Inside, every table has a sprig of lavender in a small glass vase.
The maître d’ seems to know Vince. They shake hands. He ushers us to a table in the back.
I excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room.
I look in the mirror. Not terrible, I think. Not terrible at all. It took forever to get dressed this morning. I finally settled on my go-to outfit: a black cashmere sweater and black slacks. I like the look. It clings nicely to my backside, which sometimes seems too big, and it perfectly frames my breasts, which sometimes seem too small. But not today.
Did I mention a brand-new black push-up bra? Victoria’s Secret. Mine, too.
I put on more lip gloss and comb my hair.
I smile at my reflection. Okay. So he really didn’t need company for two short errands, and maybe this whole lunch thing was in the back of his mind all along. Is that so terrible? I’m having a good time, I think. I can’t remember the last time I thought that. It isn’t a date. But, damn, it sure feels like one. I’m nervous. I’m excited.
As I head back to my seat, Vince is studying a leather-bound wine list that’s almost the size of the table. “I thought we could start with some wine. This is a nice little Médoc,” he says, pointing out one of the wines. I take a look. All my eyes register is the name, “St. Julien,” and the price, “$85.”
“You up for it?” asks Vince.
“Sure,” I say. This may be the first eighty-five-dollar bottle of wine I’ve ever had.
The waiter comes and takes our drink order. Soon he returns with a bottle and two wineglasses. He pours a taste for Vince. Vince takes a sip, swirls it around in his mouth, and nods. The waiter fills both our glasses.
“What shall we drink to?” I ask, lifting my glass. Vince shrugs and smiles sweetly, brushing a boyish lock of hair out of his eyes.
“To friendship. To autumn. And, of course, to you.”
I feel my heart clutch. Then again, it could just be my stomach growling.
We clink glasses. I take a sip. Vince speaks.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I nod and nervously slide my wineglass on the tablecloth.
“Vinny had such a good time at soccer. I was wondering—do you think you could drive him there every week?”
Impossible, I think.
“Sure,” I say. I can’t say no. I don’t want to say no.
“You’re a peach,” he says. We clink glasses again and I take another sip. The wine tastes warm and thick and gorgeous. I feel like I’m floating. I look around. The restaurant is fairly empty now; the lunch crowd has left. And the waiter is back with menus.
I order a quiche (with apple-smoked Canadian bacon) and a salad (endive with toasted hazelnuts).
“Very good, madam,” the waiter says, with a small bow in my direction. “And for monsieur?”
“Hmmm,” Vince says, studying the menu. “I was thinking about elk.”
Say, what?
I look at the menu again. Seared New England Elk Tenderloin with Parsnip Mousseline.
“I’ve never seen anybody order elk before,” I say.
“Well, you’ve probably never been with anybody born in Montana.”
“I thought you grew up in Illinois.”
A beat. “I did. After we moved from Montana.”
For dessert we share Praline Chicory Coffee Soufflé, Coffee Anglaise, and Warm Beignets. He pours me another glass of Médoc. Every time I look up, Vince is looking at me and smiling. I tell myself he is just being friendly. Neighborly. Another glass of Médoc and I have almost talked myself into it.
“So why were you so down in the dumps Friday night?” he asks.
“You go first,” I say.
“Okay. Vinny doesn’t seem very happy at school.”
And, of course, he misses his mother, I want to add. But I don’t.
“It’s a pretty jock-oriented place,” I say, remembering what Ben said: He’s a nerd. “And it takes a while to find your level.”
“Yes,” he says. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you…”
If I hadn’t found you? The phrase has a hundred layers of meaning.
Vince continues.“I can’t even meet other men,” he says with a smirk. “They all work normal hours. Okay. Now it’s your turn.”
I think back to Friday night. Caroline’s ring. Joey’s test. Ned’s scarf.
“Well—a bunch of things went wrong. And Ned’s been in a pretty crappy mood lately,” I begin.
