by Jane Green
“I was busy. I know I was gaming when you came in, but earlier today I was working on a freelance project,” he mutters as he gathers the empty bowls.
Lizzy knows, without taking a step closer, that all of them are from today, and all of them contain the last drops of Cap’n Crunch, Coco Pops, and Lucky Charms. If he has to feed himself, it’s all James eats. How ironic that his wife is a chef.
“What freelance project? You’re always saying you’re working on a freelance project, but you never get anything commissioned. I don’t even believe you anymore.” Lizzy hates the accusatory tone coming out of her mouth, so reminiscent of her mother as to make her feel she stepped into a time warp, but she can’t stop. “It’s all bullshit. You’re full of nothing but bullshit.”
James stops in his tracks and stares at her. “If you feel like that,” he says, “why are you even here? Why do we even carry on? What’s the point? You are the one who had an affair, so you don’t get to act so high and mighty. You want to leave? Leave. Why are we continuing with this farce of a marriage?”
“It’s a very good question,” she spits out, turning on her heel and making her way upstairs. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing for months.”
I should leave, she thinks, sitting on the end of Connor’s bed and stroking his back softly as he sleeps, the blackout blinds in his room down, his stuffed elephant trapped under his little arm.
No, he should leave, is her next thought. I should have kicked him out years ago. It isn’t enough that we have a child together. Surely it does more harm to Connor than good to have two parents living in the same house who can’t stand each other. I don’t want Connor to grow up in a house filled with shouting and resentment and anger . . . like I did.
What kind of a house would I want him to be raised in, she wonders, as Sean’s face moves into her mind. God, no. He’s not husband material. Look at his poor wife, at home with their four small children, with him gallivanting all over New York with . . . me.
She shudders. She can’t think about Sean now. She did promise it was over, when James found out. That was a nightmare! She and Sean had gone downtown to buy some equipment, and afterward they went to a Starbucks to grab some coffee. They were sitting at the counter in the window, far away from everyone and everything they knew, safe, with their heads together, talking, murmuring, occasionally kissing. Sean had her fingers in his, both their elbows on the counter, when something made Lizzy turn her head. She still remembers she was smiling as she turned, as she saw her stricken husband outside. The smile wiped off her face as she jumped up and ran after him.
There were tears that night, and in the days afterward. He moved into the spare room, although by that point his leaving the marital bed wasn’t so strange. They have had sex maybe a handful of times in the last four years, and none at all for the last two, each blaming parenthood, work, the stresses and strains of modern life.
A few days later, with shaky voice, James said he recognized there had been problems in the relationship, but never thought she would have an affair. He would go into couples counseling with her if she promised to end it. He wanted her to promise she would never see Sean again.
“I can’t do that,” said Lizzy, who was so racked with guilt she would have agreed to almost anything. “He’s my business partner. But I promise I will end our affair. It isn’t really an affair,” she then lied. “We just slept together a couple of times.”
“How many?”
“What?” She couldn’t believe James wanted to know.
“How many times did you sleep with him?”
“Seven,” she lied. It seemed like a credible number, not too few and not too many, and certainly nowhere near the hundreds of times they had snuck into bedrooms, closets, even toilets, for two years.
Two years. Even she couldn’t believe it. She promised James it would stop and she believed she would keep her promise. She went to couples counseling, for a while, and told Sean it was over. And it was. For a while.
Three months ago, she and Sean found themselves the last two left at the end of an event. They walked outside and, standing on a street corner, waiting for an Uber ride, he put a hand on her back and left it there, as a shiver ran through her whole body.
Fuck it, she thought. I deserve to be appreciated, she thought. I deserve to know what it is to feel this again.
She turned to him and kissed him, and they both forgot the Uber ride and ended up getting a hotel room.
What do I do about James, she thinks, still sitting in the darkness, still stroking Connor’s back. She loved him so much in the beginning, all those years ago. She met him only a year after she and Sean went into business together. Those days her job was all consuming, and she felt like she worked twenty-four/seven without ever getting a break. James was an up-and-comer at an ad agency and came to one of their events, which his company was hosting for a client. He caught her eye immediately and then stayed after everyone else had left, after cleanup, and they ended up chatting all night. From the very first, he was so calm, like an oasis in the sea of her chaotic life. His calm calmed Lizzy down. He slowed her down. And he loved her. She would sometimes catch him gazing at her when she wasn’t looking, his eyes awash with love. Lizzy, impulsive, wild, mercurial Lizzy, felt her heart physically slow down when she was with him. And that made her feel grounded, safer with him than she had ever felt before.
When did it all change? Not when Connor was born. James was amazing, left his full-time creative director job at an ad agency to freelance so he could be there with Connor while Lizzy built her career. James instinctively knew how to parent in a way Lizzy did not; he changed the diapers, got out of bed in the middle of the night when the baby cried, allowed Lizzy to sleep because the supper clubs were taking off.
