by Margot Hunt
“Mom, my tablet is almost out of power,” Liam said, waving the device at me for emphasis.
Like most modern mothers, I firmly believed that my children should spend less time on electronics, staring at screens, and more time in the real, nondigital world. Looking at the scenery, interacting with real people, reading actual books. I was, however, willing to abandon these scruples completely when we were in crowded airports, only halfway through our journey, with no hope of being home before—I checked my watch and stifled another groan—midnight.
“Let’s find a place to charge up.” I looked around.
Liam nodded toward a bank of high stools in front of a counter equipped with touch screens and electrical outlets. Most of the spots were occupied, but miraculously one of the screens was free.
“Hurry. Let’s grab those stools.” I moved swiftly, pulling my small wheeled suitcase behind me. The kids took longer to gather up their belongings, so by the time they joined me, I had already claimed three stools, by sitting on one and putting bags down on the other two.
“Are you, like, using all of those?” a twentysomething girl asked, her voice a contemptuous squawk. She had squinty eyes ringed with black eyeliner and long, straight hair in an odd shade of pink-streaked blond.
“Yes, I am.” I nodded toward my approaching children. “My children are sitting here.”
The girl let out an exasperated snort, rolled her eyes and turned away. I felt a surge of petty pleasure at this small victory.
Once seated, Liam and Bridget were keenly interested in the touch screen. After they each plugged in their devices, they started tapping and discovered the screens offered very slow internet access as well as the ability to order food and drinks from a nearby restaurant in the terminal.
“Hey, Mom, can we get fries?” Liam asked.
“Only if there’s something resembling dinner on the same plate,” I said. “Do they have hamburgers?”
I got out my credit card while Liam tapped at the screen. He frowned. “It’s not working.”
“Maybe you’re tapping it too much,” I said. “Give it a chance.”
“It’s really slow,” the woman sitting next to us said. “It takes forever to place your order.”
“Did you get it to work?” I asked.
“Yes, finally. And not a moment too soon,” she said as a waiter arrived, bearing a single martini on a tray.
I looked at the drink and smiled—I loved martinis, and a drink seemed like the perfect antidote for the too-bright, too-crowded airport terminal.
The woman, I noticed then, seemed incongruously glamorous to the disheveled mass of weary travelers. I guessed that she was a bit older than I was, probably in her mid to late forties. She was very thin and had shiny dark hair cut into an angled chin-length bob. I’d always coveted a sleek bob, but it was a style I’d never be able to tame my wavy hair into. Her eyes were a startling bright blue, and her face was made up of interesting, strong lines—a long nose, full lips, square jaw. Her features were too angular to be truly pretty, but she was a very striking woman.
“A vodka martini, straight up, with a twist?” the waiter asked, setting the drink in front of her.
“Perfect,” the woman said, trying to give him a five-dollar bill.
The waiter raised his hands. “All tips have to be done electronically.”
The woman crinkled her nose. “Really? I didn’t know.” She tried to hand him the bill again. “Please, take it. I didn’t add one on my total, and I already checked out.”
The waiter shrugged and turned away.
The woman looked at me with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to order another one and double the tip.”
I looked at her drink again, this time covetously. “I’m jealous. That looks delicious. I wish I could have one.”
“You can,” she said. “Just tap the martini picture on your screen once it stops freezing up. And voilà! A drink magically appears.”
“I can’t,” I said, glancing over at Liam and Bridget. The screen was cooperating with them now, and they were entertaining themselves by ordering far more food than they would eat. I would need to delete half their selections before I swiped my credit card. “I’m here with my kids.”
“I’ve been there. Traveling with children should come with hazardous duty pay,” the woman said. “Trust me, you need a martini even more than I do.”
I hesitated. A drink sounded wonderful, but I was on my own with the children. We had spent the New Year with my parents in Syracuse. Todd had begged off the trip, claiming he had too much work to do. Although when I’d spoken to him the day before, he’d sounded deeply hungover from whatever party he’d been to on New Year’s Eve. It was not the first or the last time I would wonder how unfairly the parental burden fell. Men could get away with bacchanalian nights out, while their wives usually couldn’t unless it was preplanned under the pink polka-dotted banner of a Girls’ Night Out. In any event, on New Year’s Eve, my straitlaced academic parents had gone to bed early, as was their custom. I’d spent the night watching the ball drop at Times Square on television while my children—who’d insisted they were old enough to stay awake—slumbered heavily on the couch.
I decided this woman was right. I did deserve a martini.
Besides, Liam and Bridget were old enough that I didn’t have to monitor them like toddlers. And once we reached the airport in Florida, Todd would be there to drive us home.
“Are you on the flight to West Palm?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “If there ever is a flight to West Palm, that is. I’m starting to worry that we’ll be stuck here all night.”
“I’m on the same flight. And we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Here, let me order you a drink,” she offered.