“It’s that seasonal affective disorder thing he suffers from.”
How does he know that?
“A lot of men do,” he adds quickly. “They miss the whole summer macho thing. You know. Golfing. Barbecues…”
“That’s what we should do!” I say. “Ned loves to barbecue. And you can meet a couple of the neighbors. What do you think?”
“Well…if it’s not a problem…”
“Not at all,” I say, wondering if that’s really true.
The waiter comes by, bows, and drops off the check.
Vince reaches in his pocket. He pulls out a stack of cash, neatly folded with a sterling silver money clip around it. He peels off two hundred-dollar bills. I must look surprised.
“I don’t use credit cards,” he says, and shrugs. “Cards are for people who don’t have cash.”
The waiter takes the money. Vince says, “No change, please.” And then what I really hoped might happen, but that I also hoped would not happen…happens.
He moves his hand to my hand. He touches my fingertips with his fingertips. Then he turns one of my hands right-side up and studies the lines on it. Slowly, he traces them with his index finger.
“This is your life line,” he says, running his finger along a line on the fleshy part of my hand. “See how it curves around your thumb? Means you’re a rock. People count on you. I can believe that,” he says.
He moves his finger up a bit. It tickles. I try not to giggle.
“Now this one here?” he says. “That’s the head line. Yours splits in half. That says you’re sensitive to others. Willing to listen to both sides. Is that the case?”
“I guess,” I say.
“Now this one…the heart line…”
I hold my breath as he traces it slowly, back and forth. “Yours starts high, ends low.”
“And that means…?”
He catches my eye and smiles.
“Lot of feelings and emotions under the surface, waiting to break free.”
I try to think of something—anything—clever to say. I can’t.
“You are a lovely woman,” he says. He lets go of my hands.
“But now I guess it’s time to let you get back to your life.”
Chapter 15
Maggie’s office is in a gray cement building. I take the elevator up to the fourth floor and enter. The brass nameplate on the door says it all:
MAGGIE TRELEVEN, MSW,
ADOLESCENT AND FAMILY THERAPY
I’m a few minutes early. And it looks as if Ned is going to be late. I sit there and look around at the artwork on Maggie’s walls. It is all modern, vague, brightly colored—swoops and swirls that cry out for interpretation. Kind of like therapy itself, I think.
Maggie opens her office door and sees that it’s just me. “Why don’t we give Ned a few more minutes,” she says. I am still angry at him for our big blowout last week, but she’s probably right: we are here to make peace. I nod.
Six minutes later Ned enters, looking frazzled. “Lot of traffic,” he says.
I nod again and we enter Maggie’s inner office. Maggie is in her late thirties, slim, pretty, with dark hair pulled back into a professional-looking bun. As usual, she is dressed simply but elegantly: a white silk blouse tucked into a navy pleated skirt.
Ned and I take our usual seats on opposite ends of her aqua sofa.
“So. How are things?” she asks, as if she’s a neighbor who just happened to bump into us at
the supermarket.
I say nothing. Ned shrugs and says, “Fine.” Typical.
“We had a terrible fight last week,” I start.
“Tell me about it,” she says. And I do.
And then I tell her what happened just last night, when I suggested we invite a few friends over for a barbecue. “He practically bit my head off. He loves barbecuing,” I say. “I thought he’d enjoy a chance to do it one more time, while we still have the weather for grilling.”
But even as I say it, I’m wondering if it’s true. Was I really doing it for Ned’s benefit? Or was I just trying to be nice to Vince? The one person who’s been nice to me. I keep this thought to myself.
“It struck me as a dumb idea,” he says. “A waste of a Sunday. I work hard all week. Can’t I have at least one day to myself?”
“You can have every day to yourself, for all I care,” I say, feeling my blood boil.
“Do you really mean that?” Maggie asks.
Yes. No.
“Sometimes,” I say.
It goes on like that for quite a while. Neither one of us thinks we get enough respect…enough understanding…enough attention. Maggie just listens.
