“But it’s a good book!” he said, outraged.
“True.” She smiled, realizing she enjoyed reading the book aloud to him more than she’d enjoyed reading it herself. Ethan, nestled against her on his bed, radiated heat.
She read slowly, trying to do a decent job with the voices to make it lively. Feeling herself perspire, she turned the page and reached for his bedside fan. “Hey, are you hot?” she asked. No response. Slowly, making as little movement as possible, she closed the book, easing Ethan’s back against his pillow. He barely stirred. She kissed him on the top of the head and pulled his light summer quilt up to his shoulders, careful not to upset the meticulous arrangement of stuffed animals on the far side of the bed.
Ethan was neat for a six-year-old, maybe with a touch of OCD. She had been that way as a kid too, always needing to line up her dolls in a certain way before she could fall asleep.
She crossed the room to the bookshelf, where Ethan liked her to put Harry Potter back between Shark vs. Train and Dinotrux. Stephanie had brought a lot of books for the summer. Lauren hadn’t looked through them all but thinking about her old doll collection made her nostalgic. She wondered if Ethan’s book collection included any of her old favorites, like Where the Sidewalk Ends or Where the Wild Things Are. She scanned the spines, and a familiar title jumped out at her: Lights in the Dark: A Practical Guide to Viewing the Universe.
Hands trembling, Lauren pulled it off the shelf. It was clearly a new book, but the cover was the same as the one she’d given another boy to put on his bookshelf.
How strange. Just that morning she’d been telling Matt about Rory’s interest in astronomy. It had felt good to talk about the high-school stuff, to say things aloud that had begun to feel like they’d happened in another lifetime. Sometimes she felt oddly burdened, as if Rory lived on only in her memory—the real Rory, not the icon the press and the public made him into. For the one hour she spent talking to Matt, that burden had lifted.
She opened the book, her mind many miles and many years away.
Senior year, the only upside to the breakup with Rory was that she didn’t have to worry about getting into a school in Boston to be closer to him. She was free to make Georgetown her top choice, as it had been since the beginning of junior year when she’d won a journalism competition and a trip to DC.
Accepted to Georgetown, she replaced Rory’s old Lower Merion ice hockey T-shirt that she’d slept in for almost a year with a new gray and blue Hoyas shirt.
Still, she wasn’t happy. Not truly happy, not the way she’d felt when they were together. Once you’d known the complete, deep-seated joy of being in love, nothing else compared. Not even personal accomplishment. She tried not to think about him, but every corner of the school, of her house, of the neighborhood streets triggered memories of their relationship. How cruel, how unfair that he should be the one to end it and also be the one to start in a new place free and clear. It was this sense of injustice that had helped turn her heartbreak to anger, and it was this anger, festering for five months, that had steeled her to ignore his texts when they finally appeared.
He was in town for Christmas break. He missed her; they needed to talk. He was sorry. He’d meet her anywhere. Didn’t they owe it to their time together to at least talk?
Delete, delete, delete.
And then, the Thursday before Christmas break. In the Merionite classroom, a makeshift holiday party of Dunkin’ Donuts and Wawa coffee.
“You have a visitor,” the sports editor said.
Rory, standing in the doorway.
The past few months, she had of course imagined seeing him again. In all the scenarios she’d come up with, she hadn’t anticipated that he would be even more beautiful, his chiseled good looks sharpening and deepening, the last vestiges of boyhood gone. For the first time, she saw a preview of Rory the man, and maybe it was best that they had broken up. His perfection was maybe more than she had bargained for.
He invited her to his house for Christmas Eve. It’s over, she’d told him.
And yet, seventy-two hours later, she stood on the sidewalk outside of his house.
The ground was a sheet of ice. She took slow steps, glancing at the front yard, remembering the last time she’d seen it—late summer, verdant. Before everything changed.
She stepped carefully up his driveway, holding an apple pie from the Bakery House on Lancaster Avenue for Mrs. Kincaid and a book for Rory. He had told her she didn’t need to bring anything, but she remembered the bounty of last year, and so of course she could not show up empty-handed.
Her gift was simple, something a friend would give another friend. But it was tied to a memory she had, an afternoon of studying side by side with him in the Ludington Library. She’d barely been able to focus on her work with their feet touching under the wooden table, the occasional shared glance. When it was time to leave, he’d borrowed a big hardcover book on astronomy, Lights in the Dark: A Practical Guide to Viewing the Universe.
Two nights earlier, she’d ordered a copy of the book online. She wrapped it in green and red paper and taped a card—a painting of a snow-covered pine tree—to the top. This time, there had been no agonizing about whether or not to write Love, Lauren.
Dear Rory:
I know things are different now. You’ve moved on to Harvard and I’m leaving for DC in a few months. But I want you to know our time together meant a lot to me. I wish you the best in everything you do.
Your friend always, Lauren
He greeted her on the front patio, dressed in a Harvard windbreaker and his good pants. The sight of him made her chest feel fluttery. After so many months of trying to forget him, there she was, walking toward him.
