He hesitated. “Listen, I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’m sending some papers up for you to review. I wanted to let you know in advance.”
Iris stiffened. “What kind of papers?”
“Just some papers from the office. We need to start thinking about things.”
“Your law office?” Iris moved off the patio and onto the grass. She strode across the lawn, the phone crackling in her ear.
“You still there?” Paul asked, his voice fading.
“What are you talking about, Paul? Tell me what you’re sending.”
Paul paused.
Across the lake the jagged shore rose up and away from the water, a jumble of craggy rock and wild spruce. Sunlight slipped in and out among the trees, and Iris longed to duck among the cover.
“Paul, are you asking for a divorce?” The words were acrid in her mouth.
“Iris. Please. Just read through them, and call me later.”
“Jesus Christ. You are.”
“Iris, you had to see this coming.”
“Who is she?” Iris screamed into the phone.
Paul did not answer right away. Then, “Does it really matter who she was?”
The ground seemed to rise up beneath her feet, and Iris kneeled to meet it. He had cheated. Even before the separation she’d tried to shake the sinking feeling that he might have. She’d wondered, asked questions, even resorted to snooping, which in the end had only served to make her feel guilty. Through all of it Paul had denied it, his denials so firm they’d left Iris wondering if she was crazy, if perhaps she really was making all of it up in her head. And in the end she’d ignored her gut.
“Iris?” She could hear Paul’s voice on the phone, which had dropped somewhere nearby, but she did not retrieve it. The lawn began to spin.
And then there was the vibrating rush of footsteps.
“I’m here.” It was Leah. She pulled Iris’s hair away from her face as she heaved twice, and then vomited in the grass.
Between them, Paul’s voice rose from the ground. “Hello? Are you there?”
Leah kicked the phone aside with her bare foot, and Iris watched from the corner of her eye as it tumbled away from her. She pressed her face into the grass, willing herself to feel the dampness. The prickly blades. Anything but the desolate pressure rising in her chest.
Leah’s hands moved gently around her middle.
“Please. Don’t.” But the sobs rose up in her throat anyway.
“I’ve got you,” Leah whispered.
Paul was divorcing her. He’d lied to her. It was really happening, and there was nothing Iris could do to stop it. No time to examine the cracks or mend the fissures.
“Paul told me . . .” Iris sobbed.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Like a small child, Iris went limp.
In the middle of the sprawling lawn they rocked. Leah did not let go. Back and forth, back and forth, until no tears remained, and the lake and the sky stopped spiraling inside Iris’s head.
• • •
On Monday, Iris stayed in bed. She did not know what excuses her sister made, or what words she’d chosen to explain Iris’s sudden retreat to the cushioned depths her mattress allowed. Only that Millie knocked lightly on her door midmorning to let her know she’d be at the farm, in case Iris needed her. And that, sometime later, someone left a tray with toast and tea beside her bed. After that, there was silence and darkness. And Iris slept.
When she awoke much later the sky was dark, and she struggled to read the hands of the clock on the bedside table. Ten thirty-five. She reached for the small lamp beside the bed. The tray of toast had been taken away, and in its place was a bowl of fresh fruit, more tea, and a sandwich. Iris drained the teacup, which had gone cold. But the sudden sweetness on her dry tongue surprised her, and without warning she began to sob uncontrollably into her pillow. When she’d cried herself out once more, she took a bite of melon, which also made her cry. The fruit caught in her throat as she struggled to swallow, but the deep pitted nausea in her stomach subsided, and she forced herself to eat some more. She tried a bite of the sandwich, then lay back down and fell into a deep and uninterrupted sleep. The next time she awoke it was Tuesday.
“Iris?” Leah lingered in the doorway. “Are you up?”
Iris rolled onto her back, staring at the white ceiling. The wrenching colorlessness of it echoed her sadness, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
“You need to get up and eat something,” Leah said, lowering herself gently onto the bed. She settled a plate onto the nightstand, and the smell of fresh eggs caused Iris’s stomach to turn. She shook her head.