“The fight, the barbecue idea…” Maggie finally says, her eyes darting between the two of us. “I wonder if those are just symptoms of something else.”
Ned and I look at each other. Neither of us says anything.
“What’s bothering you the most, Laura?’
I take a deep breath. Where to begin? “Well, I don’t know why he…”
“No,” Maggie interrupts. “Don’t tell me. Tell him.”
I swivel on the couch to face him.
“Okay. I don’t know why you even bother coming home anymore, Ned. You’re always in a bad mood.”
“That’s because…”
“I don’t care why!”
Maggie stops me. “Let him finish.”
“…because my job is making me crazy,” he says. “Managing other people’s money. Even the smallest mistake can mean millions. And now the place is talking about making cuts.”
Maggie nods slowly, sympathetically. “That’s a lot of pressure. Laura, do you agree?”
I shrug. Maggie speaks.
“No. Don’t just shrug. Tell him.”
“Okay. I’m sorry your work is so stressful.” I take a deep breath. “But I hate how you take it out on me and the kids.”
Maggie taps her index finger on her desk, as she always does when she is about to make an important point. “I think it’s important you hear that, Ned. Did you hear it?”
“Yes,” he says. And then he does the one thing guaranteed to make me melt: He makes his cute little-boy face—pouty lips, eyes downcast, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A face that’s hard to hate.
“You’re right,” he says, quietly. “I have been…a dick. And I’m sorry.”
Case closed. Sort of.
“And another thing,” I say. “You always…”
“No.” She stops me. “No more blaming. We go forward from now on. Both of you need to listen to the other, and then disagree in positive terms. We have to stop now,” she says, looking at the clock behind us. “But I want you to remember the things we talked about today.”
I schedule an appointment for the following week. Ned looks annoyed. Did he think this session was going to cure everything that’s wrong with us? But in the car going home, he seems more relaxed.
“I guess I have been a bit of a jerk,” he says. A bit? “Want to grab a bite before we head home?”
“Well, I told the kids…”
“Call and tell them to fend for themselves,” he says.
“It’s better if I text them,” I say. “When I call, they don’t pick up.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he says. We both laugh.
So we stop for a burger and beer at Shenanigan’s, our favorite local haunt, then sit and talk till ten. It’s like the old days—sort of. When we get home, I rummage through my dresser drawer and pull out something Ned gave me years ago—a lacy red negligee—instead of the ripped cotton “Go Huskies” nightshirt I usually sleep in. To my surprise and delight, Ned remembers. “Wow! You still have that?” he asks.
When I come out of the bathroom wearing it, he’s waiting in bed with his arms crossed. He smiles. He whistles appreciatively. I crawl in beside him, and we begin to make love—slowly, carefully.
Is this what the women’s magazines call makeup sex? If so, I’m all for it. For a while, I can blot out all thoughts of kids, chores, errands—even Vince.
Chapter 16
I’m in the shower. Washing my hair, shaving my legs. Kiehl’s coriander body wash. I’m going to smell nice and natural.
Today is my first official day as Vinny’s soccer mom. I haven’t seen or spoken to Vince since our lunch.
I step out of the shower. Then the distinctive ping of a text message on my cell.
From Vince comes this: I’m bringing snacks 4 team. C U soon.
A few minutes later Vince is at the front door. He’s holding three shopping bags. And I’m wearing nothing but a bathrobe, admittedly the most modest bathrobe I could grab—a navy-blue terry cloth that Ned wears, when he bothers to wear one at all. And nothing underneath.
“Is that what you wear to pick up the kids?” Vince says with a very wide smile on his face.
I ignore his comment, and hope I’m not blushing. Then I say, “Those bags are the snacks? Are you feeding the team…or the whole school?”
“It’s my salesman background,” he says. “Get the prospect to smile, and you can sell them anything.”
“And what exactly are you selling?” I ask.