“I want to talk to you in private,” he said, steering her to the garage. They walked in silence, their breath visible.
She thought about this time last year, how hopeful she’d been, certain it was just the first of many Christmases together. Reflexively, she touched her neck. It had been so hard to take off the necklace, to put it in its box and shove it to the back of the highest shelf of her closet. For a long time she’d felt it burning in her room, something aglow, toxic.
“It’s freezing,” she said.
“Just a minute, then we’ll go in the house,” he said, pulling the heavy door down behind them.
“You’re not going to give me another piece of heart jewelry, are you? Because I’m really not in the mood for more empty symbolism.”
“Ouch. You’ve gotten hard in our time apart.”
She wanted to make a joke—something about how she hoped he hadn’t gotten hard in their time apart. But there was nothing funny about their situation. She’d thought she was showing up for closure, but it was like the wound was ripped right open again.
Then he said suddenly, jarringly, “I love you. I’ve missed you. I’m not going to say it was a mistake to break up, because I needed a few months of focus. And I needed some distance to know if this thing was real.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Well, it’s not just about what you need,” she said. “It isn’t just about you all the time. Did you ever think of that?”
“Of course. And I took a big chance. I’m sorry to have hurt you. I really am. But I think if you can just forgive me, we’ll be stronger for the time apart.”
“I don’t know,” she said. Of course she knew! She was in love. “Maybe we should just be friends.”
“I don’t want to be friends. I love you. I never stopped thinking about you. I don’t have anything going on with any women in Boston. I just worked my ass off. And I’m going to continue to work my ass off because I want a lot out of life. And one of those things is you—by my side. As much as possible.”
She stepped into his arms. He kissed her face, not seeming to mind that she sobbed like a child. When she calmed down, he pulled back, tilted her face up to his with his thumb under her chin.
“Lauren,” he whispered. “I’ll never let you down again.”
She reshelved the astronomy book, slipped quietly out of Ethan’s room, and closed the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Matt paused the frame.
Lauren looked beautiful on camera, her dark eyes big and luminous. She had the type of bone structure that was slightly angular in person but flawless on film. She’d worn her hair back in a ponytail that afternoon and dressed in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. There was something steely and fragile about her at the same time. From a filmmaking perspective, he couldn’t have cast anyone better.
“Rory’s mom was a widow,” she said, a lock of hair falling free from her ponytail. She tucked it back behind her ear. “And he worried about taking care of her. Once the money became a reality, there was no question he would go into the NHL.”
Matt forwarded through his reel, moving to an interview with Rory’s former sports agent. Jason Cavendish, a slickly handsome LA native, looked barely older than his athlete clients. It had been an expensive shoot, flying to Hollywood and staying at the Standard. They couldn’t film at Jason’s high-profile office building, so Matt needed a sharp-looking hotel suite. The day of the scheduled shoot, Jason had an emergency meeting, and it was postponed to the tune of another six-hundred-dollar night. But it was worth it for this bombshell:
“The Kings didn’t make an offer once he was a free agent,” Jason said. “I don’t know where the press got that seven-figure rumor. But I sure as hell wasn’t about to correct them.”
Matt’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, was surprised to find Craig Mason.
He’d been wrestling with when and how to reach out to Craig, to send him the footage of Lauren. He’d decided to wait until he had more, but this call was an encouraging turn of events.
“Great to hear from you,” Matt said. “I’d been thinking of calling you myself. I interviewed Lauren Kincaid.”
That’s how these projects went sometimes. How many film-festival panels had he listened to where people talked about things falling apart, the film looking like it would never get made, and then all the pieces clicked into place. He could see the two of them sitting side by side at Sundance…
“Good for you,” Craig said. “But I just called to share some news.”
“News?”
“I heard something through the grapevine, and since I am rooting for you—you know that, right? Anyway, I want you to know there’s a feature film about Rory in the works.”
Matt felt a rushing whoosh as he lost his breath.
“Who’s making it? When’s it coming out?”
“I don’t know anything more about it.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Well, I think this just shows I have a hot topic. It’s not a concern.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out for that. But in the meantime I’ll send you the Lauren Kincaid footage—”
“I’m afraid I have to pass,” said Craig. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, man,” Matt said calmly. He hung up.
And then he threw his phone against the wall.
Lauren pulled a photograph down from the wall of the restaurant and carried it to the front counter.
“Table three wants to buy this one,” she told Nora, glancing at the price sticker: $250. It was just a shot of a narrow house on the bay. Lauren knew the house; it was painted a pretty moss green but the photo was in black-and-white so it didn’t even have that going for it. She supposed summer visitors wanted to take any piece of Longport home with them.
“Great. I’ll wrap it up,” Nora said. “Hey, I wanted to ask you a few things. First, you’re coming to my Fourth of July party, right?”
“Of course.” Every Fourth, Nora hosted a huge barbecue at her own house on the bay. It usually started midafternoon and lasted until the sun began to set, at which time the guests would make their way over to the boardwalk to view the fireworks.
