The Whole Golden World

by Kristina Riggle

  She reached across and grabbed his arm. “Aren’t you happy? Please be happy . . .”

  “Give me a minute,” he blurted, and took off upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Rain to curl up alone in the kitchen chair.

  When TJ came down an hour later, Rain was on the couch with her laptop in her lap, signing up for baby websites. The latest gave her a due date in September and told her that her child was the size of a kidney bean.

  There were message boards, too. Virtual coffee klatches where mothers-to-be could vent about morning sickness and ask each other embarrassing questions. If she were the type of person to do such a thing, she could have posted, “My husband and I are expecting a baby after years of infertility and months of treatment, and all he can say is ‘give me a minute.’ I want to throw him out of the house and make him sleep on the porch. Is this normal?”

  But instead she’d ordered some yellow onesies from Baby Gap.

  TJ stopped in front of the couch, his head drooping in his classic hangdog posture. He clasped his hands in front of him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Rain tried to say something conciliatory. She only managed to put the laptop on the coffee table and face him with folded arms. Gran’s advice was ringing in her ears: “The key to a successful marriage is to forgive, every day if you have to, and move on.”

  TJ dropped down to his knees next to the couch and took her hands in his. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Somehow I’d convinced myself it was never going to work. I’d accepted that. So this was just a shock.”

  “But treatment was your idea this time. I thought you were still . . . on board.”

  “I wanted you to try again because you wanted it. But I’d lost faith, honestly.”

  “So you were humoring me?”

  He shifted in his awkward, crouched posture. “You could say that, I guess. I didn’t think of it that way. I thought of it as giving you what you wanted because it made you smile.”

  “I suppose that’s a better reason than competing with your brother.” Rain chuckled as if she were kidding.

  He stared at her abdomen then, still flat as ever, for now. He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and stared, as if he had x-ray vision and could actually see the embryo. Then he laid a hand gently there and breathed, “Wow.”

  Rain bent forward and grabbed him by the head, pulling him up on top of her, where she held him against her and relaxed at last. He was still on board with her after all. With both of them.

  He snuggled up with her on the couch, wrapping around her like a vine. They barely fit this way, and it was almost comical how they were smooshed together.

  TJ said, “Can’t wait to tell my brother when he gets back from his tropical paradise.”

  “Oh, let’s not tell yet.”

  “Why not?” TJ sat up from her a bit, wrinkling his brow and cocking his head to one side.

  “I just . . . it’s early and the first few weeks there’s always a chance . . . that something could go wrong. I wasn’t even going to tell my mom yet.”

  Rain knew the minute she told Angie that her mother would clear out the baby aisle at Walmart buying stuff. And if something did happen, she couldn’t bear to even imagine the agony of all those baby things around. Not to mention having to untell everyone they’d told.

  She could feel TJ’s disappointment in the stiffening of his posture. After a moment, he untangled himself and stood up.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, sighing. “It’s all very logical.”

  “Hey,” Rain said, reaching for his hand and using it to brace herself as she stood, facing him. “It’s our secret for now. That’s kind of fun, isn’t it? To have a secret?”

  A strange expression passed over his face. He gathered her in tight and kissed the top of her head. “Sure it is.”

  27

  Dinah snapped her head up from her final review of the Planning Commission papers—well, it should be final, nearly final, only she kept thinking of reasons to look them over again—to see Morgan coming in the back door shortly after 10 A.M.

  “Wow, you’re early for a slumber party night.”

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” Morgan mumbled. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He took the boys to Mass. He thought Jared especially could use it. I just wanted some peace so I could reread this stuff for my meeting. Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”

  Morgan rolled her head around. “I’ve got a headache something awful.”

  Dinah paused, tapping her pen against the documents, narrowing her eyes. “So. What did you and Nicole do last night?” As she said this, Dinah turned to her laptop open on the table next to her and made a few discreet clicks while Morgan went to get some coffee from the machine.

  “Oh, you know, just watched a movie.”

  “What did you watch?”

  “Um, actually it was TV. Real Housewives, Teen Mom. Stupid stuff like that. Mainly we just talked.”

  “Just talked? You didn’t dip into the vodka or something?”

  “Jeez, Mom, I have a headache. I said I didn’t sleep well. You know how it is sleeping somewhere else.”

  “Sorry. Yes, I do know. I’ve gotta ask, you know.”

  Morgan massaged her neck. “I need Motrin and a nap. Anyway, don’t you worry about me, Mom. You know good old Morgan.”

  Dinah stood up to hug her daughter, then dug around for some Motrin out of her purse. “You don’t have to do everything right, you know. I love you no matter what.”

  Morgan downed the Motrin and went upstairs. “Thanks, Mom. I love you, too. Hey, we still on for a chick flick tonight?”

  “You know it. I’ve got Something Borrowed all queued up for us.”

  Morgan gave her a wave before yawning dramatically and dragging herself upstairs.

