“I get that.”
“Look, third time’s a charm. I’m taking a page out of the Halley-and-Adam playbook and doing this whole ‘after Thanksgiving’ thing.” Marian pauses to catch her breath. Our pace abruptly settles back to that of a more comfortable ten-minute mile. “I just don’t know how to say what I need to.”
Thanksgiving dinner is delicious and plentiful. Charlotte pulls out all the stops, and Marco spends much of the early afternoon tending to the final smoking hours of the twenty-four-pound turkey that takes a spot beside Charlotte’s honey-glazed ham. Thanksgiving at a beach resort never looked this delicious.
I slip through the closing gap between a dashing George and a hot-on-his-heels Alice, engaged in a spirited game of chase, and join Charlotte in the kitchen.
“I’m faster than you!” George screams, vanishing down the hallway.
“Kids, chase is an outdoors game,” Charlotte calls out, not the least bit threatening with her high-pitched voice. She looks to me, a whisk in hand, and gives a defeatist sigh. “Right about now, you’re wishing you and Adam were on some tropical island,” she says with a laugh, returning to her mixing.
“Oh, Charlotte,” I say dismissively, plucking a carrot from the relish tray.
“Mom knows, by the way,” she quickly adds at her surface mention of the separation.
“I figured as much,” I say at the confirmation that the separation is common knowledge now. Adam isn’t here with me today—obvious cause for Mom’s alarm bells. Since no one questioned my apparent singleness when I walked through the door, not even my outspoken mother, I figured the cat was out of the bag.
“Mom knows what?” My mother’s voice startles both Charlotte and me, coming from nowhere.
I give my sister a stiff glance, then turn to face my mother and say, “About Adam and me.”
A nearly finished martini in one hand, one brow raised high in inquisitiveness, lacquered lips pursed, my mother says in even tones, “Yes. I heard about that.” She gives a pointed look to Charlotte. “Not, of course, without having to play detective. Honestly, Halley, why you keep something so momentous from your own mother I’ll never—”
Charlotte cuts in with, “And detective you played very well, Mom. She asked me point-blank, Hals.”
“It’s okay. It isn’t exactly a secret.” I shrug. There’s no need for Charlotte to feel she owes me an explanation for why she directly answered a direct question. I’d do the same.
My mother drains the remains of her drink. “Well, I’m very disappointed.”
“Everything’s fine, Mom,” I brush off.
“Halley, I’m not going to make this day all about you,” she says, and I look back at Charlotte in curiosity. My sister just shakes her head, whipping her mixture even harder. “Because today is a family holiday, and while I know you haven’t exactly had one of these in a while, always bolting out of town with Ad—”
“Mom,” I cut her off. “You’re already making this more about me than I think you intended.”
“I just wanted to say that I think you and Adam are making a terrible mistake.”
The way she says terrible makes me cringe, makes me want to knock back a martini of my own.
“Thanks for your input, Mom,” I say.
“I consider my divorce my greatest failure, Halley.”
“Not your daughters?” Charlotte says under her breath. I have to suppress a laugh.
Mom tilts her head to the side and looks over my shoulder to Charlotte. “What, Charlotte?”
“Nothing.”
Mom blinks rapidly in annoyance and carries on. “I’m not sorry about much in life. There’s no point in running around being apologetic, now is there?”
Charlotte and I share a pointed glance.
“But I am sorry I had to go through that terrible divorce,” Mom says. “Divorces are so . . . disruptive.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m only telling you that divorce is failure, and I don’t want the same for you, Halley.”
“I appreciate you not wanting me to fail,” I say, oddly appreciative of and surprised by my mother’s words. “But,” I say, thinking on my father’s, “I don’t think divorce is necessarily a failure.”
“So you are getting a divorce?”
“No,” I groan. “I’m not saying anything definitive right now.”
“Well, are you two back together?”
I did not want to undergo an inquisition at Thanksgiving, and certainly not with my mother, and in front of Charlotte, whose own marriage is precarious.
