The First Husband

by Laura Dave

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1 - Once Upon a Time . . .

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part 2 - Happily Ever After

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3 - Happily Ever After . . . Take 2

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Laura Dave

  The Divorce Party

  London Is the Best City in America

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Laura Dave, 2011

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGINGIN PUBLICATION DATA

  Dave, Laura.

  The first husband / Laura Dave.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51513-6

  1. Travel writers—Fiction. 2. Divorced people—Fiction. 3. Marriage—Fiction.

  4. Massachusetts—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.A938F57 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010045257

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publicaton may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  For Josh, always

  Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.

  —O. HENRY

  Part 1

  Once Upon a Time . . .

  1

  It feels important to start with the truth about how I got here. When everything gets messy and brutal and complicated, the truth is the first thing to go, isn’t it? People try to shade it or spin it or fix it. As though fixing the facts will make the situation less messy and brutal and complicated. Not more. But there’s no fixing this. The truth is that I brought it on myself. All of it. Everything that was coming next—everything I couldn’t have begun to imagine would constitute the next year of my life. After all, I was the one who did it that morning, knowing full well what could happen, what history had taught me would happen, if I were reckless enough to go through with it. I went down to the living room, still wearing Nick’s oversized pajama top, and snuggled myself under the blanket, turning on the DVD player. Like it was that easy. Like Roman Holiday was just any movie. Like it wasn’t a bomb I was about to detonate right into the middle of my life.

  I’m not normally—not, as a rule, at least—a superstitious person. But there are hard and true facts that can’t be ignored. The first time I saw Roman Holiday, I was seven years old and watched it during family movie night with both my parents. The following day they announced they were getting a divorce. The next time I was sixteen. My mother proclaimed later that day, post-viewing, that she was moving us—our ninth move in nine years—this time away from San Francisco (where we’d lived just long enough for me to find a real friend, a “boyfriend,” and a potential other friend) to a tiny town in the northeast corner of North Dakota (population 351, where I’d attend my last year of high school with three people in my entire graduating class).

  Five years later I’d just graduated from college and landed a job at the New York Sun. I’d be the lowliest reporter imaginable, but I’d be a reporter. In New York City! While I was packing, I came across Roman Holiday and thought, I’m a grown-up now, not subject to childhood superstitions. Why not? Here’s why not: the next morning, I received an e-mail from my once-future employer. Due to cutbacks, we have frozen all future hires . . . . et cetera. I had less than forty-eight hours left in my college apartment, $105,000 in school loans, and the sum total of my accumulated savings sunk into a security deposit for the only apartment I could afford—a 300-square-foot studio right by the West Side Highway. And no job, not anymore.

  The fourth time I was twenty-seven. Nick and I had just celebrated our one-year anniversary and were getting ready to move across the country together, to Los Angeles. Nick was trying to break into movies, a feat that demanded the move. Which was fine with me—exciting, even. I was writing a weekly travel column for a newspaper in Philadelphia and since I’d been traveling for the paper an average of two hundred days a year anyway, they were more than willing to let my new home base be Los Angeles.

  And so I turned on Roman Holiday, feeling solid in my job, solid in my relationship, solid in my decision to go west, feeling there was little that the movie could mess with—a part of me, maybe, even wanting to prove to myself there was little it could mess with.

  But halfway through (the bad didn’t even wait until the end that time) the telephone rang. The house we were supposed to move into in Venice—the house where we’d already shipped 80 percent of our belongings—had burned down. No one seemed to know the cau
se. I knew the cause.

  And yet there I was, four years later, thirty-two days shy of my thirty-second birthday, and what was I doing? At some point don’t you get Pavlovian about it? The movie had hurt me enough times, or, at the very least, I had several of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life in bizarrely close proximity to watching it—how could I not associate it with that pain? Why would I watch it again? Here’s why: I loved the movie. What When Harry Met Sally was to some of my girlfriends—or Field of Dreams was to Nick—Roman Holiday was to me.

