by Lisa Unger
At a certain point, people—including her parents—had stopped asking Kate what she was going to do with her life. By the time you reached forty, if you hadn’t done anything to speak of, people figured you probably wouldn’t ever do much of anything. Early on, the questions were always excited and hopeful. What’s your major? What are your plans after graduation? Expectations ran high for the offspring of Joe and Birdie. The beautiful daughter of the wealthy, philanthropic New York City Burkes could do anything, couldn’t she? That’s what Mother always said, as if Kate’s parentage were some ticket to ride.
Then, as the years went on and her college graduation was a distant point in everyone’s past, the inquiries become more cautious. Have you thought about what you might like to do? You were always such a good writer. Your parents always thought you’d go into publishing. And, of course, there was the early and unplanned pregnancy. After that, her vicious public divorce from Sebastian. (Se-bastard, as she often thought of him; with a name like that, how could you not turn out to be a self-indulgent jerk?) Then she moved to the New Jersey suburbs and married a real estate broker.
She stopped attending her parents’ dinner parties. In fact, they’d stopped mentioning the parties. By her early thirties, Kate knew she was no longer much of a showpiece, nothing to point to with pride. She was justamom. That’s what she said when people asked what she did now. “Oh,” she’d say with a self-deprecating smile, “I’m just a mom.”
People knew all the right things to say about that. Oh, well, that’s the most important job in the world. After Maria Shriver went on Oprah and said that mothers were on the front lines of humanity, people were dripping with respect.
Then there was some magazine article that said the job of stay-at-home mom was worth $110,000 a year. People seemed happy to trot out that statistic (she’d heard it at least three times, even though she’d never actually read the article), as if it meant anything at all.
The truth was that she’d meant to do so many things. She had fancied herself a writer, wrote prolifically at NYU—short stories, plays, poetry. She’d had some compliments, some encouragement from professors. But after college, there was Sebastian. She’d met him at one of her parents’ parties. Her parents always insisted that it wasn’t a setup, but they’d been thrilled when Kate started a relationship with him.
He was already famous; his first novel was the rare bird that critics laud and that also races up the best-seller lists. He’d made a fortune and was agonizing over his second novel, for which the expectations were so very high. She found his angst endearing; it never occurred to her at first that he had a problem with alcohol. Having just graduated from college, where drinking was the number one social activity, she didn’t find it odd that he drank every night at dinner (someplace fabulous), then went on to the bars (dark ones, preferably belowground), then the giggling stumble through quiet city streets back to his apartment on Second Avenue, sometimes as the first light of dawn broke the sky. In his thrall, she lost herself completely. His success, his ambition, was a red giant, already bloated and dangerously unstable. The stars trembling in his galaxy hardly had a chance.
He’d read a bit of her work. It’s lovely, Kate. You have a delicate voice. But what else would he say to the young woman ten years (twelve, actually) his junior as she lay naked in bed beside him, watching his face as he read? Anyway, what did that even mean? She took it to mean that he didn’t think much of it, since she’d heard him describe other authors he admired as muscular or powerful, masterful or mesmerizing. Didn’t she already know on some subliminal level that she wasn’t allowed to have any ambition, any talent of her own, while she was with him? If she sought to be anything but his greatest and most intimate admirer, the delicate balance of their relationship would start to tip toward destruction. Chronic pleaser that she was, she couldn’t have that.
And then there was Chelsea, the other supernova of Kate’s twenties. Between Sebastian and Chelsea, their needs, their love for her and hers for them (there was so much love in her early life with Sebastian), Kate happily disappeared for a while. But at a time when she might have been forming herself, newly graduated, reasonably intelligent, with the desire and possibly even the talent to write, she didn’t, she couldn’t. Her parents loved Sebastian. He did know how to fluff and stroke them to purring and leg thumping. He knew how to be exactly what they wanted him to be. That was one of his many gifts.
And there was always money—his family money, the money from his obscene book advance (the kind of advance reserved for a beautiful male graduate of Princeton, so young that his talent staggered). Then there was Kate’s trust. The truth was that she didn’t have to do anything, ever. Her future was assured, regardless. A trust-fund baby never really had to make her way, find her path, or follow her dreams. The prize had already been given. In “The Artist of the Beautiful,” Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote, “The reward for all high performance must be sought within itself or sought in vain.” Even if that was an inherent truth of life, who believed it anymore? In a vain and corrupt society where people worshipped only wealth, beauty, and celebrity, who truly cared about high performance?
There were hands on her shoulders then. “Hey, why so serious?”
She tilted her head back to look at her husband. He smiled down at her and leaned in for a kiss. She thought of the Spider-Man kiss, which was the most romantic movie kiss Kate had ever seen. Just lips—every bit of passion and desire concentrated on the mouth, the body in exile.
Sean pulled up another lounge chair beside hers, stretched out his long legs. She reached for his hand, and he laced his fingers through hers.
