, if you did believe his story, why didn’t you ask me about it sooner?”
I pause as the waiter approaches the table, with two other members of the waitstaff. They place our dinners in front of us and remove the silver tops with a flourish again. So dramatic.
Mia smiles at the waiter, not me, and then looks back at me. “I stand corrected, Paul. I’m glad we got that out in the open. Doesn’t dinner look wonderful?”
She believes me, my wife believes me. Of course she does. “Well, thank you for that, honey. And yes, my veal looks and smells divine. Bon appétit.” I take a bite of my entrée and savor every taste exploding in my mouth. There’s nothing better than young tender meat. Mia’s salad looks like a fancier version of the one she ate at Sloopy’s for lunch. It’s too bad her tastes are so limited. My only complaint, if you could call it that, is no one has brought us bread yet. I’m assuming the blue-eyed guard dog should have that duty, but I could be wrong. He appears at our table again and I watch as he peppers Mia’s salad before I interrupt. He is doing it, grinding the pepper for her, very kindly.
“Could we have some bread?” I ask. The waiter stiffens, pepper mill gripped in his hand, nods slightly in my direction and is gone. “It seems this waiter is quite upset about our earlier spat. Do you want to tell him we’re fine? Shall we hold hands as he brings the bread basket?”
Mia smiles. “Are we fine, Paul? I’m not so sure.” Her eyes dampen, but she looks down at her salad, her hair falling in front of her face like a privacy screen.
“Hey, I thought we’d gotten past this. Didn’t we just talk things out? And aren’t we here enjoying this gourmet meal?” I lower my voice to its most soothing register. “In my opinion, honey, we’re more than fine. We’re blessed,” I say.
The basket of bread appears, with a healthy slab of butter on a small china plate alongside it. I reach for it before remembering to offer Mia a slice.
“Bread?”
She looks up, her silky hair parting and revealing her face. “No, thank you. You’re right. We are blessed. I just want to feel better, to get better. I’m tired of being sick, that’s all,” she says. And she smiles again. “Of course we’re fine. Let’s eat.”
“Let’s,” I say. Suddenly, I’m starving and can’t wait to tuck into the meal in front of me. Mia smiles and takes a bite of her salad. We’re good, so good. We both chew our food, gazing at each other across the flickering candlelight. It’s as if everyone else in the room has disappeared and we’re back to the two of us, the two of us against the world.
“You know what it is, what I miss?” Mia asks.
“No, what do you miss?” She looks so beautiful, so happy just now. I again have an urge to reach across the table for her hand, to remember this moment, this look forever, but I really want to finish my meat.
“I miss the feeling of being carefree. Free,” she says. She then pokes her fork through a mound of greens and puts the whole mess in her mouth, realizing too late it was much too much for her to handle. She covers her mouth now, with her hand, to continue chewing.
I chuckle, a small laugh. I have an image of my wife as a cow, just then.
“Well, you’re the one who wanted children,” I say. “You can kiss freedom goodbye once they arrive, as you know.”
“I do. But it’s not just the boys. They don’t make me feel less, less free,” she says. She looks up at the ceiling and then turns to face the window. Finally, she turns back to me. “I was also remembering when we first met at the office. You were so fearless. Boldly asking me out after we’d only just talked once in the conference room, even when it was against policy, even when you were my senior. What if I had said no that day in my office? How would you have reacted?”
Mia looks at me with the love and admiration I’d seen on her face the day we met. The look that told me she was mine for the taking.
I beam at her from across the table. She is so sweet, so innocent. “Women don’t tell me no, honey. You’re living proof of that. Once I set my sights on you, you were a goner.” I slip the last piece of veal in my mouth and prepare to savor it.
9:15 p.m.
17
I’m making the most of my last bite. The taste of veal is singular, rich, thick. Sure, every time you order veal it’s a little different, but they share common traits. Subtle flavors, pliable flesh, deep enjoyment. I finish my bite and smile. I think back to the seduction of Mia, how easy it was compared to some others I’ve encountered lately, most notably Caroline.
Caroline felt it, though. The chemistry, the surge. My power. But now I need to focus on Mia. That is the task at hand. Operation Make Mia Love Me Completely Again Tonight. What is going on with her? I wonder. Why the trip down memory lane? I swallow and soften my approach.
“You wouldn’t have said no, Mia,” I say. “It was an instant connection. Such chemistry. I know you felt it, too.”
“I felt it,” she admits, her voice quiet. I lean forward to hear her. “But with all the rul
es, well, if I had turned you down, what would you have done? Would you have been embarrassed? Tried to get me fired? You did hold all the power. I was brand-new at the agency. What would have happened?”
“I’m not sure I see the value in hypothetical conversations. But if you’d said no, I would have kept asking until you agreed to go out with me. I knew we were meant to be together. I couldn’t imagine a different outcome,” I say. I’m so good at this. “Our story is a romance novel. Love at first sight. As you wish and all that happily-ever-after.”
“I don’t read romance novels, but I do know most people are driven by fear and shame. Most guys would have been nervous to ask a new, young associate on a date, especially since there are rules about that. But you didn’t have any fear, not at all. You don’t have any shame either. It’s interesting,” she says. Apparently, she has finished pushing greens into her mouth as she places her fork at four o’clock and slides the bowl an inch forward. Impeccable manners, another reason I love her.
“I know what I want and I go for it. There’s no shame in that, Mia. Not to me,” I say. “I am what I am.”
“True,” she agrees. “I thought you were so unique, when we first met. You just wowed me. I remember huge bouquets of flowers arrived all the time. You tucked sweet love notes into surprising places at my desk. You swept me off my feet, like a movie, like how I dreamed. Before I knew it, I was ignoring my friends, my family and spending every moment with you. I was intoxicated by you. I thought you were so special, I thought you were the most handsome, most intelligent, most romantic man I’d ever met. And the sex, well, I had never been with a man. You taught me everything.” Mia pauses, takes a drink of water. Her eyes are shiny with love. “But now I know you’re a type.”
