by Sam Wiebe
I peer inside and it’s the dog treats.
“What? You didn’t have to—”
“I wouldn’t be so generous if you’d won the Alaskan cruise. Come on, let’s go.”
* * *
Wine from the fundraiser makes our mattress feel like a bouncy castle. I roll on top of Jake for the first time in forever, tease pleasure out of him as if he were still the edgy beat poet performing in the club where I bartended. I close my eyes and picture Tommy in his suit, our silly banter, the stupid grin we shared the whole ten minutes we talked. Jake responds with confused compliance, gets off, and goes back to sleep, but in the morning when I make his coffee, he replies with a full-body hug, an arm that lingers around my waist and tells me all is not dead between us.
Hannah and I ride the bus to John Lawson Park. Sage and her friends take a bar class nearby with childcare. They hit the playground after, rain or shine.
“I read this article,” Sage says. “Kids who play outdoors in bad weather approach problem-solving with more confidence than if they’re taught to avoid the elements.”
Emmaline looks like she’d rather be inside playing princesses, but Hannah races to the climbing apparatus. She’s the first to soak her jeans going down the slide.
“Is Hannah allowed chocolate?” Sage pats her pocket. “Chili-flavored, extra dark. I’m intent on Emmaline enjoying full flavors.”
“Wow. You give parenting wicked flair,” I say. “I’ve been too busy feeling overwhelmed.”
“Because children are designed to break us.” Sage laughs. “The sleepless nights, the freedom lost, the adoring husbands who turn into selfish jerks after childbirth. It’s why mom friends are a lifeline, more essential than air some days.”
I bite my lip. My friends and family are two thousand miles away. My only lifeline is Jake, and he’d rather talk to his fictional characters.
“The cool thing about being broken, though, is that when we rebuild ourselves, we can be as creative as we like. Join us at my house tomorrow. I’ve had fun designing Emmaline’s playroom.”
* * *
I’m like an orphan from a movie, my face pressed against the rain-streaked funeral home window. Inside, Misty and Jenna make frequent trips to the champagne table. Tommy stands stoically, nodding, not saying much. A man who I assume is Sage’s husband shakes everyone’s hand with an air of bereaved self-importance.
Hannah’s in her stroller, talking to her bear while she waits for our walk to continue. I’ve been letting her sleep with me since I was released on bail. She nestles in and makes me forget that it’s all going to shit in a week or two, when the verdict comes in.
I could plea bargain if I admit to what I’ve done, serve fifteen years instead of twenty-five. But either way, I’ll be in custody until Hannah is old enough to hate me. I’d rather let the trial linger, have more of these long nights with rain pounding the boathouse roof, her soft little body pressed into mine.
* * *
Sage’s butler lets us in. Hannah and I drip muddy rainwater onto the pristine hardwood floor. We’re shown to a bedroom where dry clothes are waiting. It breaks my heart how cherub-like Hannah looks in Emmaline’s Desigual tunic. For me, there’s Lululemon. For the first time since I returned that red dress, I like the way my body looks in clothes.
The butler raps softly and leads us to an enormous playroom overlooking the stormy whitecaps of the Georgia Strait.
“We built into the cliff,” Sage says. “We carved grooves in the rock wall for Emmaline to climb. We’ve planed down jagged edges and the floor mat is padded so when she falls it’s no big deal. A few bumps and scrapes are good, though. Teaches respect for the elements.”
Hannah toddle-runs to join the other kids. After observing for maybe five seconds, she tries to scale the wall herself. Emmaline hangs back, mouth open. When Hannah successfully climbs three footholds, Emmaline claps with delight.
“She’s never put a foot on it herself.” Sage sighs. “Maybe Hannah can encourage her sense of adventure.”
“Maybe Emmaline can temper Hannah’s,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Thanks for the dry clothes. I’ll try to keep her from playing too rough in them.”
“No way. Kids should play as rough as they like. Emmaline has too many clothes anyway. I can barely stuff her drawers shut.” She sips matcha tea. “Funny how your kid is dark and mine is fair, huh? Yours bold, mine timid. It’s like they were swapped at birth.”