  Dinah frowned, then retreated to her laptop and opened up Facebook. Nicole was a friend of Morgan’s, so just maybe her profile would be visible. . . . There. Last night she’d posted, “So much fun just watching TV with friends and just hanging out! I’m gonna miss you next year, Mo!”

  Dinah smiled. She shouldn’t have doubted her superstar daughter.

  That evening, mother and daughter sat in front of a romantic comedy about—what else?—getting married. Dinah’s favorite movies always had a wedding dress in there somewhere; talk about escapist. So it shouldn’t have surprised her when Morgan asked, “So, Mom, tell me about marriage.”

  Dinah almost choked on her popcorn. “Why do you want to know? No one’s proposing to you, are they?” and continued silently, Like I know anything about it, anyway.

  “I’m just wondering what makes a person stay married. And what happens if you fall out of love? What happens if one of the people falls for someone else?” In the movie they were watching, in fact, it seemed clear the handsome leading man was engaged to the wrong woman.

  Morgan picked at the popcorn bowl instead of looking right at Dinah.

  “Honey, are you worried about me and Dad? Because we’re doing just fine. We still love each other very much.”

  Morgan waved her hand. “No, I know that. Let’s say . . . it’s a friend. I don’t want to say who, so don’t grill me. Not someone you know. This person’s parents got married, but they’re having problems. The wife doesn’t seem to love her husband anymore, and he’s found someone else, someone who does love him. Should people like that ever tough it out? Or should they split up?”

  “Whew. Deep thoughts tonight.” Dinah tipped her head back on the couch, trying to rally her tired brain to be Wise Mother when all she’d been prepared to do was giggle at a Kate Hudson flick. But as she knew well from the twins, those pesky “teachable moments” could pop up anytime.

  “I knew this one couple where the husband cheated on the wife. They made up, eventually. I don’t know if it was love though, or if the affair was just about sex.”

  “I think it’s love,” Morgan said quietly, eyes fixed on the television.

  “In that case, if it�
��s really love with someone else, their marriage is in big trouble. But most of the time? When people think they’ve fallen in love with someone else, they’re really just trying to escape from their problems. Like living in a fantasy. Grass is greener and all that stuff.” Dinah curled up and turned to face Morgan. “I guarantee if they married the new person, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be fighting over the mundane stuff like termites and plumbing and the kids, too. That’s just the fact of it. Marriage is hard.” She saw Morgan frown, as if this was somehow news to her. “Not romantic, but it’s true, honey. Some people never really grow up, and they think that the first blush of passion is something they deserve to have, constantly and forever. Those types will never be happy, no matter how many pretty young things they run off with, who won’t stay young, anyway.”

  “But what if they married the wrong person, like, by mistake, the first time? And the new one is actually the right one, for real?”

  Dinah shrugged. “I guess anything is possible. I’d be surprised if a relationship that started with cheating and lying would work out, though. Don’t you think?”

  Morgan was fingering the popcorn and had stopped eating it. Still staring at the TV.

  “Hello? Earth to Morgan? What’s wrong? You seem way too invested in this conversation for just some friend’s parents.”

  Morgan shook her head and smiled at Dinah. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just thinking about these things, you know, as I get older and I think about getting serious. Someday, in the future. I mean, how do you know when it’s a real, forever thing, then? If it’s so easy to be confused by the ‘first blush of passion’?”

  “You know how I knew? When I imagined your dad and me growing old together. Sitting on a porch swing, covered in grandbabies. All wrinkled and fat and gray. Us, not the babies.” Dinah laughed. “And that felt like the most wonderful thing in the world.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes and slouched. “How romantic.”

  Dinah shrugged. “It was to me. You asked.” After a pause, she could not resist asking again, “No one’s proposing to you or anything, are they?”

  “Hardly. It’s not like I have boyfriends lining up out the door.”

  “That’s because high school boys are morons. You wait until they grow up a bit. Then they will be lining up for you. You watch.”

  Morgan seemed to flush a little pink at this. She said, “Whatever, Mom,” but she was grinning.

  Dinah smiled at her girl and nudged her playfully with her shoulder. How many mothers were so lucky that their daughter talked to them about things like this? Sought them out and spent time just hanging out?

  Dinah allowed herself simply to feel lucky for once, to stop questioning, worrying, and just enjoy this small precious moment.

  28

  On the good days, Morgan’s cello seemed alive to her; like a friend, or more accurately, like a loving pet: responsive to touch and attention, never judgmental, ever present.

  Other days, like this day, in her room with her solo, it seemed like the actual object it was. A bulky hollow chunk of wood that could only be coaxed to produce music with just the right stroke of the bow, the precise placement of the fingers.

  Morgan felt tears sting her eyes as her fingers once again collided with each other like a highway pileup, and her bow squawked across the string. She carefully rested her bow on the stand and set her cello carefully on its side, biting down hard on a surging desire to snap her bow over her knee.

  Though, she thought as she lowered herself shakily to the side of her bed, being fiberglass, the bow might not break anyway.