“Mom,” I say through a tired sigh, “Adam and I have to do what’s right for us. If that means a . . . divorce”—I swallow the bad taste in my mouth—“we’ll have to work that out together. But don’t see it as a failure.”
“It is! It’s a complete failure. You can bounce back, of course. I love Ray. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Not your daughters,” Charlotte quips nearly silently.
“Okay,” I say, wanting to concede defeat and move on.
Charlotte senses the torpor in my voice and says, “Mom, how about we stop actually making the day about Halley and just have some fun. It’s Thanksgiving, so let’s stop the Stasi-like interrogation.”
I can’t help but laugh, and Mom only looks from Charlotte to me and back to Charlotte, mouth tight in disapproval. “I’m only trying to give a mother’s advice,” she says, stoic.
“I appreciate the effort,” I say, knowing full well the bite behind the way I word this sentence. The effort is there. The rest leaves much to be desired.
“A failure,” Mom can’t help but whisper to me, eyes boring into mine, before she turns on her tall heels and returns to Ray’s side on the love seat.
“She’s wrong,” Charlotte says to me.
I smile at my sister. “I know she is.”
There is a small bit of truth to what our mother said, however. I already feel a sense of failure at the separation. No doubt I’d feel a greater sense of it with a divorce, if things came to that.
But Charlotte says exactly what I’m thinking, and it helps me digest my mother’s harsh words and make sense of them. “You’ve never striven to please our mother before, Halley. Don’t start now.”
“Divorce hurts,” I tell Charlotte, for her sake as much as, if not more than, mine. “And I’m sure it feels like failing, but it isn’t the end. It doesn’t have to define you or break you.”
Tears fill the rims of Charlotte’s eyes as she nods. “I know.”
Fourteen
It’s Saturday afternoon, and though I know Adam was busy at his family’s on Thursday, and there’s still the rest of the holiday weekend, I’m rather thunderstruck he hasn’t contacted me. Surely he opened the mailbox when he got home on Wednesday, saw the magazine and the Post-it, and was planning on calling. Or at the very least texting. I suppose the wait is what I deserve for not hand delivering the mail, saying to his face, “Happy Thanksgiving. Oh, and read this.”
Or maybe Adam has read my letter and he hates it. And now he’s furious with me. The letter isn’t exactly roses and rainbows about love and marriage, about the unexpected that life brings a woman. Just the same, it is something I want him to read. A bold move and career success I want to share with the man I love. And, yes, some intimate insight into where I am and how I’m feeling.
I’m starting the next chapter of the paperback Nina lent me, Following Home, when Charlotte calls. It’s the other of the two calls I’ve been anticipating this weekend. I cross my fingers before answering. I hope all is as well as can be on the Miller front.
“Hey, Charlotte.”
As feared, Charlotte blubbers out a hello.
“Oh, Charlotte.”
“I told him,” she wails. “Oh god!”
“You want me to come over?”
“No,” she says with a heavy sniffle. “No, no.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
“Oh, it’s just awful, Hals. Obviously!
How could I imagine it’d be any other way?”
“Is he . . . there?” I ask tentatively. “Where are you?”
“I’m in my car.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m in the driveway.”
“And Marco?”
“In the house. With the kids,” she replies before falling into another fit of crying.
“Where are you going, Charlotte?”
“Nowhere. I had to get out of the house, away from Marco. After I told him, he went for a drive. He was gone for hours.”
“Oh dear.”
“He came home a little while ago. Totally silent and cold. Stiff. I’ve never seen him like this. Oh, Halley, he hates me.”
“Charlotte.” I try to calm her down. “Charlotte, we knew this wasn’t going to be easy, that you couldn’t predict how he’d react to something . . . like this.”
“He hasn’t said a word since he came home. I told him I was going to be in the car. He just glared at me, like he could see straight through me. I don’t know if he’s in there now planning my murder or his escape.”
“Do you want me to come over? Meet you somewhere?”
“No. No, I’ll be okay. I have to figure this out.” The sound of her blowing her nose rings through the receiver.