“Really,” Leah said, placing a hand on her wrist. “You’ll feel better.”
Iris pulled herself up on her elbows and surveyed the room. The brightness of the scrambled eggs was too much, Leah’s touch too strong. She protested as her sister moved to the window and parted the curtains.
“I’m sorry, but this is for your own good,” Leah insisted.
Sunlight flooded the room, and Iris imagined her corneas bursting into flames. After twenty-four hours of uninterrupted tears and darkness, her eyes felt papery, her lids swollen shut. She did not care that she couldn’t see. It was better that way.
Leah pressed her cool palm to Iris’s forehead. “Mom is starting to worry,” she said.
Iris’s voice was rough and unused in her throat. She swallowed. “What did you tell her?”
“Just that Paul had called.” Leah looked at her gently. “They know.”
“He cheated.”
Leah pressed her cool palm to Iris’s cheek. “I’m sorry. He never deserved you.”
Iris turned away, pulling the sheet tight under her chin. All summer she’d focused on surviving the separation. But that was nothing compared to the wrenching finality she was feeling now. Separation was a mere shove; divorce, a caving blow.
“How can I help?” Leah asked. “Do you want me to run the shower?”
Iris shook her head, tears springing to her eyes once more. The salt stung her swollen lids. “I want my kids,” she cried, covering her face with her hands.
“They’ll be here soon. But I think it’s better you have this time to yourself, don’t you?” When Iris didn’t answer, Leah reached over and began to rub her back in slow circles, the way Iris had with each of her babies.
Iris heaved against it. The images washed through her like a poisonous wave: Paul’s mouse-brown hair, going a handsome gray just above his ears. The small cleft in his chin that disappeared when he smiled. How long had it been since she’d witnessed that? The particular way he folded his newspaper each morning, at the kitchen counter, the ends tucked neatly behind the headlines of the article he was reading. Oh, if only she could tuck this suffering away like that. When Iris’s cries finally softened and her breathing returned to its normal cadence, Leah rolled the blankets back.
“Come,” she said gently.
Iris did not resist as Leah pulled her wrist, lightly at first, then more firmly. She allowed her sister to lead her away from the bed. Silently, she followed her into the bathroom, where Leah rolled up her sleeves and leaned into the shower to turn on the faucet. When Leah tugged Iris’s wrinkled nightgown over her head, Iris did not resist. Instead she stood, naked and obedient, under the steady stream of hot water, and allowed herself to be soaped. As Leah massaged her scalp with shampoo Iris opened her eyes. Outside the bathroom window, the tree leaves stirred. A bird took flight from a branch.
Seventeen
For the next few days, Iris escaped to the Hampstead library, where she secured a quiet table in a dark corner, a cave of sorts, where she could lick her wounds. The library was a historic brick building that had been added onto over the years, and she relished its dark, air-cond
itioned recesses. Coming out of her bedroom was just a first step, she knew. Though she had purged some of the initial grief, the gut-wrenching shock of it all remained stubbornly, like a dull ache in her head. And there were moments she welled up, unexpectedly. Picturing Lily’s pink room at home: Would she keep the house? Or Jack’s patient expression: How would they ever deliver the news to the kids? She could not imagine she had the capacity for the grief that would follow. She’d wake up at night, remembering the cardboard boxes of baby clothes she’d carefully tucked into the attic, wondering who would get them. As if the divorce was finally forcing her to riffle through all their shared past, both the sentiments and the belongings. But one question haunted her most. Who owned the memories—that sacred ground of a shared past? If the family split, how would she uphold them for the kids at holidays, at weddings, at the births of their own children, without the bleak surge of guilt corrupting them?
To block it out, Iris tried to focus on the next moment, the next hour, the next meal. It was inevitable now, this course she could not alter. And finally, one that she found she did not entirely care to.
