by Anita Hughes
Oliver moaned and buried his face in his hands. He remembered when Lily came home from San Francisco with her news. He’d reacted by doing the one thing she couldn’t forgive and he would always regret.
* * *
Oliver entered the farmhouse and placed his briefcase on the side table. It was early evening, and the living room looked so inviting: the cushions on the floral sofa were plumped, books were arranged on the coffee table, and there was a brandy decanter with two glasses.
He checked his blazer pocket for the tickets and smiled. The tickets had taken more effort to secure than a fake ID in high school. But it was worth it if they made Lily happy.
Ever since Lily had returned from San Francisco a week ago, something was different. She said it was just the flu, and all she needed was a good night’s sleep.
But she’d spent three days in bed and sent back Oliver’s trays of chicken soup. She refused to see the doctor, and when Oliver touched her cheek, it was perfectly cool.
He asked if anything was wrong, but she just shrugged and bit her lip. Then she busied herself preparing Louisa’s lunches, and Oliver was left to puzzle it out alone.
Now he entered the kitchen and found Lily standing at the stove. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a yellow dress.
“I didn’t know you’d be home for dinner.” She looked up. “I made Louisa macaroni and cheese, but I could put a lasagna in the oven.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Oliver asked, peeling a banana.
“I had a sandwich earlier,” Lily replied. “I’m not hungry.”
“Maybe we can grab a burger at Bar Americain when we get into the city,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Why would we go into the city? You just got home.” She frowned. “And what kind of surprise?”
“This kind of surprise.” He handed her an envelope. “Two tickets to see Hamilton on Broadway.”
“Hamilton!” She examined the tickets. “Where did you get these?”
“Someone gave them to the editor in chief, and he couldn’t use them.” Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “Four of us fought over them. I had to trade box seats to a Yankees game and a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in Maine. But it’s the best show on Broadway, and we’re going to have a fantastic time.”
“I can’t get dressed and go into Manhattan with an hour’s notice,” she protested. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I’m just not up to it.”
“What do you mean you’re not up to it?” He fumed. “You can’t get a ticket unless you’re the president. I could sell these on StubHub for the price of plane tickets to Australia.”
“Maybe you should.” She turned back to the stove. “I’m sure it’s not too late.”
“What could you be doing that’s more important than seeing the hottest musical in the country?”
“Louisa has a birthday party tomorrow.” She buttered a slice of bread. “We have to write the card and wrap the present.”
“I asked Audrey to babysit. She knows how to write a birthday card.” Oliver’s voice softened. “We’ll ask her to spend the night and stay in town. We’ll have brunch at Murray’s Bagels and spend the afternoon at the Guggenheim. When was the last time we ate bagels and lox and visited museums, like regular New Yorkers?”
“You called Audrey without asking me?” Lily turned around.
“What’s wrong with that?” He shrugged.
“Do you always ask her to do things behind my back?” she asked.
Lily’s mouth trembled, and he had never seen her so upset.
“I was trying to do something nice. I thought you’d be thrilled,” he pleaded. “Something has been bothering you since you got home. And you won’t tell me what it is.”
Lily turned off the stove and wiped her hands on her skirt.
“When I was in San Francisco, I called to say good night. It was late, and I thought you might be asleep,” she began. “Audrey answered the phone and said you were staying in the city. I went on Instagram and noticed a photo of you and Mirabelle at the Rainbow Room.” She stopped, and her eyes were giant pools. “The next day, I asked you about the party. You said you came home early and went straight to bed.”
“What are you implying?” he asked.
“You lied to me, Oliver, and there’s only one reason. It’s so typical; celebrity columnist fawned over by a pretty young chef. His wife is three thousand miles away, so he tumbles into her bed. I thought you were different, but I was wrong.”
“What do you mean, you thought I was different?” he exploded. “You know me better than I know myself. Nothing is going on between us. It’s perfectly innocent.”
“Then explain it to me,” she said. “I’m listening.”
Oliver sank onto a stool and put his head in his hands.
“I ate a bad oyster at the Rainbow Room and got food poisoning. I knew I couldn’t get to Grand Central station and make it home.” He looked up. “Mirabelle offered to let me stay at her place. At first I said no, but the room kept spinning. She called a cab, and we went to her apartment. I didn’t even take off my socks, I slept fully clothed on the sofa.”
“Why would you lie if that’s what happened?” Lily asked warily.
“I saw the way you reacted when we had dinner at Mirabelle.” He twisted his hands. “The minute you saw Mirabelle, you were like a cat showing its claws.”
“She was all over you, Oliver.” Lily turned away. “I still don’t believe you. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I wanted to. I regretted the lie the minute it left my mouth,” he pleaded. “I swear nothing happened. It was wrong to go to her place, but I had no choice. I couldn’t sleep it off in the cloakroom.”
“Why should I believe you?” she demanded. “If you’re capable of lying, you’re capable of anything.”
“Telling a small lie is different from sleeping with another woman,” he said angrily. “You can ask anyone who was at the party. I hardly looked like I was sneaking off to a clandestine affair. My skin was the color of putty, and my shirt was drenched in sweat.”