I say nothing, because Hannah suits me right down to her core.
“Tommy asked about you,” she says.
“What did he want to know?”
“If you’re available.”
I try to stifle the flutter, but a stupid grin betrays me. “Well, I woke up to my husband’s breakfast dishes in the sink, so if he calls today, I’m wide open.”
Jenna and Misty laugh. Sage says, “Is that a yes or a no?”
“No. He’s delicious, but I’m married.”
The housekeeper arrives with a tray of Indian food. The kids sit around Emmaline’s play table—including Hannah, who has never sat still to eat, ever—and the moms take turns putting curried dahl and butter chicken onto plastic plates. There’s nothing Hannah will eat, but I select a couple innocuous-looking morsels for her. She examines a samosa with her tongue. Wrinkles her nose, takes a tiny bite. Chews thoughtfully. Takes another bite.
Sage beams. “Hunger is key. Run them around, they’ll work up an appetite for anything.”
“Especially for napping.” Jenna reclines in her lounge chair. “A.k.a. spa rejuvenation for the afternoon shift. The instant my son goes down, I hit the Jacuzzi with wine and Netflix. What do you do when Hannah naps?”
I frown. I can’t say I polish my in-laws’ silver for dinners that don’t include me. I didn’t contradict Sage when she dropped me off after the fundraiser and assumed I lived in the big house. How much longer before they figure out I’m not qualified to play with them?
I think of Toronto, the three of us in the duplex, how I cherished Hannah’s naps even with dirty laundry piled around me. “I read trashy best sellers, drink an endless mug of tea, and eat too much dark chocolate.”
“What are you reading now?” Sage asks.
“The Help,” I say, because it seems less of a lie if I’m living it.
* * *
Another night out. A house concert at Sage’s neighbor’s. It’s a jazz trio from Montreal, I think they’re almost famous. They work the tap-pelt-tap of the rain against the solarium into the rhythm of their songs.
In the intermission, we spill onto the covered patio with a bottle of wine. Tommy’s cracking jokes with men in suits. I avoid eye contact. I don’t want to presume familiarity after one conversation. Also my dress. It’s passable, a Diane von Furstenberg I scored for twelve bucks at the Salvation Army, but I feel like the plain cousin of the princess he met at the ball.
A tap on my shoulder. “Win anything good at the fundraiser?”
I spin to face Tommy, my shoulder on fire from his touch. “Dog treats,” I say. “Would you like them? I don’t have a dog.”
“Sure. I won a yachting adventure. You like boats?”
“I love boats. But Hannah—” I instantly feel stupid. He wasn’t inviting me, just asked if I like boats. I recover with, “We haven’t taken her boating yet.”
“Is your husband into boating?”
“Are you kidding? He can’t spare the precious time from the characters inside his computer.” I should shut up. I don’t know why I’m being so blunt. “He’s a writer.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
I mumble, “Jake Carruthers.”
“The Giller winner? Does Sage know?”
“No.”
“She’ll go ape. When she read Rebecca’s Room, it was all she could talk about for months.”
He lights a joint and passes it to me. As our fingertips touch, electricity shoots through my arm and down to the place I didn’t think had any electricity left. I
take a puff and feel the beat of the rain against the gazebo roof. I haven’t felt this free since summer camp.
A shout from inside tells us intermission is over.
The second set is better than the first. I can see notes from each instrument float through the air, the smooth double bass, the lively piano, the melancholy saxophone. Tommy’s beside me on the couch. It’s only his leg pressed into mine, but it’s enough.
He walks us to Sage’s door. The others go in for a nightcap and he says, “I’m not going to kiss you. I hate to wreck a home.”
“Good,” I say. Because all my impulses urge my lips toward his, but it would be the end of everything.
* * *
The bus driver makes an aggro face when I ask him to lower the ramp for Hannah’s stroller. I’d like to ask why he’s too important to perform the entire scope of his job description, but I’m breaking bail. I can’t afford to be memorable.
We’re going on a little trip, Hannah and I. A ferry to Nanaimo and then up, up, up the island until we find our remote haven, a town with bad cell service and a diner where I can work for cash, where Hannah can get dirt in her toenails and slurp popsicles and it can be the two of us against the world.