“No,” I demurred. “I can order one through my screen.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Liam said dubiously. “It’s freezing up again.”
“I insist,” the woman said. “And you’d be doing me a favor, because now I can tip the waiter. How do you like your martini?”
“You really don’t have to buy me a drink,” I protested weakly.
She smiled, displaying two rows of very straight, very white teeth. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to guess, and I’ll probably get it wrong. That would be a tragedy.”
I laughed. “I like my vodka martinis straight up and very dirty,” I said.
She began tapping at her touch screen. It seemed to be working better than the one my children were using.
“Done and done,” she said.
“That’s very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I’m Kat.” She extended a hand.
I shook it. “Alice.”
“Do you live in West Palm?”
“Close. I live in Jupiter.”
“Me, too!” Kat exclaimed. “Small world.”
“We’re practically neighbors,” I said.
Later I learned that Kat actually lived on Jupiter Island, which boasted the highest per capita income and highest median home sale price anywhere in the country. Higher than Manhattan. Higher than Marin County. It was where mega-rich sports stars lived. We weren’t anywhere close to being neighbors.
“And these are your children?” Kat inquired.
I introduced Liam and Bridget, who were, thankfully, very polite. Bridget even remembered to extend a hand, which Kat shook solemnly. Then there was a flurry of activity as the touch screen finally started working properly. I was able to edit the children’s dinner orders and swipe my credit card. By the time I turned my attention back to Kat, the waiter had appeared with my martini. He held out the tray and, with a flourish, neatly set the martini in front of Kat. She slid it over to me.
“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. Turning to Kat, I said, “And thank you.”
“Cheers,” Kat said
, raising her glass to mine.
I took a sip of my drink. It was delicious and cold. A blue cheese–stuffed olive speared through the middle with a bamboo pick bobbed inside. I fished the olive out and bit into it.
“How long have you lived in Jupiter?” Kat asked.
“Eight years,” I said. I nodded at Bridget. “We moved there from Miami when my daughter was a baby.”
“Miami to Jupiter. That’s a big change.”
“It was. But a good change. I wanted to take some time off work while my children were little. And then my husband got an excellent offer to join an architectural firm in West Palm, so it all seemed, well, serendipitous.”
This was the Facebook version of our life, the one we liked to put on display, in which we appeared smart and in control of our lives. It left out the grittier details, like the real reason I’d left my job. And how every time I thought about the career I had left behind—probably so far behind by now I would never be able to get back to it—the pain of failure still cut deeply. That although it was true Todd had gotten a decent job offer from S+K Architects in downtown West Palm Beach, the job was not all he’d initially hoped it would be. Eight years later, he still hadn’t made partner or even received the large bonuses they’d hinted at when they hired him. The Florida real estate market had rebounded somewhat since the 2008 crash, but it had never gotten back to where it was in the early 2000s. Anyway, the partners at S+K had an inflated sense of the sort of projects their firm attracted. Most of their work was residential, with a few small but decent office building contracts. No one was hiring them to design the airports or shopping malls or museums Todd had once dreamed of. We had reached our late thirties with our marriage and family intact, but with most of the hopes and dreams of our younger selves in tatters. Life had not turned out as either of us had expected.
But this was not a conversation one had with a stranger in an airport.
“What are you taking time off from?” Kat asked, looking at me intently over the rim of her martini glass.
“I was an associate professor at the University of Miami,” I said. “I taught in the math department there.”
“Wow,” Kat said, looking impressed. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. “What did you teach?”
“Logic.”
“You mean like Mr. Spock?” Kat asked.
I smiled. “Not exactly, although he always was my favorite Star Trek character. I taught systemic reasoning.” Kat’s eyebrows knit together, and I knew she wanted an example. “Problems like...all humans are mortal. Kat is a human.” I gestured toward her with a wave of the hand. “Therefore Kat is mortal.”
Kat wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I like that problem.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m just kidding,” Kat said. “I think it’s fascinating. So these days you’re, what—illogical?”
I laughed. “Pretty much. That’s what being a stay-at-home mother feels like a lot of the time. But, no, actually I’m writing a book of logic puzzles for kids.” I surprised myself by telling her this. Hardly anyone knew about my little project, as I thought of it. I looked at it much like not telling anyone you’re pregnant until you get past the risky first trimester. I didn’t want everyone asking me about it if I failed to finish or publish the book. So why had I told Kat? Was I trying to show off?
Kat looked impressed. “Good for you.”
“What do you do?” I asked. I had already clocked her Louis Vuitton carry-on, her navy cashmere sweater, the diamond studs sparkling in her ears that I suspected were not cubic zirconia, like the pair I was wearing. If she was a stay-at-home mom, it was on a different level than the one I lived on. “You said you have kids?”
“Kid. One daughter, but she’s all grown up now. She’s premed at Vanderbilt. She obviously didn’t take after me, since I faint at the sight of blood.” Kat smiled. “I have an art gallery, which is probably about as far away from medicine as you can get.”