  It was my comfort movie. It was, quite simply, my comfort. Yes, my mother had admitted that she’d named me in part after Audrey Hepburn’s Princess Ann. How could any young girl watch that movie without wanting to be Audrey Hepburn? But it was much more than that. Part of it might be that I was a reporter myself, a travel writer—my column, “Checking Out,” was meant to provide a guide for how best to explore the most exotic and interesting places in the world. A complete guide to enjoying exciting cities/special towns/tiny islands-in-the-middle-of-the-Indian-Ocean that might be hard to navigate otherwise. Not surprisingly, I’d devoted my first column to Rome. Truthfully, it was as much an ode to Roman Holiday—to the experience of watching Princess Ann and reporter Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) explore the Eternal City and escape their real lives. That’s what I loved about my job—being able to explore the world, to constantly escape. But somewhere deep inside, I’d always wondered if, like Audrey’s Princess Ann, I wasn’t just hoping that if I fell asleep on a park bench in one of the hundreds of cities I visited, I’d wake up and get to spend a day living the exact life I always dreamed of.

  The other reason I loved the movie had to do with the quality of the romance between Bradley and Ann—its incandescent charm, the happiness beneath its every beat. It led me to convince myself, as a logical person, that my tragedies couldn’t possibly have anything to do with a movie that was so romantic, so full of hope. Or they wouldn’t. Not this time.

  So there I was, at a not-this-time moment again: thirty-one, complacent, sleepy. My brilliant and beautiful dog, Amelia (named after the original fantastic traveler and explorer, Amelia Earhart; we called her Mila, for short) and I had the morning to ourselves. Nick was working. He was a movie director, currently shooting his second movie—a thriller about vampires taking over Washington, D.C. Since his first film, a road trip movie (not a vampire anywhere to be seen), had been well received at a film festival where it was apparently important to be well received, he was experiencing his first taste of fame. I was so excited for him—for us, really. I had been there during the salad days, when we were shooting his short films on the street. Me as both key grip and leading lady. His sister as producer. Our dog, Mila, as . . . Dog Mila.

  And yet, since his newfound success, Nick had become slightly exhausting in the way he talked about his work. For starters, he was calling it “my work.” It was a phase, I knew. It was just one that I was hoping would end soon. Plus, I’d just gotten back from my own tough month on the road—spending August traveling through three separate countries (Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Argentina), working on pieces for “Checking Out.” And so I decided to go for it. To treat myself. Sweet Mila laying on my lap, I pushed a button, the DVD player powered on, and I hit PLAY.

  Then it came across the screen: the crisp white credits, the orchestra keying up, Rome’s most famous sites in the background. The Vatican. The Wedding Cake. The ancient ruins. Until the words News Flash come across the screen, and there she was before us: the stunning Audrey Hepburn sitting in her carriage, waving at her minions, the saddest princess in the world.

  When The End came and the final credit crossed the screen, I looked around our house, the one I’d been sharing with Nick since we moved to L.A.—the house we found after the other house had burned down. No vase or photograph had come tumbling to the floor. No spontaneous toaster malfunction. And the fresh tulips, the ones I’d bought at the farmers market over on Arizona for $3.99, didn’t immediately die. They stayed in their almost-dead-but-still-standing position.

  I rubbed the back of Mila’s head. She looked up at me and lovingly met my eyes.

  “I guess we’re good,” I said.

  Then the key turned in the lock.

  Nick kicked open the door, balancing his thermos, the Los Angeles Times, his phone. He looked closer to sixteen than thirty-six standing there in his backward baseball hat and one of the button-down shirts he lived in. All of which is to say that Nick looked like Nick, the exhausted version: a four-day scruff of beard, dark circling his eyes.

  He pointed to the phone so I’d know he was on a call. Then he made a circle motion with his index finger—that motion you make when you want the person on the other end of the line to finish up already. And, whoever the other person was, he must have taken the hint, because, less then a minute later, Nick clicked shut his phone and headed toward me, dropping all of his stuff on the recliner in a messy heap.

  “Hey there, stranger . . .” Nick said, leaning down to give me a kiss hello—his palm cupping the back of my head, holding me there.

  “Hey back at you,” I said, staying close to him for an extra beat. We were used to having long periods apart, but between my column and his movie shoot, it had been a particularly brutal time. His smell, his sweetness, felt more like the exception in my life than the reality.