Except I won’t raise her to be against the world. She will firmly own a place in it, as much as Emmaline.
* * *
“Tommy told me who your husband is.” Sage winks as we arrive at Gleneagles for music class. Jake’s parents sprung for the ten-week course, so I’m less bitter about dusting their ugly art collection. “You’re so modest, I can’t believe you haven’t said a word.”
I unbundle Hannah. I bought her an adorable Hatley raincoat secondhand. Five bucks. No rips. Bought myself some lightly used Lulu too, so we’re a snazzy West Van duo.
“I’ve heard artists are impossible to live with. What’s he working on?”
“He calls it a love story.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
Hannah is busy chasing Jenna’s son around the music room. I glance to make sure she’s out of earshot. “I love who he was in Toronto. I loved bartending on Bloor Street and walking home to our duplex apartment in the Annex, his hair a sexy mess because he hadn’t left his desk the whole time I’d been out.”
“Why did you move west?”
I smooth my hand along the dirty carpet. I want the teacher to arrive, the hello song to start. “Jake’s parents are here. We wanted Hannah to be close to her grandparents.”
“You live with them?” She puts two and two together real quick.
“We’re staying in their boathouse while we look for a place of our own.”
Sage nods. “The boathouse. I like it. Rebecca’s Room.”
“I’ll tell him you loved his book. It will make his day.”
“Can I tell him myself?” Her eyes sparkle. “Come for dinner on Saturday.”
* * *
“My husband’s in Tokyo,” Sage says as the butler hangs our coats. “I asked Tommy to stand in.”
Tommy grins from the couch, raises his beer in salute. The cheesiest smile plasters itself onto my face and won’t leave.
Sage touches Jake’s shoulder. “I want to show you the library.”
We use the library for story time, the round white room, twenty feet high of reclaimed wood bookshelves with a dome skylight and sliding ladder. There’s a mezzanine with beanbag chairs where Sage reads The Gruffalo and Corduroy with dynamic dramatization. She was an actor before she had Emmaline. Not famous, but I remember a Tide commercial she was in.
Jake whistles. He suddenly doesn’t seem so annoyed to be away from his computer tonight.
“See the desk? You can write there if you ever need a change of scenery.”
“No shit?” Jake’s eyebrows shoot up.
“I’d be honored. Jake Carruthers working between these walls.”
I leave to put Hannah to sleep in the spare crib. As I sing her a lullaby, I try to forget that Jake finds brunettes sexier than blondes, that Sage has everything to offer and I have nothing left to give.
* * *
The Amber Alert comes while we’re exploring the upper deck of the ferry. The photo: Hannah beaming from the top of Sage’s rock wall. The message: Hannah Carruthers, twenty months, possibly traveling with her mother, a murder suspect out on bail. A description of us that includes what we’re wearing right now.
I hurl my phone into the Georgia Strait. If they’re tracking it, they’ll know we boarded the boat.
* * *
Sage’s wine cellar could be in a magazine. There’s a long dinner table, a full-service bar, and a lounge with comfy seating. She opens the dumbwaiter and presents four plates with one scallop each.
“An amuse-bouche. Qualicum Beach scallops in a white wine marijuana butter sauce.”
“I’ll skip this course,” I say. “I can’t be a mess if Hannah needs me.”
“Maria has the girls covered.” Sage air-swats my concern. “She has bottles, books, she knows a million lullabies.”
Jake squeezes my hand. “Let’s get our life back.”
He’s right. I need to chill. I spear my scallop and let the butter melt on my tongue. It’s more exquisite still for the pinot gris Sage pairs it with.
Jake eyes up Tommy. “So you’re the man, hey?”
Tommy grins like he doesn’t understand the question.
“The sports team, the car dealership, the high-rises. No one can touch you.”
I stroke Jake’s hand to help him loosen up, to not be insecure, to enjoy his meal and not spoil the friendship that has opened new worlds for Hannah.