And now? He is still the present parent, but only just. She thinks of him playing his virtual reality games downstairs and clenches her jaw, just as her phone buzzes. It’s her mother. Oh, for God’s sake, she thinks. What now?
nineteen
Nell pulls out a plum-colored lipstick from her purse on the passenger seat and quickly slides it over her lips. She gazes at her reflection in the mirror, at how unlike herself she looks with lipstick, and with a sigh grabs a tissue, immediately wiping everything off. Makeup doesn’t suit her. Stephen has always known her natural and makeup free. Why she thought she had to look different tonight is beyond her. Nerves, she thinks, looking at his house and wondering if he knows she is sitting in the driveway, too jittery to come in.
She has already done two drive-bys of Compo Beach, past the groups of people enjoying sunset cocktails with beach chairs and blankets and coolers filled with wine and snacks. So little has changed, she thinks. Her mother’s house is around the corner, but her mother is in bed with one of her dizzy spells. And she’s not here tonight to see her mother.
Stephen told her he inherited his house from his parents when they died. For years he rented out the pretty 1930s cottage on a small private street right on the water, but last year he moved in himself. He says he doesn’t think he will stay. Developers have been leaving notes in his mailbox, desperate for his land, desperate to build a big new beach house, and there is only so long he can stave them off.
He prefers the country, he told Nell. He recognizes how lovely living by the beach can be, but it is greenery, trees and fields, that stir his soul, not the sound of the ocean waves and the smell of the sea.
Nell reties her hair in an elastic band, the smooth ponytail hanging down her back, and takes a deep breath. He must know she’s here. She has to go in. She pauses outside the car, smelling the salty air, jolted back to her childhood with the smell of seaweed and possibility.
She is wearing old, comfortable boots with a low stacked heel, a long floral skirt, and a T-shirt. Nell, who lives in jeans, and old clothes and clogs and fleeces, feels alternately odd and pretty. And completely unlike hers
elf.
The air is different down here. Everything is different. She comes to the beach so rarely, each time she does she sees the changes. The houses she grew up in, Emily Sussman’s house out on Compo Mill Cove, the houses of their other high school friends, most are now gone, so many torn down for larger houses that spill onto the edges of their small lots, their yards protected by high fences.
She and Emily spent their teenage years pool-jumping, sneaking into people’s yards for a late-night dip, running off screaming with laughter and adrenaline if the owner of the house happened to wake up and catch them. There were no fences. She knew everyone in this beach neighborhood. It was her home until she discovered Fieldstone Farm.
Easton, less than twenty minutes away on a very good day, has always felt like living in the country to Nell. She knew what Stephen was talking about when he rhapsodized the fields and trees. Stephen’s house is clearly waiting for a developer to tear it down, she thinks. There is a huge maple tree in the front yard and dandelions sprinkled through the overgrown grass. The house is yellow, and charming, although Nell knows this kind of charm is no longer desirable. It is also tired, with its sagging roof and sloping windows.
Clasping a bottle of wine, she finally goes up onto the porch, her skirt swishing around her legs as she strides. She opens the screen door and calls hello, walking in when there is no response. She is in a large room, sectioned off. There is a dining table and chairs on one side, sofas and a couple of chairs on the other, and a small kitchen at the front.
But the view! She sets the bottle of wine down on the kitchen table and walks to the bank of windows at the back, her face alight with the glow of the setting sun, casting a vibrant orange and red light over everything in the room.
“Just in time!” The sound of footsteps come down the stairs, and Stephen appears, leaning down and giving her a hug. “I was worried you’d miss it. I kept thinking I should have told you to come earlier.”
“I’m glad I got here when I did. The view is incredible.” Nell looks around. “I had forgotten about the sunsets here. Actually, I’d forgotten about the beach. I so rarely come back to this neighborhood anymore, and it is lovely. This”—she gestures at the sunset—“is absolutely beautiful.”
“I ordered it especially for you,” he says, smiling. “But the view is why the developers want it. And the land. They can squeeze at least six thousand square feet here, and have a pool.”
“How can you think of selling it? It’s really something special.”
“Thank you. Although as you know I do prefer being in the country, I do appreciate how special this place is. But it’s falling down, and I haven’t really got the funds to fix it up. It isn’t that I want to sell it, but that I may have to. There’s too much that needs doing. It hasn’t been touched since the fifties, and it’s now showing.”
“Such a shame. I think it’s perfect,” says Nell, accepting the glass of wine he offers. “It reminds me of the Westport I grew up in. What work do you think you need to do?”
“The windows are all completely rotten, as is the roof. The whole house needs shoring up. That’s the problem; it isn’t really worth putting any money into it because it’s only seen as a teardown. Any money I put into it, I would never see again. And I don’t mind so much. It’s perfect for me, but it’s not what anyone wants today. Formica worktops and avocado green bathroom suite? It’s getting to the point where I’m not even sure I could rent it.”
“But you don’t want to rent it. You live here now.”
“True. And I’m perfectly happy for the time being, and right now I can afford to live here. Everything works.” He chinks glasses as Nell follows him into the kitchen, where something delicious is simmering on an old electric stove.
“You cook?”
“Only on very special occasions.” He grins, taking off the lid so Nell can bend down and smell. “Corn chowder.”
