I smile at the canvas. This is not one of those elating or deflating times for me. It’s just a simple discovery, an appreciation of the color, and movement, and energy that I put out there. I don’t believe this painting proves that I’m a genius, but it also doesn’t prove that I’m a hack. I like it.
I lean in and study details. The landscape I painted has a tree at its center. Though I hadn’t deliberately dwelt on a specific one, I see that I know it. It’s the beautiful old oak in Riveredge Park that I drew in pencil on a small sketchpad years ago. That piece has a youthful version of Smith and me drawn into the foreground; it now sits on Smith’s wide oak mantle. I saw him put it there.
He’ll like this painting, I think.
Then I remember all the havoc I’ve caused him: the stupid lawsuit, his barbaric nickname, reporters dogging him. I also think of a woman named Irene. Maybe he’ll never see this canvas…
The thought makes me wince, especially when I look closer at the painting and find a hidden detail, something that both surprises me because I hadn’t consciously thought to put it there, and touches me with the bittersweet rightness of its presence. Leaning against the tree, almost hidden in the expressive whorls of the trunk, is Smith’s cane.
Chapter Twenty
Caroline
I hear the phone ring as I enter the house through the garage. I kick off my boots and hang up my coat. Since I just put them on the school bus, I know the call can’t be about my kids, so I don’t hurry to see if someone left a message.
I’m distracted by a stack of framed pictures on a console table that barely fits in the mudroom. These were the ones that I couldn’t, or perhaps didn’t is a better word, manage to fit on the walls of this smaller house. The kids must have looked through them, because I know I had left one of my mom when she was younger on the top, where a photo of Blake and me in our early twenties now sits.
I look through a photo collage of candids that have faded because they’d been on a sunny wall in the old house. They’re of our early marriage, when I was pregnant with June, and when she was small.
I have always loved motherhood, even pregnancy. Though morning sickness and heartburn were annoying, I never doubted that the result would be worth it. I wanted to be the best mother in the entire world. I wanted to be the kind of mother I’d wanted myself. I wanted to have the kind of house I’d wanted to come home to as a child. I wanted my kids to have a dad that would always love them, who would always be around.
Maybe I slept with Kyle because I was looking for a way to feel guilty. Guilty enough so that reconciling with Blake wouldn’t be insane. I hoped that I’d have the opportunity, because Blake would come back. In my panicked mind, perhaps I thought that when he did, we would be even. There. All better. I didn’t actually logic it out like that, but I’m afraid deep down that might be what I was going for.
I look through the pile of pictures and see Blake holding the twins for the first time; he’s crying. I see June accepting a rose from him after her little ballet solo in first grade. I see the pink and blue tricycles Blake put together for Joy and James’s fourth birthday, with big bows on them, like life would be one happy birthday after another.
I think of other moments that weren’t captured by a camera, that now only exist in my mind. And perhaps his, though I can’t be sure anymore. I remember Blake and me waiting together while my mom had emergency bypass surgery. I remember him racing home when I told him June had taken her first steps. I remember painting our house together, taking long drives, being in love.
I put the pictures down and walk away. I tell myself that it’s too easy to think you need someone when you look at shared details, moments in life that were pivotal and indelible. I tell myself that I need to take a step back and try to see the big picture, and remember that Blake isn’t in it any more.
My husband has consistently insisted that he never had an affair with his colleague Francine. He said I was always jealous of her, so he didn’t mention the fact that she had also signed on for the project in Spain. Blake repeatedly said that Francine has a long-term boyfriend and that my accusations were unfair to everyone, not just him. I didn’t believe it.
Yet I chose to believe that Kyle was unencumbered. Though I could’ve surmised there was more to his story, I didn’t look closely enough to find out. I now know Kyle lied to me. I assume Blake did, but I’m not completely sure.
I fill the teakettle and turn on a burner before I remember to check for a phone message. The call I missed was Blake, saying that he’s hoping to reach me as soon as possible, that there has been a slight change in his plans.
My face reddens and I delete his message. Of course he’s not coming back; I should have known. I’m so glad I didn’t tell the kids that their father would soon be home in Riveredge. That he’d be living close enough for them to see him often. That these six months of having him gone might be just a blip of a memory for them, not a potential weakening of the foundation that they’ll need for building healthy, trusting personalities. Thank God I didn’t take the lying bastard at his word.
I pull out my budget notebook and see that the quarterly piano lesson bill for all three kids, plus June’s ballet tuition, are due soon. I hope that Blake will still pay for these. I’m afraid he’s not only changing his mind about coming back to Riveredge, but has decided that since he didn’t quite find himself in Spain, he needs to go further still. Like a pilgrimage to Tibet that requires him to actually quit his goddamn job.
I choose Enlightenment from the tea cupboard this morning. I’m pouring boiling water into my mug when I’m startled by a knock.
“Hi there,” Gwendolyn says when I open the back door.
She’s wearing a scarf and huge Jackie-O style sunglasses, as if there is anyone left in Riveredge Michigan who wouldn’t recognize her from a mile away. She’s wearing her trademark jeans, t-shirt, crocheted sweater, and cowboy boots. I saw in the supermarket how her daily ensemble breaks down, in a piece entitled: How you can have golden girl style without the bad press.