“Are you going to tell them on this visit?” he asked. The question came from nowhere, but it was something they’d been talking about enough that she knew what he was asking.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She issued a sigh, felt it come up from the depths of her. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t seek to influence her on this topic, knowing how fraught and personal it was. Because many years after people had stopped expecting Kate to do something—anything—she had, in fact, written a book. An agent had recently agreed to represent her. Soon after, there was a bidding war between several publishers.
She wasn’t vain enough to imagine that this eagerness had anything to do with her literary talent. She suspected that it had more to do with her famed marriage to Sebastian. People in the industry felt as though they knew her, thanks to her ex-husband’s memoir—which, as Kate saw it, was more fiction than fact.
Stealing time while the kids were at school, managing pages at night after everyone else was asleep, Kate had finally done what she’d always intended to do. It had taken over a year and had been both harder and easier than she’d imagined it would be to complete her novel.
A family drama, they were calling it—she’d heard her editor use the phrase a number of times. There was a true story at the heart of her novel. And this was, as far as her publisher was concerned, a very good thing. Apparently, people wanted to peek into your living room and watch the horror show you called your life, regardless of whether what they were seeing was truth or invention or some combination. These days, who could tell the difference?
“I guess I’ll have to feel it out,” she said.
Her husband was tapping a staccato beat on the armrest with his free hand. This was something he did when he was anxious or excited. It was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, a little tell reminding her that he wasn’t always the mellow, devil-may-care guy everyone perceived him to be. He worried sometimes. He got as excited as a kid.
She looked over at him. He was staring up into the starry sky.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well,” he said. “I have some good news and some bad news.”
He stretched his arms above his head, then turned to look at her. She couldn’t read his expression.
“What?” she asked. She had a creeping
feeling of trepidation.
“You know that five-thousand-square-foot mission-style home on Poplar? The one we’ve always loved?”
Oh, real estate. Fine. “Yeah, of course.”
“The owners want to list it,” he said. “They want to list it with me. Turns out they’re friends of the Hamiltons, who told them I was the only man for the job.”
He couldn’t hold back the wide grin. Sean loved his job. He loved real estate—land, condos, houses. He was a matchmaker brokering happy unions between families and their perfect homes. He got crushes on properties, mooned over them. His excitement was contagious.
It was one of the things she first loved about him, that he had a passion for what he did. His success at his work meant something to him, meant a lot. The last couple of years in the worst market ever had been hard on him. She felt the same wave of excitement that she felt when her kids were happy about something.
“Oh, Sean, congratulations. That’s fantastic!” she said. Then, “What’s the bad news?”
His smile faded a bit, and he raised his eyebrows. “They’re very motivated,” he said. “They want to do their first open house on Sunday.”
It took a second for the meaning to sink in.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
It wasn’t disappointment or anger that she felt. It was fear. She didn’t know if she could handle the island, or her parents, alone this year. He must have seen it on her face. His smile dropped, and he quickly raised a palm.
“I told them we had a family trip planned and that I’d ask my wife what her thoughts were,” he said. “So say the word, and I’ll tell them it will have to be next week.”
She looked up at the stars overhead. There would be so many more in the Adirondack sky, an eternity of glimmering lights. She and Sean would lie on the rocks after the kids went to bed and stare into that vast beauty, soaking up the silence, the peace of the place, cherishing the utter disconnection from the bustle of their modern life.
“Honestly, it wouldn’t be that big a deal,” he went on when she didn’t say anything. “I’d just meet you up there on Monday. Brendan could chill with me and give his ankle an extra day of healing. We’d be there by Monday dinnertime, Tuesday morning at the latest. A day behind you.”
He looked so glad, so animated, like a kid asking for a puppy.
“It’s fine,” she said. She tried for a smile. “Really.”
“Seriously, Kate.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “Just say the word, and I’ll tell them to find someone else.”
The thing was, he meant it. Even though he wanted it, he’d walk away, zero attitude, if she said the word. That’s who he was. That was precisely why she couldn’t ask him to do it, as badly as she wanted to. She wouldn’t cling to him and force him to be her lifeline.
“What about your ‘disconnect’?” she said. “You do need some time off.”
“I do. But—” he started.
She interrupted him with a squeeze on his arm. “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I want you to do it.”
He hadn’t had a listing he was enthusiastic about in a while, mostly foreclosures and short sales, houses in disrepair owned by folks who didn’t have the money to maintain them and then looted them when they left, taking appliances, fixtures, even trees from the landscaping. During the boom, he dealt in dream homes. These days he was scraping those dreams off the concrete and selling them to the highest bidder.
“Really?” he said.
“Really.”