“I needed to talk, to let it out,” she says. “To get out of there. I don’t blame him, but I don’t know what to do, Halley. When I told him, he was in denial at first. Wouldn’t believe me. God, what torture it was, telling him over and again that it was true. When I said Damon’s name, that’s when Marco flipped. I kept telling him how sorry I am, that it’s over with Damon, that it was the biggest mistake—a true failure in life, biggest ever—and that I want to fix us. I told Marco I love him still. Always have. There was all this shouting—we were in the backyard, away from the kids—and our neighbors officially know as much as Marco. Oh god, Halley. What a total mess!”
“I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”
“I’m so embarrassed, so sickened by myself. It was awful.” She blows her nose again. “I was begging him, Halley. Begging. And then he said he had to leave before he did something he regretted. Regretted, Halley! Like my murder!”
“Oh, Charlotte. Marco is not going to murder you.”
“Hit me!”
“He would never hit you.” Then I quickly add, “Would he? Has he?”
“Oh no,” she says firmly. “Never. But god, isn’t anything possible? I’m a cheating whore who deserves eternal damnation.”
“Stop it, Charlotte.”
“It’s true!”
“No. What you did was wrong. This is a mess. A terrible mess, yes. But calling yourself a whore isn’t going to do anyone any good. Come on,” I encourage her. “When you’re ready, maybe it’s best to go back inside. Focus on the kids. But . . . let Marco be the first to talk. Let him process this.” This is far graver than what Adam and I are going through, but I pause to consider my own horror at Adam’s springing his baby wishes on me. I needed time to process that before I could attempt to react somewhat sanely.
She exhales a drawn-out sigh. “You’re right.”
“Be strong, sis. Fight for what you want. And call if you need anything.”
We hang up, and I cross my fingers once more and look up to the sky. I ask whoever may be out there listening that Charlotte and Marco find their way. This day has been coming, and it was never going to be an easy one.
“Halley!” Marian screams, startling me as I rub the towel over my wet head. “Halley!” Her voice has taken on a shrill trill. “Halley, Halley, Halley!”
“What?” I yank open my bathroom door. A giant pillow of steam bellows out, meeting a flustered, wide-eyed Marian head-on. She’s wearing her loose-tank-and-boy-short-underwear pajamas, and her nose is covered in a dark-green exfoliating mask.
“Omigod, Hals!”
“What is going on?”
She jabs a finger behind her.
“Words, Marian. Words.”
She swallows, eyes still wide with bewilderment, and gasps out, “Adam.” She swallows again. “Adam. At the door.”
I look down at my half-naked self, clad in a simple grey T-shirt bra and cotton panties. Much like Marian’s attire, this is a girl’s Sunday best.
“At the door?” I say. “Seriously?”
I take a quick look at my reflection in the foggy mirror. My hair is wet, hanging in dark, heavy strands. My face, already quite oval, just looks more drawn down when my hair’s in this state. I’ve had better moments.
“Did you let him in?” I ask.
Marian, still looking as if her panties are on fire, shoots upright in her stance. “Shit. I didn’t.” She turns around, about to dart to the door, when I grab her wrist.
“No, wait!” I blurt. “It’s better if he waits outside.” I pick up my pajamas from the floor. “Let me at least look presentable.” I pull on my pajamas, considering them suitable-enough attire for going to the front door and seeing why Adam’s here. After all, Marian answered the door half-naked and looking as if she were halfway through a spa treatment.
“Omigod, Halley.” Marian’s now wearing a wide grin. “I bet this is some big romantic gesture.” She claps her hands together in delight and presses them, clasped, to her chest. “Omigod!”
I laugh. “Calm down there.” I wrap a towel around my hair, turban-style, and slip past my overly jubilant roommate. “Don’t jump to conclusions.” A thought strikes me. “Hey! It could be Nina. In labor! Still a bit early, but . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Marian pushes me down the hall. “Jumping to conclusions here. Find out what your man’s doing on our doorstep!”
“Adam.” My voice is high and pleasantly inquisitive.