“Wow,” I said, intrigued. “What kind of art do you sell?”
“Mostly modern and contemporary, although my real passion is sculpture,” Kat said. “That’s why I came up to New York after Christmas. To tour some galleries, follow a few leads. Nothing panned out, but what are you going to do? How about you? Were you staying in the city?”
“No, we were in Syracuse, visiting family,” I said.
“You’re smarter than me. I don’t know what I was thinking going to Manhattan on New Year’s.” Kat rolled her eyes. “The crowds were insane. I finally gave up and spent the last two days holed up in my hotel room, eating room service and watching reality TV, which I really don’t get at all. Why does anyone find watching grown women wearing far too much makeup, going to awkward social events and throwing temper tantrums entertaining? It’s so bizarre. And why would anyone want to have someone following her around, filming her? That would be my worst nightmare.”
Her trip sounded incredibly glamorous to me. The idea of having two days to myself to luxuriate in a posh hotel, ordering room service and watching mindless television shows sounded like sheer decadence. I couldn’t remember the last time I had traveled without my husband or children.
“Total nightmare,” I agreed.
“Anyway—” Kat sighed and took a large sip of her drink “—New Year’s Eve is my least favorite holiday. I much prefer the cozy ones like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when you can curl up and relax at home all day.”
“Me, too,” I said, although I wasn’t sure about the relaxing part. Every year, the weeks that stretched from mid-October to late December devolved into a marathon of shopping, cooking, baking, sewing costumes and wrapping endless piles of presents, all while having to attend a never-ending series of school performances and holiday parties for every extracurricular activity the children were involved in.
There was another pause in our conversation as my children’s food arrived. A hamburger and fries for Liam, fried chicken tenders and fries for Bridget. Not a vegetable in sight. But then, my view on airport food was much like my view on airport electronics: anything goes. I took a moment to open Liam’s ketchup packs and cut Bridget’s chicken up with the dull plastic knife provided. By the time they were settled in, munching happily, and I turned back to Kat, she was grinning at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I just ordered us another round,” she said, tapping a short manicured nail against her martini glass.
“You didn’t!”
She giggled, and her girlishness surprised me. I almost demurred. My head was already starting to swirl from the first drink. But then I felt an uncharacteristic rush of recklessness. Why shouldn’t I have another cocktail? My children were safe and accounted for. I wasn’t driving.
“If we’re going to have another round, let me get it,” I said, digging out my wallet.
Kat waved me away. “Too late. Besides, you’re doing me a favor. I was bored to tears sitting here by myself before you came along.”
Over our second round of drinks, which I was careful to sip much more slowly, Kat and I got to know one another. She grew up in Palm Beach, and her parents and brother still lived there. She had studied art history at Tulane, and after graduation, she had landed a plum job with the Hirshhorn Museum at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. She had worked there for two years before returning home to Florida to open her small art gallery near Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. She’d met her husband, Howard—who, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, did “something in finance”—when he came into the gallery looking for a painting.
“He didn’t have any interest in art. He just had blank walls in his condo and was looking for investment pieces to hang there,” Kat explained.
“Did he end up buying one from you?”
“Yes, but at that point, he was more interested in trying to impress me than he was in the art.” Kat smiled, again displaying
her straight white teeth. “It didn’t work, of course. But he eventually wore me down.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen wonderful years,” Kat answered, holding up her martini glass. “Or more like two wonderful years and sixteen mediocre ones. Oh, well. How about you?”
I thought Kat was probably kidding, since her tone was light, and I could already tell she had a sardonic sense of humor. But I had the feeling there was some truth hidden inside the joke.
I told her that I’d grown up in Syracuse and gone to the university there and then Cornell for graduate school. After I graduated, I accepted a job as an assistant professor at the University of Miami. Unlike Kat, I didn’t have a cute story about how I’d met my husband. Todd certainly didn’t woo me by buying expensive artwork, or whatever the equivalent would be in my line of work. Instead I’d met him at a rather pedestrian birthday party for one of my work colleagues. We chatted over plastic cups of boxed red wine and paper plates of previously frozen lasagna. A week later, Todd called and asked me out. On our first date, we went to the movies.
“Sometimes I wonder if the concept of marriage to one person for the rest of your life is unrealistic,” Kat mused.
I glanced at my children. They were both immersed in their electronic handheld games and weren’t paying any attention to us.
“I know what you mean,” I said, making sure to keep my voice low. “Everyone always says that marriage is something you have to work at. But I don’t think it’s possible to grasp what that means until you’ve been married for a while. The constant grind of it.”
“On my wedding day, my mother told me the secret to a happy marriage is to develop a blind eye and a forgiving heart,” Kat said. She rolled her eyes dramatically. “As you can probably imagine, that gave me all sorts of unwanted insights into my parents’ marriage.”