Lily walked to the door. She turned around, and her mouth trembled. “Well, you shouldn’t have lied. Now you’ve ruined everything.”
Oliver followed her upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. Lily lay facedown on the bed. He sat beside her and stroked her hair.
“I wish you had talked to me when you arrived home,” he began. “I would have told you the truth right away. I’m terribly sorry, it will never happen again.”
“It’s too late, you don’t know what you did,” Lily said into the pillow.
“I didn’t do anything, and now it’s over,” he assured her. “Let’s shower and go into the city. Wear that navy dress you bought in Milan.”
“You don’t understand.” Lily sat up. “I was so upset after I talked to Audrey, I thought I was coming down with the flu. I went to the hotel lobby to buy aspirin and ran into Roger.”
“Roger!” Oliver bristled.
“My mother invited him to dinner the night before, but I walked out,” she explained. “He came to apologize and offered to buy me a brandy. Then he was afraid I’d faint in the elevator and escorted me to my room.” She paused and her voice was a whisper. “He kissed me, and for a moment I kissed him back.”
“Roger kissed you?” Oliver jumped up.
“It was completely unexpected. One minute I was pouring a glass of water and the next moment he was kissing me,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t have let him up to my room. But I was so angry with you, Oliver. I was sure you were with Mirabelle.”
“How could you?” Oliver asked.
“I pulled away and asked Roger to leave,” she said. “It was nothing, a couple of seconds.”
“I don’t care how long it was!” He seethed. “His mouth was on my wife’s lips.”
“I never would have accepted a brandy if you hadn’t lied,” Lily insisted. “And you don’t know how tortured I’ve been. I didn’t want
him to kiss me.”
“Are you sure?” he wondered. “You kissed him back, and you could have stopped him at the door. Maybe your mother was right. You’ve loved Roger all along.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Lily’s eyes flashed. “I love you, and thought you were with another woman. It was a momentary slip.”
Oliver wanted to take her in his arms. But he pictured Roger in his designer suit and clenched his jaw.
“I’ll see you later.” He walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” Lily demanded.
“I’m going to see Hamilton,” he answered. “We can’t let both tickets go to waste.”
* * *
Oliver sat at the bar at Alfie’s and sipped his second bourbon on the rocks. He thought it was his second; it could have been his third. He would know when the bartender handed him the check.
The performance of Hamilton had exceeded his expectations. He kept wishing Lily was sitting beside him, so they could gush over the costumes and musical numbers.
It had seemed perfectly natural to walk to Alfie’s for a post-theater supper. He and Lily often shared a plate of cauliflower cheese after a Broadway show.
Now he ate a Brazil nut and thought it had been a bad idea. He should have taken the train straight back to Connecticut. But he had been afraid of saying something to Lily he would regret. It seemed better to let off steam alone.
He peered out the window and told himself he hadn’t picked Alfie’s because it was on the corner of West 53rd Street, a block from Mirabelle’s apartment. It wasn’t likely she’d walk by. She was probably already at home.
But if he did run into Mirabelle, she would understand that he had been wronged. Of course, he shouldn’t have lied to Lily. But Lily shouldn’t have kissed Roger at the first opportunity.
He would go home and sleep in the guest room to show Lily how angry he was. Then, tomorrow morning, he would cook French toast. They’d make up and spend the day in bed.
The door opened, and a woman entered the bar. She wore a wool jacket and carried a leather purse.
“Oliver?” Mirabelle asked. “I saw you through the window. What are you doing at Alfie’s?”
Oliver looked up and flushed. He couldn’t tell her that he’d picked the bar because he knew there was an industry event nearby and hoped she might be walking home. Mirabelle wore a black dress, and her blond hair was knotted in a bun.
“I was having a post-theater cocktail,” he explained. “I saw Hamilton, the musical.”
“Where’s Lily?” she asked.
“She’s at home.” He fiddled with a napkin. “I’m alone.”
“You saw a Broadway show, and now you’re sitting in a bar while your wife is in Connecticut?” She raised her eyebrow.
“I guess so,” he agreed.
“Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee.” She signaled the bartender. “And you can tell me what’s wrong.”
Oliver sipped black coffee and told Mirabelle how he’d lied about spending the night at her apartment. He started to mention Roger and stopped. He couldn’t say anything bad about Lily.
“I don’t blame Lily for being upset,” Mirabelle said when he’d finished. “You’re an attractive man. Of course she thought something was going on.”
“We’ve been married for nine years. She never had a reason to doubt me.”
“Your wife is lovely, but no one feels completely secure in a relationship,” she mused. “I had a boyfriend who brought me azaleas every day and cheated on me with the hostess.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” he protested. “I ate a bad oyster and couldn’t get home.”
“It’s not going to get better if you’re sulking in a Midtown bar,” she said. “Go home and apologize.”
“You’re right,” Oliver sighed. Then he thought of Roger, and his chest constricted. “I’ll finish this bourbon first.”
“Getting drunk isn’t a good idea.” Mirabelle frowned. “It’s my fault that Lily is angry with you. The least I can do is make sure you get home. Why don’t you pay, and I’ll flag a cab?”