“Great. Bring your parents and your sister; the more the merrier. Also, would you be able to work nights in August?”
Lauren smiled. “You’re finally making the leap to dinner service?”
“I’m working on it. I realize I’ve been playing it too safe. The way these photographs are flying out of here—I should have thought of selling something higher ticket on the walls years ago. Makes me think I’ve been doing things the same way for too long. I just have to worry about staffing up midway through the season. Not the easiest task.”
“Well, I’m ready to take more shifts, so just let me know what you need.”
Nora, distracted, eyed the door. “Your friend is back.”
Lauren followed her gaze and turned to see Matt in the front of the crowded room, not standing in line but next to it.
“Henny told April that he interviewed you at her place yesterday.”
“Henny told April? What is this, whisper down the lane?” Lauren said.
“Well, Henny’s not speaking to me at the moment, so yes, I’m relying on secondhand information.”
“Oh no. Because of her signs?”
Nora nodded. “Yeah. A casualty of progress. I really didn’t think she’d take it so hard. It was barely any money in her pocket.”
“It’s probably not about the money. Have you tried talking to her? Do you want me to talk to her?”
Nora shook her head. “Go see what your visitor wants.”
Lauren threaded her way through a party of six leaving the restaurant. Matt spotted her and waved her over.
Yeah, I see you.
“I hope you’re only here to eat,” she said, “because I don’t have time to talk.”
“I’d love to eat,” he said, smiling. “But I don’t have time for that line. Can you bump me ahead of the crowd?”
“This isn’t Studio Fifty-Four. Seriously, I gotta work, Matt.”
He looked at the photographs on the wall. “She replaced Henny’s hand-painted signs with this crap?”
“You know about that?”
“Yeah. But I set her up on Etsy so she’s back in biz.”
Lauren looked at him in surprise. “That was nice of you.”
A woman stepped in front of Matt. “Miss, can you tell us how much longer? It’s been forty minutes. We’re on the list. Last name is Feld.”
Lauren looked around for the hostess, a college kid. She directed the woman to the side. “Please check with the hostess.” Turning back to Matt, she said. “I’m really busy.”
“Someone is making a feature film about Rory,” he said.
“I know. You are.”
“No, I’m making a documentary. The other project is a scripted movie. Someone is writing their version of the story.”
She felt the room tilt. “Who? Can they do that?”
“I don’t know who. It’s not listed on IMDb. A friend told me. And yes, they can do that. But Lauren, you know the real story. The truth. And I can help you get it out there. Don’t you want that?”
“I already did an interview. I gave you your hour! What do you want from me?”
“More,” he said.
The room, overcrowded, felt suddenly like it was closing in on her.
Beth hesitated outside of Stephanie’s bedroom door. She looked again at her watch, stalling. Eleven in the morning. Goddamn it, she hated being put in this position, having to treat her grown daughter—a mother herself—like a recalcitrant teenager.
She pushed open the door after one brisk knock.
“Rise and shine,” she said, walking in and drawing back the curtains. Stephanie groaned.
“What are you doing?”
“Your son is in the kitchen, waiting to go to the beach. And you’re going to take him.”
Stephanie buried her head deeper in her pile of pillows. Beth could smell the alcohol seeping from her pores. Furious, she grabbed the comforter and pulled it off the bed.
“Mom! Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”
/> “Nothing is wrong with me. But there is plenty wrong with you, and we’re going to deal with it, starting today. Right now. You’re drinking too much. You’re not spending enough time with your son. And you did a lousy thing to your sister the other night.”
Stephanie sat up. Beth had known that would get her attention.
“Oh, now I see what this is about. Once again, Lauren the angel has been wronged.”
“I invited Neil Hanes over to spend time with her. He was asking about her. And then you…”
“I what? She’s the one who freaked out and left.”
“And you didn’t waste any time moving in,” Beth said.
“Oh, please. As if it were ever going to happen with Lauren. She hasn’t dated in all of this time—that’s on her, not me. But you know what? If Neil Hanes is going to be the one, she can go for it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea now that you’ve slept with him.”
“I didn’t ‘sleep with him,’ Mother. We just hung out. The guy’s a talker. Frankly, he’s exhausting.”
Beth brightened. Was it true? Neil and Stephanie had just talked? She felt the universe was rewarding her for trying—and for pressing the issue with Stephanie. Emboldened, she said:
“I want you to take Ethan to dinner and a movie tonight. The only one you should be running around with is that little boy. I’ll give you the money for a night out, and I expect you to make yourself scarce.” She walked out of the room but turned around just long enough to add, “And get yourself dressed.”
Beth was already dialing Neil’s cell before she reached her own bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Running home after work, the sidewalk damp from an afternoon sun shower, Lauren nearly stepped on a slug but was able to jump over it at the last second.
She used to think slugs were snails that had left their shells, and then she learned that a slug had never had a shell to begin with. Looking at that soft, vulnerable creature, she felt a kinship; just when she’d been thinking the situation with the documentary was under control, she’d heard the news that another film project was out there. Would it never end?
The Husband Hour Page 16