“My favorite!”
“Who doesn’t love corn chowder? I’m throwing lobsters on the grill. I have coleslaw and rolls. Is that okay?” He looks worried, but Nell nods.
What did she expect? That Stephen, Stephen who looks like he still belongs on a dude ranch in Montana, would serve up some fine, fancy French cuisine? Of course this is what he would make—good, solid home cooking, involving a barbecue and chowder. Exactly the kind of unpretentious food Nell loves.
They take the wine outside to sit in Adirondack chairs on the small, pebbled beach and watch the sun slipping down past the edge of the water, the sky glowing pink and purple and orange, the rocks along the coast seeming to be on fire.
“How could you ever have left?” Nell sinks back in the chair as the warmth of the wine spreads through her body. She thinks how utterly content she is in this moment, the water lapping at the rocks, the wine in her hand, a good man at her side.
Yes, she thinks. I could get used to this.
Stephen smiles over at her, clearly content to see her so peaceful. He has only ever seen her at the farm, where she is always busy, slightly distracted, or at dinner, where she is charming, but formal. Here, dressed in the skirt that shows the odd flash of a strong leg, she can see his admiration, and the pleasure he takes in her obvious pleasure.
She closes her eyes before turning to him, questioningly.
“I left because I wanted to explore the world.”
“And did you?”
“No.” He laughs. “I explored a few states. Had a few loves. Then decided to come home.”
Nell heard about the loves before, over dinner. How he had been a serial monogamist, never marrying, but moving from one long-term relationship to another. He had often found himself with women he reluctantly described as “high maintenance,” which was why, he said, he liked Nell so much. She could take care of herself. She was independent. Not a needy bone in her body, he said.
It was true, thought Nell. But sometimes she wished she needed more. Perhaps if she needed more she wouldn’t be quite so alone. She had River, of course, but he did exactly what he was supposed to do: he grew up and left for college, then grad school. Now it was just her.
Unless someone should come along. Someone perhaps much like Stephen. He is different here, she realizes. More at ease in his skin than she has ever seen him.
She finishes the glass of wine, then stands up, moves over to him, sinks slowly onto his lap as she slides her arms around his neck.
That kiss the other night? The one that didn’t do anything for her? Surely now is the perfect opportunity to prove herself wrong.
• • •
The bedroom is dark, Stephen softly snoring beside her as Nell disentangles herself from his arms, careful not to wake him.
She gathers her clothes noiselessly and pads downstairs, then quietly slips them on before gliding out the door, pulling the screen door softly behind her, and getting in the car. She drives slowly through the deserted streets, onto the Merritt Parkway, and on until she reaches the farm, lurching over the uneven gravel driveway and pulling up in the courtyard in front of the house.
Even though it’s the middle of the night, the rooster wakes up and crows as she makes her way inside, and she croons to him as she often does, hearing some of the hens wake up and softly cluck before shifting and settling their way back to sleep on their perch. The air smells like hot summer nights, cicadas buzzing in the background, as Nell lets herself into her house, heavy with disappointment.
She grabs a bottle of single malt and pours herself a glass, sinking onto the sofa with a deep sigh as she takes a large gulp.
She liked Stephen so much. She wanted so much for him to be right, for them to have, if not something serious, at least some fun. But when she kissed him, out there on the grass overlooking the water, she felt nothing other than a little curiosity.
And later, when she pulled him by the hand and led him upstairs to his own bedroom as he beame
d with delight, she thought—hoped—that it was just the kissing that maybe didn’t work, and that everything would be fine once they slept together.
And so they slept together. It was . . . fine. But fine was not what she wanted. She didn’t expect to feel what she felt all those years ago with Lewis Calder, that much she knew, but something. Was that too much to ask? That she should feel something?
She worried that it was her, that there was something wrong with her, and now, after tonight, after this sweet, handsome, charming man elicited no response from her whatsoever, she knows it’s true. She’s frigid. That has to be it. What other explanation is there?
The phone buzzes as she sits, and she pulls it out of her back pocket, dreading it will be Stephen, wondering where she went, so she grins delightedly when she sees it is River.
“Prodigal son!” she says, a warmth in her voice that only ever emerges when talking to, or about, River.
“Mother,” he says formally. “Did I wake you? Is it too late?”
“Never too late to call your mother. And no. You didn’t wake me. I’m sitting downstairs drinking scotch.”
“Alone? Should I be worried? Calling AA perhaps? Do we need to stage an intervention?”
“Hardly.” Nell laughs. “This bottle has been here for about two years. It’s a rare treat and I am enjoying every sip.”
“Sip, not gulp? Okay. I can relax. Anyway, I’m calling because we were thinking about coming home, Daisy and I.”
Nell sits up, puts down her glass, a large smile on her face. “Really? When? I’d love to see you!”
“We thought maybe next week? Daisy was supposed to be interning in a garden center for the summer, but there’s nothing to do—the woman gave her the job as a favor to her mom, so now we’re thinking we might do a road trip in August. We thought maybe we’d come and help out on the farm for July?”