He leaned in for another kiss. How could she say no? The island was a chore for him, laboring under her parents’ disapproval. He’s a Realtor? her mother had said with such disdain that her tone could have peeled paint off the walls. Somebody who sold things for a living was worse than a domestic, according to Birdie. As if everybody weren’t selling something. (Nor was there anything wrong with being a “domestic,” as far as Kate was concerned. Work was work.) As if Birdie’s own father, Grandpa Jack, hadn’t made all his money in real estate. He bought real estate, Birdie said, and hired others to sell it. There seemed to be some important distinction that was lost on Kate. Her mother just needed to feel better than other people; Kate didn’t know why.
“There’s cell service on the island now,” Sean went on, thinking aloud. He was in full planning mode. “So I can field any interest from there. If anyone wants a showing, Jane can do it. And then we’ll head back in time for the second open house next week.”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”
He talked then about the house, its vaulted ceilings and stunning landscaped pool area. About the marble master bath, the steam shower, and the gourmet kitchen. The four huge bedrooms, two with their own attached baths. He’d obviously been stalking the house for a while. He raved about the clay tile roof, three-car garage, media room, and gargoyle doorknocker; he was practically swooning. A straight man in love with design—it was cute. When she met him, he’d shown her the house they lived in now. He’d said, “It needs work, but the bones are there.” She had felt that way about Sean. She’d thought he was a bit of jerk during the showing, but somehow, even before she’d spent an hour with him, she could see that the structure was solid.
“Maybe we should buy it,” she said.
He gave her a look. They’d agreed before they married that Kate’s trust was to be reserved for the kids, their education, their needs growing up (although Chelsea and Brendan had no idea the money even existed). For Kate and Sean’s purposes, they’d use the money for emergencies and, if they needed it, in their retirement, trying to leave as much as they could to Chelsea and Brendan and various charitable organizations. I want to build a life with you, not live off what your parents earned. She loved him for that. Sebastian never had any similar thoughts. In his life, money was a river that flowed with no beginning and no end. He rode its current; it had no meaning.
Sean and Kate had relied on her money a bit in the last couple of years, as Sean’s income waned, to pay for the kids’ private school tuition. Sean hadn’t been happy about it. He’d come the closest to sulking and moping that she’d ever seen.
“Not from the trust,” she said. “You know, sell this place, use that and the book advance to make a big down payment.”
He gave a slow nod as if considering it. Which she knew he wasn’t.
“Our property taxes would triple,” he said. He was very practical about these kinds of things, unlike Sebastian, who’d felt that money had no value until it was spent. Nothing Sebastian ever made was enough to sate his appetite; it had kept Kate in a constant state of anxiety—what would he want next, what would he buy now? It wasn’t about whether they could afford it or not. It was about that inner hunger of his that could never be satisfied. Nothing was ever enough.
Sean went on, “And I love our house.” He was nothing if not faithful.
“So you’ll flirt—oh, baby, I love your doorknocker,” she said. “But you won’t divorce and remarry?”
“What can I say?” He reached for her hand. “I guess I’m a one-house guy.”
Her book advance was impressive but not staggering. It was a solid amount and, she was embarrassed to admit, the first money she had earned in her adult life. She was surprised at how good it felt to get paid for her work. It made her think her mother had been right about that, at least.
While Sean went to his office to fax the contracts to the new clients, Kate went upstairs. Theo had backed out of the trip. Now Sean and Brendan would be arriving late. She’d had a text from her father saying: I needed to get away from your mother. Buckle up; she’s got some bug up her ass. See you Wednesday. Probably. It was not unexpected. Her parents could not be on Heart Island alone together for more than a couple of days.
She thought her father could have called rather than sending a text. That was what people did when they wanted to impart information but not talk about it. Her father was the master of that, hiding in plain sight. She found it interesting t
hat Theo believed she and Joe were so close, that Kate was his favorite. Even Birdie had expressed jealousy over the years of their relationship. Kate loved her father. He was always kind to her, always reasonable. The truth was that he was like the sun: warm and nurturing but just as distant, just as unreachable, and at times just as harsh and unforgiving. Ironically, she was closer to Birdie in some ways. At least her mother engaged, even if it was only to be a total witch.
Kate knocked on Chelsea’s door and pushed inside without waiting for an acknowledgment. Chelsea, not very subtly, closed the lid on her laptop as Kate moved into the room. The movie the girls had been watching apparently had been abandoned.
“What’s up, Mom?” Chelsea was all sweet, wide-eyed innocence. Hmm.
Kate told her about the male exodus from Heart Island. “On Sunday, it’s just going to be the two of us,” she said.
“Brendan is going to freak out,” said Chelsea mildly. “But that’s fine.”
“Can I go?”
Both Chelsea and Kate turned to look at Lulu. She offered a sheepish shrug. Lulu had no boundaries. She practically lived at their house, had been Chelsea’s closest friend since kindergarten. Kate wasn’t always thrilled with Lulu’s influence on Chelsea, but she did have an affection for the kid, who wasn’t nearly as worldly or as confident as she wanted everyone to think.