Adam’s standing at the front door, both hands in his front jeans pockets. His thumbs are exposed, and his left one makes aimless, maybe nervous, circles. His dark-blue button-up pulls at all the right places, revealing that cut chest of his I can feel pressed against my cheek if I let myself get lost in reminiscence.
I don’t have a chance to, though, because Marian’s darted into the living room. She’s hidden from Adam’s view but is in my clear line of sight, distracting me as she stares on, an acrylic French nail in between her teeth, eyes still wide as ever. She’s impossible.
“Halley,” Adam says. I’m surprised by how taken aback I am by the sound of his voice. It’s so warm and familiar—the perfect voice to say my name.
“What’s up?” I try to stay casual. Try not to look as gobsmacked as I am that he’s here.
Adam leans slightly forward, but his entire body, head included, is still outside the town house. He turns his head to the left and the right and asks in a low voice, “Now a good time?” He’s clearly wondering if Marian’s anywhere within earshot.
I shrug one shoulder, self-consciously crossing my arms over my stomach. I don’t know why I feel vulnerable and exposed. This is my husband, and it’s not as if I’m naked. I’m in my pajamas. And even if I were naked, this is my husband.
Nevertheless I say, “Sure. What’s up? Nina okay?”
“Yeah, Nina’s great. Says hi. Missed you. For Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah . . .”
Adam clears his throat and casts his gaze to the floor before pulling from his back pocket a rolled-up magazine.
“Is this how you really feel?” He looks into my eyes, the issue of Copper held up for me to view. The Post-it is still on it, and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia for the way things were. When Post-its were given. And they were given a lot, but never like this.
“Yes.” I hug my arms tighter to my stomach.
Looking at me, he gives a small, crooked smile, and says, “Want to go for a walk?”
“I’m not exactly dressed for a walk.”
“I’ll wait downstairs.” He rolls the magazine back up and claps it against an open palm.
“Yeah,” I say in a flurry of confusion. “Okay. Just a sec.”
He turns
on his heel and, just before descending the stairs, calls out, “Hi, Marian.”
Marian giggles like a schoolgirl and immediately rushes down the hall, following me into my bedroom.
“Omigod,” she squeals as I quickly change into a black V-neck tee and my loose-fitting light-wash jeans with the holes in the knees. “This is his grand romantic gesture, huh? Sweeping you off your feet? Saying he was all wrong, that he doesn’t want a stupid baby. That all he wants is you. You, his wife, his soul mate!” Those clasped hands go back to her heart, and she bats her lashes.
“You’re insufferable, Marian,” I say with a laugh. “I love you, but insufferable. Really.” I tie my mess of wet hair up into a high bun and slip into one of my many pairs of Old Navy flip-flops.
“This is it, isn’t it?”
“This is what?” I tuck my keys into my back pocket and head down the hall.
“Your ‘after Thanksgiving’ meeting? Your time to decide?”
I stop and give the assumption some thought. “Yeah,” I say with a small smile. My smile then begins to grow, warming my cheeks as they tighten in what is now a full-on grin. “Yeah, I think it might be.”
“And? Are you ready?”
Bottom lip bitten, hands in my back pockets, I nod aggressively. “I think I’ve been ready for a long time, Marian.”
“You haven’t changed your mind, huh?”
“No,” I say without any hesitancy. “I’ve always wanted one thing and only one thing.”
Marian looks toward the front door, left open wide by Adam’s arrival. She sighs and looks back to me. “And that one thing’s waiting for you.”
“The question now isn’t if I’ve changed my mind,” I say, my smile instantly fading as my mind spins with possibilities, “but has he?”
I meet Adam at the foot of the stairs. He’s still got the magazine, rolled up, in his hand. There isn’t any hesitation when, as soon as I plant both feet on the concrete path at the base of the stairs, Adam extends his free hand and his fingers graze my palm.
Holding my hand, he smiles and says, “Let’s walk.”
I initiate the conversation, unable to stand the buildup, wait in the wake of his unexpected visit. “It’s that ‘after Thanksgiving’ talk, isn’t it?” I say.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 21
