by Kate Hilton
To be clear, I forget most people’s birthdays. But Tara’s birthday is special. Because it fell in the summer, we celebrated it at Berry Point every year. The rest of us didn’t mind that Tara was singled out; we all knew that summer birthdays are a bad draw, basically, because you can’t do anything with your school friends. And Tara is fundamentally so sweet and generous that it is a pleasure to do nice things for her.
So we’d do it up. My mom would roast a turkey with stuffing, because that was Tara’s favourite meal. And Greta would bake one of her famous layer cakes. And Kerry would cut a gorgeous bouquet of flowers from her garden. All three families would arrive at five, for drinks, and Dad would make Shirley Temples for us. The moms wore lipstick and the dads (well, not Jenny’s dad, but the others) told stories, and it was the highlight of the summer. And I’ve never forgotten Tara’s birthday once, not once, in my whole life, until now.
“I feel sick,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been running in circles at work, but that’s no excuse.”
“It happens,” says Tara.
“It shouldn’t,” I say. “It won’t again.”
“It’s just that I feel distant from you since you went to city hall,” said Tara. “I miss you. I miss the three of us.”
“I know,” I say.
“I tried so hard to fix you and Jenny,” she says. Tears are running down her face now. “I thought I’d accepted it. But every birthday, it breaks my heart not to celebrate it with my two best friends.”
“I’ll talk to Jenny,” I say. “I’ll try again. I promise.”
“Okay,” says Tara, mopping her face with a napkin. “That’s all I can ask for.”
I wave the waiter over. “Could you please bring us two glasses of sauvignon blanc?” I say. He nods and glides away.
“Tell me about your weekend away,” I say. “That sounds fun.” Inn on the Bay is an hour out of town, and has an award-winning spa and restaurant. It caters to busy people who can’t take more than a night or two away but want to have a nice meal and an opportunity to have sex with each other. It does a brisk business in birthdays and anniversaries.
“It was fine,” she says.
“Just fine?” I say. “That place is stunning.”
“It is,” says Tara. “But I think my expectations were too high, you know? I wanted to spend the weekend bonding with Ethan, but something blew up at work, and he was on the phone the whole time. And I sat around reading romance novels on my Kindle and thinking, I’m one of those women.”
“One of which women?”
“One of those women whose sex life consists of reading dirty books on her Kindle.”
“Ignoring entirely the fact that we are talking about my brother,” I say, “there is no way that Ethan isn’t attracted to you. You’re gorgeous. He’s been crazy about you forever.”
“Maybe I just chased him until he gave in,” says Tara.
“You chased him until he got his head out of his ass and noticed girls,” I say. “And then he realized what an unbelievable catch you were and he never looked at anyone else.” I love my brother, but in truth, this is the mystery of their relationship to anyone looking in on it: that Tara chased after Ethan for years before he even noticed her, and that she never seriously looked at anyone else. From adolescence, Ethan was it for her. There’s nothing remotely surprising about the fact that Ethan fell hopelessly in love with Tara; men often do. The waiter, for example, appears smitten as he tops up her water glass with obvious care.
“But I worry about that,” says Tara. “What if he’s having a midlife crisis? What if he’s wondering what it would be like to be with other people?”
“What if he’s having a busy stretch at work?” I say. “That’s by far the most likely scenario. When you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras. Have you talked to him about any of this?”
“Not really,” she says. “We never get a quiet moment, and when we do, it seems like a mistake to turn it into a hard conversation.”
“You shouldn’t worry so much,” I tell her. “If Ethan says he’s busy, then he’s busy. He’s the most predictable man in the world.” Tara gives me a look. “I know that I don’t usually mean that as a compliment, but in this case, being boring and reliable is an asset, right?”
“Sure,” says Tara. “Unless you only appear to be predictable and reliable, but are instead poor at communication and incredibly repressed until one day you can’t take it anymore and run off with your sexy young associate, which is what my neighbour did last month.”
“Jesus,” I say.
“I don’t think Jesus had much to do with it,” says Tara. “It was more of an Ashley Madison thing than a Jesus thing. If Ashley Madison is still a thing.” She sighs. “It’s hard to keep up with the decline of civilization.”
“But Ethan is a rock,” I say. “You told me that yourself, remember?”
“I’ve consulted widely on this question,” says Tara, “And it turns out that every woman who signs up to be a mother is also agreeing to be the rock. We are agreeing to be the people who don’t freak out at the sight of blood or vomit, who eat the one burned cookie, who pretend that all they ever wanted for Mother’s Day was breakfast in bed, a mess in the kitchen, and a homemade card. Men can go golfing for Father’s Day and not know the name of the kids’ teachers or how to work the new washing machine that you got three years ago. They are allowed to scream ‘Oh my God, someone threw up,’ and then spend a half hour finding the air freshener. That’s just the deal.”
“You used to be an incurable romantic,” I say. And it’s true. Of every Disney-princess-loving woman I know, Tara was the most starry-eyed of all. True love is her foundational mythology.
“Marriage is a great cure for romance,” says Tara. “You should know that, speaking of Hugh.”