  As Nick got down on his knees and rubbed Mila’s furry ribs—his usual Hey honey, I’m home greeting to her—he whispered into her ear.

  “Hi, baby girl . . .” he said.

  Then he took a seat next to me on the couch, stretching his arms behind his head. This close, Nick looked even more beat: his eyes red and watery from the long shoot, and from the contact lenses he’d recently begun to wear in place of the reliable wire-rimmed glasses he’d had as long as I’d known him.

  I decided against giving him grief for the lenses, decided, also, against telling him about the phone call from our travel agent. We were supposed to go to London in December. I had rented a tiny house in Battersea that we could actually afford to live in while Nick worked on a project there. I could barely wait and already found myself dreaming of having an extended period of time to visit my favorite parts of one of my favorite cities: going to the theater and hiding out in ancient flea markets, spending too much time in bookshops and no time at all walking near the Tower of London. The agent had called requesting the balance on the house. I needed to know if shooting was still on schedule in vampire land, so that I could feel safe giving it to her. But that was going to have to wait.

  “What are you watching?” he asked.

  “Was watching, it’s over now.” I clicked the television off, like proof. “Just a movie. Roman Holiday . . .”

  “We own that movie? I haven’t seen it forever,” he said. “I’ve always thought it was a little overrated.”

  I’d never told Nick about Roman Holiday, not the full story—had never told anyone but my best friend, Jordan. I knew Nick would tell me I was crazy. Though I couldn’t hold that against him. I’d think I was crazy too.

  “How did last night turn out?” I asked instead.

  He shook his head in a way that said, let’s not even go there.

  Then he proceeded to go there, telling me about a complicated electrical problem at the bookstore in Pasadena they had rented to film the movie’s climatic scene. It was important that that went well. It hadn’t.

  When he was done, he cast his eyes down, almost closing them. “So,” he said. “Annabelle Adams . . .”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Nick never called me by my full name. He called me Annie—or Adams if we were arguing about something. Adams also if he was in the mood to be particularly sweet, loving. A confusing business, really, when I thought too much about it: Adams coming up only at our best and worst moments.

  “Yes, Nicholas Campbell . . .” I said, jokingly.

  Then I reached over and touched the side of his face. He leaned into it, catching m
y hand there, between his cheek and his shoulder.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “I’ve needed to talk to you about it, but you’ve been away and I haven’t been sure exactly how . . .”

  “Okay . . .”

  While I’d been in Punta Cana the week before, I’d seen a couples therapist on a local morning show explain how it was aggressive behavior for a woman to look right at her husband or boyfriend when he was trying to talk about something important—that it made men think of war instead of love. Weird tip. But there I was, following the advice the best I could anyway: pulling my knees under my large top and averting my gaze, just as instructed. At least I wasn’t looking right at him when he continued to speak.

  “The thing is,” he said, “my therapist says we may need a break.”

  “A break from what?” I said.

  This was what I said. Like an utter and complete moron. A break from what—what did I think? But this was how incredibly far-fetched the idea of us taking a break from each other was to me, at that moment.

  “She says I need to be on my own for a while,” he said. “Without you.”

  I turned to look at him. There are words you can never take back. Had I just heard them? Five years. We had been together for five years. Weren’t there different rules for saying them after so long? Didn’t everyone have to be fully dressed?

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She says that I love you,” he said, “but also that I’m trying to love you. That I have to stop putting everyone else first.”

  I watched Mila’s face. Am I missing something? I asked her silently.

  She looked back at me: I think I want a nap.

  Meanwhile, Nick was still talking, but it was like someone dropped a ball in my throat. And I couldn’t swallow it and listen at the same time. Instead, I looked around our home—the one I had designed, furnished, did 95 percent of the work to keep up. I wasn’t very good at making a home, maybe. Okay: definitely, maybe. I wasn’t home enough to be good at it (as evidenced by my suitcase still packed and ready by the front door). But regardless, if Nick was naming that as the game, hadn’t I been the one who’d always done most of the first-putting?