“Quite honestly? My son. I want the other kids to like Vinny. So if it means bribing the team with fancy snacks and drinks…I’m down with that. How’s your week been?”
I think about the makeup sex with Ned and look away. Great. It’s bad enough that I feel guilty about Vince when I’m with Ned. Now I’m feeling guilty about Ned when I’m with Vince. The bathrobe doesn’t help.
“My week was…not terrible,” I say.
Vince says, “I’m going to put these bags in the trunk of your car.”
“And I’m going to go get dressed,” I say.
“Don’t have to do that for me,” Vince says, the same smile lighting his face.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
When I return I’m wearing fairly baggy jeans and a fairly baggy T-shirt.
“I liked your other look better,” Vince says.
“Gotta go,” I say, ignoring his comment. “I don’t want to make Vinny late.”
Vince holds out his hand to me, as if to shake. But when his hand touches mine, his hold is gentle and there is no shaking.
“Listen…” he begins, and then it feels like he’s changed his mind about whatever he planned on saying. He lets go of my hand and says, “We’re really looking forward to the barbecue on Sunday. Anything I can bring?”
“Nope. Just yourself and Vinny.” I pause. “Well—see you Sunday.”
Then Vince says, “I’ve missed you.”
I don’t remember driving over the speed limit, but I make it to the school in record time. All four kids are waiting for me.
“My dad bought me the shoes and everything else I need,” Vinny says, jumping in and tossing a lumpy gym bag onto the seat.
“Great,” I say. “And your dad dropped off snacks for the team.”
“I know,” Vinny says. Then he adds good-naturedly, “He’s trying to get the other kids to like me.”
I drive my kids to oboe, ballet, and tennis. Then I swing around to the rec center. Coach Mike sees me pull in, waves, and comes running over. Mike is a sweetheart—craggy-faced, built like a fireplug. And he’s a great coach. He’s been doing it for twenty-five years. Tough and demanding, but patient.
“Your dad called and said he’s packed us up a feast,” Mike says to Vinny. Vinny beams as Mike takes the
three bags from the trunk and carries them over to the sidelines.
It’s a beautiful autumn day and I’ve got some time to kill. So I park the car and head to the bleachers. Vinny sits on a bench, puts on his shoes, cleats, kneesocks, and shin guards. He is high-fiving two other teammates. I can’t wait to tell Vince that his son is fitting in perfectly.
I whip out my cell phone and check my email. Every so often, I glance up to see how Vinny is doing. He’s trying hard to do the warm-up exercises, but he’s always a beat or two behind. My heart goes out to him. It’s clear he’s not a natural-born athlete. But it’s also clear that he’s having a good time.
A half hour into the exercise routine, I decide to leave. At the same time Coach Mike decides it’s time for refreshments. He blows a whistle, and the team runs over and starts rummaging around two bags.
Two bags?
“Where’s the third bag?” I ask Mike as I pass him on my way to the car.
“What third bag?”
“There were three. Three bags.”
He cocks his head and smirks. He makes a joke. “Maybe it felt like three!”
“No. I never lifted them. But I’m sure I saw Vinny’s father put three bags in my car.”
“Nope,” he insists. “It was just two.”
Am I going crazy? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my mind is playing tricks. Maybe…?
I don’t know what another “maybe” could be. Oh, well. I guess I made a mistake. And yet…
I don’t get to finish my thought. My phone beeps. It’s a text from Joey.
Ur late!!! Where r u??? What’s going on???
Yeah. What’s going on?
Chapter 17
When I wake up Sunday morning, the sun is shining. The perfect day for a barbecue, I think.
But then I start to panic.
My mind is suddenly filled with a million what-ifs: What if Vince says something about our outing or about our lunch, which I never told Ned about? What if I slip and do or say something, and Ned realizes how I feel about Vince?
How do I feel about him?
On and on I go. I’m making myself crazy. I feel like a teenager again, self-conscious and awkward around boys. And I hate the feeling.
The House Next Door Page 4