  She’d known a solo would be hard, out there alone with nothing between her and the judges but her instrument and the music stand. But she’d given in to the conductor, Mrs. Allen, and her wheedling to try a solo, for just this last competition, in honor of her last year in orchestra. After all, next year in college she would not be playing, in fact she probably would not even take her cello; it would be far too bulky in a shared dorm room.

  Morgan sat back on her bed and massaged her aching hands. Her temples throbbed now that she was prone, and she closed her eyes, savoring the notion of sleep. But she hadn’t yet done her homework for the afternoon; she’d decided to practice first because the boys weren’t home yet. They always whined when she practiced the cello. Even with her door closed it was pretty damn loud, even if she clipped the mute to the bridge to try and dull the ringing sound.

  She stared at her phone, praying for him to text her. She picked it up and thumbed through the old texts, rereading the precious few he’d been able to send.

  Miss you.

  All clear with house.

  Will have house to self Fri night.

  That last text had driven her to distraction. It was nearly Valentine’s Day and while all her friends were carrying on about the Snow Ball and who they were taking, and what they were wearing, and whether they would be getting flowers and chocolates . . . she couldn’t share in any of it, not even to pretend to be interested in anyone. The secrecy had begun to unsettle her. The ease with which he ignored her in class—while she sat in her chair almost exploding, she felt so pent-up—was making her feel queasy.

  Then came that message about Friday night. It had taken her three tries to text back, she’d been shaking so hard.

  Of course she’d agreed to come, although . . . It was one thing to play house in his brother’s mansion, but his own home? And how could he be sure she wouldn’t come back unexpectedly? Did she really want to be in their private space?

  But the rehearsal rooms were now full of college students actually rehearsing. Morgan herself never had a bit of privacy anywhere. What else was she going to do? Screw him in his car, or a crappy hotel room, like some kind of prostitute?

  They’d made the arrangements very late one night, the glow of Morgan’s phone setting her sheets alight as she huddled under the covers—late-night texting being specifically forbidden in her house—making her think of when she was little and was reading Harry Potter after dark with a flashlight until the wee hours. That seemed like a hundred years ago.

  Morgan was going to drive to the mall to meet him. He’d said his neighbors were too nosy to risk her just driving up.

  They were putting one over on everyone, and sometimes this made Morgan feel powerful indeed.

  She heard the back door slam and her brothers bound through the door. The Elgar piece tumbled off the stand just then, bringing her back to the present problem. She couldn’t seem to play the damn thing anymore.

  Morgan was beginning to realize she’d have to cultivate another variety of lie. Barring a miracle improvement on her part, she’d never be able to go through with a solo performance, even if she scrounged up a real live last-minute accompanist. Then she’d have to make up some reason why not. Food poisoning, or a migraine.

  This thought made her heart swell with a surprising burst of nostalgia and sadness for a rather pathetic end to her high school orchestra career. This definitely wasn’t how her senior year was supposed to go.

  Morgan felt like standing on the lunch table and telling everyone to shut the hell up.

  They were all so . . . loud. Even though they were also all texting—a form of talking already—they were also talking over each other, shrieking “No!” and “Shut up!” out of surprise over some stupid revelation about something. There was no quiet corner to escape to. So she stuck in her earbuds and started the concerto playing, hoping maybe the music performed beautifully by Jacqueline du Pré would jar her back to being able to play it like she used to.

  She listened, and picked the tomatoes out of her salad-bar lunch, and as such didn’t hear Ethan until he manifested as a shadow over her shoulder.

  She jumped and yanked out her earbuds. “Oh, you. Sheesh, you startled me.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, turning a chair around and straddling it backward.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wanna go to Snow Ball with me?”

  Mor
gan quirked an eyebrow by way of response.

  “You’re my friend,” Ethan replied drily to her unspoken smart remark. “Plenty of boy-girl friends go to the Snow Ball. It would be fun. I’ll wear the stupidest bow tie I can find and buy you a corsage as big as a softball. We could sit in the back and make fun of the bad dresses.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Are you already going with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not?”

  “I just don’t. It would be too weird.”

  “Why? Like I said, we’re friends.”

  She glanced around behind them. No one was paying any attention. “I don’t wanna be part of your pretending.”

  Ethan flushed pink, and his jaw tightened. “That’s not why I asked. I wish I’d never told you.”

  Morgan glanced back down at her salad and pushed it away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I just can’t. I don’t want to go be surrounded by couples right now.”

  Ethan frowned. “Why not? It’s not still David, is it?”

  She waved her hand. “No, no. It’s just . . .”

  Morgan paused. Could she really? The pressure of holding it in was harder than she ever thought it could be. And if anyone understood about secrets . . .

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  “Yeah? Bring him to the dance, then.”

  “I can’t.” Morgan stared at the fake woodgrain of the cafeteria table.

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t go here. He’s . . . older.”

  Ethan leaned in and whispered, so close to Morgan’s ear his lips almost brushed her scar. She could feel Ethan’s breath in her hair, which made her think of him and his brother’s house and she shivered. Ethan was asking, “How old?”

  She made herself face him. “Old enough you can’t tell a single soul what I just said.”