“I walked over, and cut through a few back yards because a reporter was parked in front of my house this morning,” she says. I mentally trace her route, alongside fences, more visible and conspicuous than if a white-tailed deer stood on its hind legs and danced the can-can through the neighborhood.
“An acquaintance of mine, maybe you know Walter Owens from the Riveredge on Main? He brought these over and I wanted to share.”
All I need is a little more cellulite to round out my self-esteem. I reluctantly take the bag of donuts she offers.
Gwendolyn removes her wet and snow-covered cowboy boots when I motion for her to come inside. I can’t believe she chose to wear those completely non weatherproof $500 boots while cutting through Michigan back yards in February.
She takes off her giant sunglasses and studies the décor, as if it’ll all be on a test.
“How did you make this house look so great, so fast? It’s really gorgeous! I wish I could live here.”
Her voice comes off a bit whiny, like the vending machine is jammed and she’s dying for a Snickers bar. I consider answering thusly: I thought, planned, scrubbed, painted, and worked my fingers to the bone. What do you think? I wiggled my nose and it all just happened, like you used to do?
“Seriously Caroline. How?”
I sigh heavily and consider another option: I’m sorry that I can’t distill my entire hellacious experience of transforming this house from an unlivable fish cemetery to a family home into a sound bite that you can not only comprehend with very little effort, but replicate by snapping your fingers.
I love the picture she drew of my kids, though, and I appreciate how flexible she was with the house transaction. I feel a surge of pride that she sees how hard I’ve worked and thinks the results are beautiful. I still want her to leave me to my “rags,” though.
“I just worked hard at it. Hey, thanks for the donuts. I’d ask you to stay
for tea, but I have to finish doing the laundry before I leave for work.” Plus I’m precariously low on Enlightenment.
“I’m sorry I just appeared unannounced. I don’t have a land line yet, and I misplaced my cell phone charger.” She shrugs with a self-conscious half smile that annoys me because it makes her look so pretty.
“No problem. Thanks again for the donuts.”
“I, uh, well I promised my sister I’d speak with you, so maybe we can get together tomorrow or something?”
My face flushes hot. I think Gwendolyn’s is just as red as mine must be.
“I probably have ten minutes to spare,” I say quietly.
“Okay. Um, do you remember Kyle?” Gwendolyn asks. She wrinkles her nose like she hates to say the words as much as I hate hearing them.
I take a deep breath and let it out. I consider running out the door in my socks. I consider eating the entire bag of donuts. I’m thankful that my kids are in school—overhearing this discussion would not make for good formative memories.
“Kyle is my sister’s husband,” Gwendolyn whispers like it’s a confession of hers, not mine.
“He never told me he was married,” I say. I hope it’s the worst sentence I’ll ever have to utter.
Gwendolyn motions to the table with her head cocked to the side, and I nod for her to sit down without moving toward it myself. She sits with one leg folded under her.
“I know it’s none of my business, but in college I dated an associate professor for a year before I knew he was married. Some men are just such asses! I’m not asking what happened, and I actually don’t want to know. I’m only here because I promised my sister Megan that I’d talk to you.”
“Why? It ended months ago.” I sit down across from Gwendolyn without really intending to.
“Kyle says he’s in love with you.”
My heart beats in my ears. “In love with me? I don’t know how that’s possible. I only saw him a few times. I broke it off months ago.”
“Megan said he loves you. She’s afraid he might leave her and the kids because of you.”
A spaceship landing on the roof right now might actually make my life seem less strange.
“Pardon?”
While she repeats the aforementioned insanity I eat a chocolate-covered fry cake in four bites. Again I consider running out of the house, eating the whole bag—anything would be better than participating in this conversation.
“Apparently Kyle has had a lot of affairs. He must be pretty charming or whatever.” Gwendolyn blushes anew and I want to sink into the floor. “Megan says he’s a really great dad. Apparently she believes he’s worth putting up with all his shit.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say, making a decision.
I grab the phone and stare at it, realizing I don’t know the number. I memorized the number to his studio apartment near the university, but obviously he doesn’t really live there. He said he doesn’t carry a cell phone. He had a live-by-my-own-rules quality to him that pulled me in, partly because it felt like the opposite of Blake’s button-down style. Even if Kyle is currently at his apartment, I don’t want to call him there. When I hear his low husky voice I don’t want to imagine him in that space, with the vaulted ceiling and exposed brick walls, and the bed behind him. I want to talk to him where his wife and kids live.
“You stand here while I do it,” I say to Gwendolyn. “And please dial for me.”
After three rings a woman answers. I take a deep breath. If Gwendolyn wasn’t here staring with her huge eyes I’d hang up the phone.
“Um, hi. My name is Caroline.”
“This is Megan.”
“Uh, hi. Listen, I’ve spoken to Gwendolyn and I want you to know that I had no idea Kyle was married.”
She doesn’t reply. I can’t blame her. What would I say in the same situation?