It’s a fact: I know how love can sour and curdle. But I still believe in it, and I will up until the day that Tara and Ethan can’t make it work. Their union, for me, is the repository of that fragile possibility. They entered into marriage with the odds in their favour, which is certainly more than I can say about myself. If they separate, I will never again believe in love that can weather a lifetime. And I’m not letting the idea go without a fight.
“Maybe you guys should come up to the cottage this weekend,” I say. “We could have a belated Berry Point birthday party. We’ll invite Jenny over.”
Tara mouth curves up: progress. “That would be nice,” she says.
“Let’s do it,” I say. “Come up. I haven’t seen Claire and Anna enough lately.” I wince as the words exit my mouth.
Tara’s smile disappears. “No,” she says. “You haven’t. They were really disappointed not to have Auntie Avery at their dance recital.”
Shit. “I’ll make it up to them,” I say. I mean it, too. I adore Tara and Ethan’s girls. They are beautiful and smart and strong and they love me. They haven’t yet figured out that I’m unworthy of their adoration. “Come up to the cottage. We can hang out on the dock and paint our nails. It’ll be like old times. We can take them for ice cream.”
“I’ll talk to Ethan,” she says. “I’ll try to make it work. I could come without him if he’s too busy.”
“It’s a plan,” I say.
Tara gives me a real smile now. “Persistent as always,” she says. “Now, what’s going on with you, aside from work? I haven’t seen Matt in ages. How is he?”
“Fine,” I say. “I haven’t talked to him in a few days. We keep missing each other. He’s in Paris, I think.”
“You think?”
“It might be Zurich. I lost track.”
“You lost track of your husband in Europe?”
“He’s not technically my husband,” I say.
“Uh-huh,” says Tara. “So what did Peter have for breakfast this morning?”
“His usual,” I say. “A carrot muffin and a smoo—” I catch myself. “We have a breakfast meeting on Wednesdays.” I pause. “I know what you’re doing,”
I say.
“The question is, do you know what you’re doing?” says Tara.
“I’m trying to make the city better.”
“And that’s laudable. But it can’t be your only priority. You deserve a bigger life than that. And so does Matt.”
“It’s temporary,” I say. “The waterfront project is demanding. It’s Peter’s legacy, and it’s at a critical point. It’s all hands on deck at the office right now.”
“Mostly your hands, I’m guessing.”
“I’m the chief of staff,” I say. “That’s my job.”
“And you’re amazing at it,” says Tara. “You’re one of the most powerful women in the city. I’m very proud of you.”
“It’s all because of Peter,” I say. “Without him, I’d be another miserable downtown lawyer.”
“I think you give Peter way too much credit. He wouldn’t be where he is without you, either.”
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” I say.
“I know,” says Tara. “And this lecture has nothing to do with that. Well, almost nothing.” She squeezes my hand. “I love you like a sister, Avery. You know that.”
I nod. I’m close to tears, and I don’t want to risk speaking.
“What does Matt say about the cottage?” asks Tara.
I clear my throat. “I haven’t talked to him about it,” I say.
“Let’s try another question, then,” says Tara. “If you’re so keen on marriage, how come you guys aren’t tying the knot?”
“Matt’s never asked me,” I say.
“He’d ask if he thought you wanted him to.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say. “Why fix something that isn’t broken?”
“Is that how Matt feels?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure it is.”
“Because you’ve talked about it.”
“Not exactly.”
“Because you’re phobic about marriage.”
“Possibly,” I say. “And this conversation hasn’t helped, by the way.”
“Hmm,” says Tara. “Do you want my advice?”
“Not really,” I say.
Tara shakes her head. “The truth at last,” she says. “First: Marriage is hard most of the time, and it’s more work than we were ever led to believe, and the sex gets more dutiful and less exciting, and you find yourself reading Fifty Shades for a little buzz, and the division of labour after you have kids is total bullshit if you are the girl. Total bullshit. But even on the worst day, it’s worth it if you are both all in. My impression of Matt is that he is all in. Are you? I can’t tell.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Tara. “You need to figure out why the cottage is so important to you. If you can explain that to your mother, you stand a fighting chance of changing her mind.”
I have no idea how to answer Tara’s first question, but the second one is easy. I already know why my mother can’t sell the cottage.
It is the last place I know I was happy.
{CHAPTER 6}
July 2001
Certainly, I was not happy in the summer of 2001, which was when I met Matt. Those two facts are not unrelated.
I was still living in New York, though not with Jenny. Jenny wasn’t speaking to me then. I’d told her I wanted to stay in the apartment, that I’d change my ways and spend more time there, and that she shouldn’t advertise for a new roommate. I’d meant it. But I hadn’t delivered, and Jenny had weathered another lonely few months before packing up my belongings in garbage bags and setting them in the hallway. Things were said.