On Tuesday, a carrier had delivered a flat manila package to the farm, addressed to Iris. She’d left it unopened on the kitchen table. Her family observed the offering of her once-secret wound in quiet reverence. It remained there until breakfast the next morning, when Bill stood suddenly from his chair and removed it to his office. “When you’re ready,” he told Iris, returning to the table. And gratefully, she had nodded.
Trish had checked in several times since Iris told her the news over the phone. She’d been furious and worried and pressed Iris to come by. But Iris wasn’t ready to see anyone. Finally Trish had relented, as long as Iris answered her hourly texts, which Iris found both madly irritating and deeply comforting.
Millie was the one who kept a grave distance, instead watching Iris with worried eyes, placing small offerings in front of her, a cup of coffee, a warm muffin, a worn scrapbook of old family photos. All tidings of comfort, yet tendered at arm’s length, as if she might break apart, or say something regrettable, should she make actual contact. It did not surprise Iris; she was used to such restrained demonstrations. But she was thankful that her mother had not yet intruded with her own concerns and advice, which she knew would come later. Probably regarding the kids. Or counseling. Millie was not a religious person, but vows were vows. And family—well, it was everything.
Iris had allowed herself one brief call to Paul since that afternoon. He hadn’t answered, for which she was relieved. There was just one thing she had to say. She waited, heart in her throat, as his voice mail picked up. “Paul,” she said, straining to keep her voice even. “Whatever you do, don’t you dare tell the kids. One word to them before I get home, and I’ll tear you to shreds. I swear to God I will.” That was one matter she would not surrender; she would make him break the news, but she would control the way it was broken. And she would be there, to pick up the pieces.
By four o’clock on Friday, Iris was slumped over the library desk. She’d long ago finished the chapter on “Carpool Creations” and was now almost done with a section on family breakfasts, which quite frankly made her sick.
She checked her watch. Surely Stephen’s parents had landed and would have driven in from the airport by now? Their anticipated arrival was something that had occupied the family since Paul’s phone call, a nerve-racking if not welcome distraction for all, allowing Iris to disappear with her cookbook pages, and propelling Millie and Leah from one room of the house to the next, as they fussed over the welcome dinner and readied the guest room. Stephen and Bill made regular escapes to the golf course, when allowed, but more often were dispatched on errands or to the farm stand, to fill in, while the women contended with menus and table charts. The Willetses’s arrival was a sort of mini-wedding in itself, bringing together the two families for the first time, and it left the Standishes fluttering about their own farm like nervous fowl.
Iris collected her things and hurried down the library steps toward her car. Though she still had strong doubts about Leah’s impending wedding, there was a dinner tonight to worry about. Millie would be wondering where she was. Iris dreaded the evening ahead. At least she’d had the sense to invite Trish along.
Back at home Iris showered quickly and changed into a pale pink blouse and creamy linen pants. Shaking her head as she strapped on the black sandals that Leah had “borrowed,” she tried to smooth the scuffs from the heels. Below, the gentle vibrations of music were making their way up from the patio. Peering outside, she caught a glimpse of Leah in a smart little black A-line. Stephen stood beside her, pressed and fresh as always, his hand resting protectively on her lower back. Iris had been so caught up in her own sufferings, she hadn’t given any real thought to his surprise arrival days earlier. But somehow, as usual, Leah had seemingly wiggled her way out of the Vermont debacle. Honestly, Iris couldn’t imagine what on earth Leah had told Stephen, but apparently no ill will had been suffered. It figured.
Downstairs, Millie had outdone herself, and as she walked through the house Iris felt a momentary pang of guilt for not having stayed home that afternoon to help her mother. Everything was understated yet elegant, just the way Millie Standish liked things. Huge bouquets of lilies and hydrangea adorned the antique tables in the living room in stately silver pitchers. Simple white platters lined the kitchen island, taped with Post-it notes that assigned each to a menu of her summer favorites: lavender chicken fillets, roasted garden vegetables, and colorful mesclun salads. For the first time in days, Iris’s mouth watered.