Tommy shakes his head. “There’s tons of richer guys than me. What no one can touch is your talent. I read Rebecca’s Room last year. Your Manderley was even better than duMaurier’s.”
Jake’s hand relaxes. I melt into him and the couch and it reminds me of the easy days when we drank beer and watched Netflix with takeout. Before Hannah entered screaming, forcing us to claw for our fair share of showers and sleep like rivals on a game show called Who’s Got the Time? I watch Tommy in his club chair, a linebacker’s body with a mind I’m dying to penetrate. I want to combine them into one perfect human, and I want them separately, naked, with all their flaws.
The dumbwaiter chimes. Sage unveils a tray of salmon skewers. “Haida Gwaii spring, seared rare.” She pairs it with a BC pinot noir, and I don’t remember my mouth ever feeling so satisfied.
“Who likes drinking games?” says Sage. “We’ll start light. Never Have I Ever.”
I roll my eyes. The game where everyone’s thrilled to cop to every risqué thing they’ve done since they were twelve. Jake hates it more than I do, but he leans forward and says, “I love games.”
Tame questions go around, things we easily drink to or laugh when someone doesn’t. On Sage’s fourth turn, she says, “Never have I ever had group sex.”
Jake and I share a grin that remembers our old life, patios rolling into booze cans rolling into random apartments. We drink. So do Sage and Tommy.
“Well now. Time to amp up.” Sage takes a sushi platter from the dumbwaiter and sets the salmon tray inside with our used plates. “Truth or Dare.”
Tommy groans. “Are normal dinner parties even possible with you?”
“Only when my boring husband is in town.” She pours sake into ceramic cups. “Just for asking, Tommy, you’re first. Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
She dares him to kiss me.
I look at Jake, who shrugs. “I’m game if you are.”
Tommy’s lips don’t linger, but the split-second they’re on mine is electric.
“Quid pro quo,” says Tommy. “I dare Sage to kiss Jake.”
She sidles up to Jake and plants a full but quick kiss onto his lips. His eyebrows shoot up and I can tell he liked it. A lot.
* * *
In the morning, the housekeeper wakes Jake and me up with coffee and a pajama-clad Hannah. We cuddle Hannah in bed for ten full min
utes, soaking our little family in.
“We needed this.” Jake strokes my cheek and gives me a kiss that lasts until Hannah breaks it up.
When we see Tommy in the foyer, it’s awkward but delicious, like in college after you sleep with a jock you might never go home with again, but you want to savor your wild side a few minutes longer before you return to the science lab.
Jake leaves to use the washroom and Tommy says, “Last night, I felt like we were tandem paragliding, you and me. I forgot there was anyone else in the room.”
I zip Hannah into her raincoat.
“Can we do this again?” he whispers. “Just the two of us?”
I shake my head. “I’m married. Alone would be cheating.”
* * *
“You like Sage,” I say to Jake when Hannah goes down for her nap.
“She’s hot.”
“Are you going to work in her library?”
“Do you mind?”
I picture Sage popping in with midmorning snacks, twirling in micro shorts, asking if there’s anything he needs. But we said we’d never be that couple, the petty jealous type who hold each other back. We even wrote, If you love something, set it free, into our marriage vows. So I say, “If you need a creative shift, go for it.”
“You’re the best. I’m getting stifled in the boathouse.”
I run my finger along his cock, stroke it a while before taking it into my mouth, because if I’m going to set him free, I’d better give him reason to come home. His sighs mix with the thunder and I lap my tongue to the rhythm of the rain.
“This is paradise,” he says, and my grip tightens because of course this is paradise for him. He gets to write all day and ignore his daughter, and his wife makes his lattes and gives him blow jobs and irons his father’s shirts so he can have this writing space by the sea, and if that’s not fucking good enough, he can write in the library of a hot mom nearby and fuck her if he wants to because everyone in his life is just so. Damn. Cool.
* * *
“That library is the bomb.” Jake shakes out his umbrella at the boathouse door. “This week alone, I resolved three plot points that have been snagging me for months.”
“Good.” I stir the bolognese and pour him a glass of the cheap Italian red we both like. “I like when you’re creatively satisfied.”