Oliver left some money on the counter and walked outside.
“Here’s a taxi.” Mirabelle stood at the curb. “Next time you’re in the city at night, stop by the restaurant. My wild mushroom crostini is delicious.”
Oliver leaned forward to peck Mirabelle on the cheek. Suddenly, he changed his aim and kissed her on the lips. Her breath was sweet, and he pressed his mouth against hers.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when he pulled away. “That wasn’t a good idea.”
Mirabelle touched her mouth, and her green eyes sparkled. “It probably wasn’t. But I enjoyed it.”
* * *
Oliver entered the farmhouse and hung his jacket in the entryway. The lights were off, and he hoped he could creep upstairs.
How could he have kissed Mirabelle? Once his lips brushed her cheek, he couldn’t resist. All it took was a shift in his position, and his mouth was on her lips. Her mouth was round and soft like a raspberry on top of a crepe suzette.
A light turned on, and Lily appeared from the kitchen. A robe was wrapped around her waist, and she clutched a ceramic cup.
“I was having tea with a shot of brandy,” she said. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” he said stiffly. “I’ve had enough alcohol for one night.”
“How was the show?” She entered the living room.
“It was terrific.” He nodded. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Oliver, wait.” Lily touched his arm. “No matter how angry I was, I shouldn’t have let Roger into my hotel room. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
Oliver took a deep breath. He could accept Lily’s apology and go upstairs. But he had to tell her about Mirabelle. There couldn’t be any more secrets in their marriage.
“After the show, I went to Alfie’s and had a couple of bourbons.” Oliver perched on the sofa. “Mirabelle walked in, she lives on the next block. She asked why I was alone. I told her you were furious because I lied about staying at her apartment.” He paused. “I know I shouldn’t have. I guess I wanted someone to say I wasn’t a bad guy.
“She went outside to call me a cab, and I pecked her on the cheek good-bye.” He looked at Lily. “But the peck turned into a kiss on the mouth. And it wasn’t a small kiss; it lasted a few seconds.”
“You kissed Mirabelle?” Lily gasped.
“I didn’t mean to.” Oliver realized the magnitude of what he’d done. “It was a stupid error.”
“How could you, Oliver?” she demanded. “Were you trying to get even with me? You acted like Louisa when one of her friends scribbles in her favorite book.”
“I suppose I wanted to know how you felt when you kissed another man,” he said slowly.
“I told you how I felt. It was wrong, and I regretted it the minute it happened,” Lily snapped. “But obviously you weren’t listening. Or you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”
“We’re both exhausted and need a good night’s sleep,” he pleaded. “Let’s go to bed, and talk about it in the morning.”
“I have nothing to say.” She walked to the staircase. “You can sleep in the guest room. The sheets are in the closet.”
* * *
Oliver peeled off his socks and climbed into the double bed. He remembered thinking he would sleep in the guest room to show Lily how angry he was. Now he would do anything to be lying beside her under their duvet.
It was like a game of telephone he’d played as a child. Of course Lily shouldn’t have kissed Roger. But that didn’t mean he should kiss Mirabelle. Lily was right; if Louisa behaved like that, they would admonish her.
He looked up and noticed a crack in the plaster. With his luck, there would be one of those rare Connecticut earthquakes, and the ceiling would collapse. That wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. The worst thing would be if Lily never spoke to him again.
* * *
Ol
iver sat at a table at Mirabelle and ate a spoonful of almond parfait. It had been three weeks since the kiss, and the October weather had turned chilly. Leaves were scattered on the ground and the wind tossed a stray flyer in the air.
He told himself he was only there to show Mirabelle his review in the New York Times. And she had suggested he stop by the restaurant when he was in the city at night.
He nibbled a praline and knew the real reason he was there. He was tired of arriving home to an empty kitchen. Lily always left a chicken with instructions on how to reheat it. He couldn’t even complain that she made him do the dishes. He left them in the sink, and the next morning they magically disappeared.
But she refused to talk to him, except to remind him about back-to-school night. He slept in the guest room, and she locked the door when she showered. He pictured the way she’d looked when she stepped out of the shower in Naples all those years before; he would give anything now to see her wet hair and bare shoulders.
A few times, he asked how long this would last, and she said she didn’t know. Once, after a couple of brandies, she admitted she wanted to solve things. But she didn’t know how. He said he’d do whatever she wanted, and she ran upstairs and shut the bedroom door.
Now the restaurant’s kitchen door opened, and Mirabelle entered the dining room. She wore a yellow blouse, and an apron was tied around her waist.
“Oliver, what a surprise.” She approached his table. “You should have told me you were here. I would have insisted you try the duck breast with baby fennel.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Oliver answered. “The meal was superb. The lamb medallions were tender, and the dessert selection is exquisite.”
“I’m proud of my almond parfait. I use imported cocoa.” She pulled out a chair. “But what are you doing here? I would have thought you always tried new restaurants.”
Oliver wanted to remind her that she’d said to stop by. But instead, he handed her a newspaper. “I brought you a copy of the review in the New York Times.”