She was about to head outside when she heard the clink of glassware in the butler’s pantry. Leah was bent over the bar counter. Iris watched as she poured herself a shot of amber liquid—their father’s whiskey?—and threw back a shot. Unaware that Iris was there, Leah pressed a wadded tissue to her eyes.
“Are you crying?” Iris asked.
Leah spun and forced a smile. “Oh, you made it down. Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?”
“I’m fine,” Iris said hesitantly. “Are you?”
“Yes, of course. Just a little tired.”
“Listen, I wanted to thank you for the last few days. You were really there for me.”
Before she could go on, Leah pulled her into a quick hug. “Oh, stop, you’re going to make us both cry. Of course I was there for you.”
“About that,” Iris began. She pulled away and looked at Leah sincerely. “I just want you to know that I want to be there for you, too.”
Leah cocked her head. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that sometimes you seem a bit overwhelmed.”
Leah’s expression shifted uncomfortably.
But Iris was determined to get it out. “When Paul said he wanted a divorce I thought it would undo me. But it won’t. I have you and Mom and Dad. And the kids. I don’t need to rely on Paul. Or any other man.”
“That’s good, Iris. I’m glad to hear you say that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the guests outside the French doors.
“And you don’t need to rely on anyone else either.”
Leah blinked. “What are you saying?”
Iris indicated the twinkling lights outside, the guests, the flowers. “All of this. It’s great. Stephen’s great. And I’m happy for you. But . . . I’m not convinced you are.”
“I’m very happy, Iris.”
“Okay, maybe you are happy. But it doesn’t mean you need to jump into this marriage and walk away from everything here that you’ve worked so hard for. I know that’s not what you want. I can see you struggling with that.”
Leah shook her head. “Are you kidding? Are you really saying this to me now?”
“Look, I know the timing sucks, but just hear me out. Rushing into this marriage doesn’t have to be the answer. I’ve got your back, whatever you decide.”
“Decide? What are
you talking about, Iris? How dare you say these things to me, tonight of all nights.”
Iris reached for her hand. “Leah, these past few weeks I’ve been watching you. The pill popping, the mood swings. I know what I’m seeing.”
Leah yanked her hand away. “You don’t know anything.” And with that she tugged open the patio doors, leaving Iris alone in the living room.
“There you are!” Behind her, Millie’s voice was high and practiced, and Iris recognized it instantly as her formal-company tone. “Come out with me to the patio, dear. Everyone’s here!”
Indeed they were. No sooner had Iris stepped warily outside than Bill handed her a gin and tonic. “Take a long, hard sip. I’m about to toast,” he warned her with a wink. A handful of close friends had joined the two families for the evening. The patio was resplendent in bridal tones. Pink and white hydrangea arched gracefully from glass urns down the center of the table, which was dressed in creamy linens, allowing the greenery to pop. Tiny votive candles were interspersed among fluted glasses, and the whole picture conjured the gauzy romance of something right out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream set.
“Iris, I’d like to introduce you to my family.” Stephen came forward, his arm looped boyishly through his mother’s. “This is my mother, Adele. And my father, Lance.”
Stephen’s mother had the same impossibly white smile as her son. “We’ve heard so much about all of you and this wonderful farm,” she said. Iris smiled, sneaking a glance at Leah, who stood waifishly to the side, avoiding eye contact.
“Is this your first time to the farm?” Iris asked politely.
“Yes. And our first time meeting your family,” Adele added pointedly. “We were beginning to wonder.” Everyone laughed uncomfortably.
Iris took a deep swig of her gin. No posturing here, she thought. Despite her tiny frame, Adele Willets emanated strength.
“Last month we were finally able to lure these two lovebirds west to our little cottage on the peninsula. At least it gave us the chance to get to know Leah a little better.”
The Lake Season Page 16