“I broke it off with him months ago. I don’t return his calls. I wouldn’t date him again even if he were single, if he won the Lotto, or for any reason.”
“Would you mind telling him that?”
“I already have. But sure, I’ll say it again.”
“Hold on.”
While I wait out one of the most profoundly awkward moments of my life, I look at the kids’ artwork on the window to steady myself. I need to focus on why life, despite its present state of unreality, is inherently good.
“Hello?”
Somehow hearing Kyle’s voice focuses all my anger. Not just from the past few days, or six months, but all of it, forever.
“I will never date you. I hope to never see your face again.”
“Caroline…”
“And one more thing. You’d be wise to hold on to that wife and family of yours!”
I didn’t mean to yell. I look up to see that Gwen’s eyes have overtaken the vast majority of her face. I slam down the phone.
I never told Suzie about Kyle. I’m stubborn and I’m proud, and when I’ve been a complete idiot I don’t run out and get a tattoo that commemorates my transgressions for all the world to see.
“How are those donuts?” Suzie asks when she passes through the door five minutes after I called her in tears. Leaving her winter boots on the rug, she comes and sits across from me at the table.
I laugh sort of hysterically, and then I start to cry. I’ve eaten three donuts. I push the bag over to her.
It’s so good to be with someone solid and steady. I don’t know if the fact that Suzie is ten years older than me makes her seem so wise, or if she was born that way. I would have been lost without her these past months, actually for my entire life. It takes me under five minutes to tell Suzie about my affair and its aftermath, including Gwendolyn’s visit this morning.
“I feel sorry for Gwendolyn,” she says.
“Because?”
“Because she and her sister don’t get along, which is just plain wrong. Because she has become a joke to a lot of people. Because it must stink to be publicly dragged through the mud. I bet she could use a real friend,” Suzie says.
“So you hang out with her then. I don’t want to, she’s a basket case.”
“So were you a little while ago. And she helped bail you out.”
I see the truth in Suzie’s words, and take some pride in the fact that she thinks I’ve moved on from basket case status to someone who might actually be able to offer help. Even after what I just confessed to her, she still looks at me with love in her eyes.
Soon Suzie leaves so that I can get ready for work. She hugs me on her way out. “The kids are great, the house is great. You’re doing good.”
She’s right, I tell myself. The house went from unlivable to welcoming because of me. My children have not only grown, but positively blossomed in my care. I can handle a lot more than I ever gave myself credit for.
Half an hour later I’m dressed, made up, and ready to leave for my shift at the library when the doorbell rings. I approach cautiously, hoping that it isn’t the reporter I shooed away over the weekend.
The man on the other side of the door is at once very familiar, and somehow different. He’s tan, his hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, and he’s trim. He looks at me through the glass and I don’t know whether to open the door and fly into his arms, or to turn around and pretend he’s not even there.
I barely recognize my husband.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gwendolyn
My dad has been moody and distracted for days. I remember him as a cheerful guy growing up. He was always quick to tell a joke, especially when my mother was dour—which was most of the time. Maybe he was trying to make up for her, and now that she’s gone he considers himself off the hook.
When he called and asked me to come over tonight, I should have said, Sorry Dad, I’m in too much of a rush trying to get ready for tomorrow. He seemed to really want me there, though, so I’m driving over through the drizzly darkness. I’ll just have to pack my suitcase later.
>
Tomorrow is the big day. I’m not looking forward to it so much as I’m looking forward to having it over. I’m catching an early flight to North Carolina for the interview with Armand. I can’t wait to put So Perfect behind me.
I was always uncomfortable with the name. The words “so perfect” mocked me. Whenever I saw them written down or heard them spoken, they already had the sarcastic edge that Stuart Bolder has adopted since the story broke. Armand thought of it, so I tried not to be critical or point out the irony. He bought in to the concept enough for both of us.
I’m nervous to walk into that house again, knowing that the cameras will be trained on me. I know I’m a dupe, a setup, a mark. I suppose I could take some solace in at least knowing ahead of time that I’ll be laughed at and ridiculed instead of feeling ambushed when it happens.
As I drive past La-De-SPA, I’m surprised to see Calista’s car still parked in the small lot. It’s after nine o’clock. Maybe she lives in an apartment above the spa? I realize I don’t know much about her, despite the fact that I’ve spent the past two days in her salon. Armand found Calista’s place by searching on the internet. Apparently he grilled her by phone to make sure she’d suffice, and then charmed her into closing the spa for two days to take care of me in privacy.
Calista has clearly thought of Armand, not me, as her client. She’s talked as if she’s known him for twenty years, while treating me like a perfect stranger. She has discussed personal aspects of my hair, skin, and nails with him while I’ve been sitting right there. Armand has made all the decisions, though he pretended to care about my opinion and repeatedly said I could overrule him. I never tried. I trust his taste in my camera-ready appearance far more than my own.
Calista put me in front of a webcam about thirty times for Armand’s inspection. It has been humiliating, but Armand promises it will all be worth it when I wow the audience by looking “too fabulous to hate.” It’s good to know that I’m physically ready for tomorrow’s interview, anyway.
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