After graduation, I had turned my attention to the only job I was now qualified to do, aside from waitressing or folding sweaters at the Gap: writing. I set up shop in a café near my new apartment, a kind of drop-in centre with lattes, where the regulars were all current students or recent graduates of the creative writing program. They were all demented in their own ways, all of them working on projects of great ambition and no commercial potential. They were tiresome and needy; they were deliberately, studiously, and even aggressively odd. It was becoming apparent to me, after a year in their company, that I had very little in common with them.
An added peculiarity was that the café owner, Melinda, had advertised on several popular tourist blogs, claiming that the café was a site of great literary significance and that visitors could watch important novels being written in real time. In return for serving as the attractions in this “unique New York experience,” we writers could sit all day and never be asked to relinquish our seats.
This made us museum exhibits for tourists who wanted a cultural sweetener with their caffeine. They would whisper to each other, trying to figure out if any of us were famous. It was pathetic how much we all enjoyed their attention, even though we pretended to be above it. Since graduating, I’d had the sense that I was beginning to fade at the edges, and that I might disappear in this vast place full of hungry, ridiculously talented people. At the café I felt visible, at least.
I used to envy the vacationers for their unabashed enthusiasm and their manifest preference for personal comfort over fashion. I envied my fellow writers, too, for whatever buoyant combination of hope and arrogance kept them afloat in a hostile sea of poverty and obscurity. They were, all of them, sincere in their missions. I, by contrast, was a fraud.
It was unbearably hot that summer. The heat sucked the life out of me and made me fantasize about summers at Berry Point, the water lapping against the old dock, and the wind in the pines, and the loons calling to each other in the morning mist. Loons, for God’s sake! I was half-mad with homesickness, but I hadn’t allowed myself to understand that yet.
My mother was calling regularly, trying to persuade me to escape the heat and come up to Berry Point for a week or so, to work on my book there. Then, I attributed my inertia to the oppressive heat. Now, I see that I was paralyzed with ambivalence, unable to take the next, necessary, step on my own.
Then Matt walked in. Literally. Melinda, the café owner, had taken a few days off, creating a vacuum in the café universe. Matt, utterly without writing credentials or ambitions, took a seat, made himself as comfortable as a long, lanky man in a café chair could be, and stayed. By the time Melinda returned, Matt had been there for the better part of a week. He was also in a litigious frame of mind, because he was studying for his New York bar exams. Melinda had a polite word with Matt about the culture and customs of the café, and Matt had a polite word with Melinda about the laws of the state of New York, and Melinda retreated behind the counter and got him a latte on the house. And that was the end of it.
The next week, standing at the coffee bar at lunchtime, he stuck out his hand. “Matt Nathanson,” he said.
“Avery Graham,” I said.
“Avery,” he said, “I could use some assistance. I’m bored out of my mind right now. If a person can die of boredom, I might be at risk.”
I laughed. “That’s terrible,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to stand idly by if I could help.”
“Have lunch with me,” he said. I hesitated. “Please,” he said. “You could save a life.”
“All right,” I said. “At least then I’ll have done something productive today.”
We carried our sandwiches over to Matt’s table. He moved his stack of books onto the floor. “Real estate today,” he said. “Bar admissions. Horrible.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I said.
“Not until I pass the bar exams,” he said.
“When’s that?”
“In three months,” said Matt. “Assuming that I pass them on the first try. But you’re supposed to be distracting me. How did you end up as part of Melinda’s psychic family?”
I choked on my coffee. Matt patted me on the back while I coughed. When I caught my breath, I said, “Clever. Pretend to be in distress and then try to kill me. I never saw you coming.”
He grinned. “It’s the mild-mannered Canadian thing,” he said. “They
never see us coming. You should know. How long have you been here?”
I sighed. I’d been passing as a New Yorker for a few years now. This was more proof, it seemed, that I wasn’t even a good fake.
“Three years,” I said. “I came down for grad school. I’m a writer.”
“That is very cool,” said Matt. “Law school is full of people who wanted to be writers but didn’t have the balls. What are you writing?”
“A novel,” I said. I was going through a superstitious phase, and had convinced myself that the more I talked about the book, the less likely I was to finish it. In truth, I was expanding and revising the novella that I had submitted in my final semester of the MFA program, about a young woman’s sexual awakening following the death of a parent; it was intensely and, I was beginning to realize, painfully autobiographical.
I was rethinking the project, changing the point of view, adding characters and subplots, and becoming increasingly magical in my thinking, which I suspected was common among writers upon finding themselves mired in a doomed book. Also, I liked the idea of retaining some mystery with Matt, so that he might imagine me as the sort of writer who would win awards and be sought out by obscure publications for her views on the future of the novel, and not as what I actually was: an unemployed and chronically miserable MFA graduate.
“What’s it about?” said Matt.
“Do you read fiction?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”
“What was the last thing you read?” I asked.
“I’m not telling,” he said. “I bought it at an airport. You would judge me.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“You would,” he said.
“Okay. I probably would,” I said.
“How about this?” said Matt. “Let’s go to a bookstore. You can recommend something for me.”
“Now?” I said.
“Why not?” said Matt.
“I . . . can’t,” I said. “Not today. I’ve got to get some writing done.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Um . . .”
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t get out much these days.”
