by Emily Giffin
“See. You were in the mood for a drink after all,” Nick says.
Valerie looks at him, confused.
“You said you weren’t in the mood for wine?” He smiles knowingly. “When you left the basket?”
“Oh, right,” she says, trying to relax—or at least look relaxed. “Well, I guess I am now.”
He seems to consider this, turning a little in his seat to look at her from a different angle. Then he clears his throat and says, “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Take the basket?” he says.
She swallows, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t . . . exactly trust . . . the women who brought it.”
He nods, as if this makes total sense, and then surprises her further when he says, “I don’t trust them, either.”
She gives him a puzzled look as he clarifies, “They were on the way out of the waiting room as I was on my way in. I had a brief chat with them.”
“So you know them?” she asks.
He drums his fingers on the table and confirms, “Yeah. I know them.”
She starts to ask how but stops herself, surmising that the connection involves his wife. She does not want to go down that road, fearing that he will respond awkwardly, breaking the rhythm of their tentative friendship, indicating that there might be something less than pure about it. She wants to believe that a true friendship is possible, one extending beyond Charlie’s stay in the hospital. It has been a long time since she has forged a genuine bond with another—so long that she had just about given up on the notion. Jason consistently blames her for not trying harder, but she believes that it isn’t really a question of effort. It is more a matter of being a single, working mother caught in no-man’s-land—or more aptly, no-woman’s-land. She would never fit in with the stay-at-home mothers populating Wellesley, nor does she have time to bond with the childless attorneys at her firm. And for the most part, this has all been fine with her, just as she has learned to accept the rift with Laurel and her old high school friends. Everyday life kept her distracted from dwelling on these matters, on what was missing from her life. Yet glimpsing it now—the feeling of true companionship, the exhilarating tension between the familiar and the unknown—fills her with such intense longing that she has to catch her breath.
Fortunately, Nick appears oblivious to all of this and instead smirks at her, as if they’ve just shared an inside joke. Then he continues his rant, saying, “And even if I didn’t know them, I know their type.”
“And what type is that?” she asks, leaning forward in her chair, yearning for confirmation that he gets it, that they are like-minded in their observations of others and the circumspect way they view the world.
“Oh, let’s see,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “Superficial. Artificial. Sheep. They’re more worried about how they come across to others than who they really are. They exhaust themselves in their pursuit of things that don’t matter.”
“Exactly,” she says, smiling at how perfectly he has captured her sense about Romy and April. Then she blurts out exactly what’s on her mind. “I think they’re worried I’m going to sue,” she says. “Especially if they know I’m a lawyer.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they’ve done a thorough background check on you.”
“Yeah?” she says.
“What else do they have to do with their time?” he says, looking into her eyes.
“So you know the whole story?” she asks, staring back at him. “You know how . . . it happened?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “I do.”
She knows he is not talking about the basic information he gathered as a surgeon, the facts he needed the night Charlie was admitted. He is talking about the negligent backdrop, the rumors that she is sure are swirling out there in her elite community.
Sure enough, he says, “Boston can be a small town, you know?”
She nods, feeling a swell of pure affection for his honesty. His utter lack of bullshit.
“So are you?” he asks.
“Am I what?”
“Going to sue?”
She shakes her head as Tony returns with their wine and bruschetta, quickly leaving them again, seeming to sense that their conversation is a serious, private one. They clink glasses and make eye contact as they take their first sip, but offer no glib words.
Instead Nick lowers his glass and says, “You know, I might if I were you. They deserve it. What kind of a moron lets little kids play around a fire like that?”
“Believe me. I know. And I’ve considered it,” she says, clenching her teeth and doing her best to suppress that toxic wave of anger that she allowed to surface this morning. “But . . . that wouldn’t help Charlie. It wouldn’t change anything.”
“I know,” he says, and they both take another long sip of wine.
“And besides.” She pauses. “That’s not my style.”
“I know that, too,” he says, as if they’ve been friends for a very long time. Then he gives her a full-wattage grin that, combined with the wine on her empty stomach, makes her dizzy.
His eyes still on her, he points toward the plate of bruschetta and says, “Go for it.”
She smiles back at him, then transfers two slices of toasted bread to her plate, grateful for the distraction, hoping that he can’t tell the effect he has on her.
“I think,” she says, passing the plate back to Nick and continuing her earlier train of thought, “that the whole single-motherhood thing isn’t helping my case with them.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
She shrugs, searching for words to describe her sense that being single—being different at all—is an obstacle to friendships, at least female friendships. Since elementary school, she has been keenly aware that girls look to befriend girls exactly like them, or at least who they aspire to be. “I don’t know,” she says, admiring the artful array of tomato, basil, garlic, and onion, broiled to the perfect golden hue. “I think people make assumptions . . . you know . . . that single mothers need the money . . . or that they might be . . . more opportunistic.”
She looks up and sees Nick make a face, indicating that he does not agree with her theory, or at least does not share this belief. Then he says, “Were you married . . . at one time?”
She shakes her head as she swallows her first bite of bruschetta, commenting on the perfect flavor, the fresh ingredients.
He gives her a regretful look. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have asked that . . . It’s none of my business,” he says.
Then he drops his eyes to his plate as if to reassure her that there will be no further questions. She knows she has her out and for a second she follows her usual instinct to remain close-lipped on her personal life. But then she takes a long sip of wine and chooses her words carefully. “No. I’ve never been married. Charlie’s father was never in the picture . . . His name was Lion—which should tell you something.” She smiles, giving him permission to do the same.
“He was an artist. A talented artist,” she continues. “I thought I was in love. He told me he was—and I believed him. And then . . . well, it didn’t work out.” She laughs nervously. “More accurately, he disappeared right after I got pregnant. So he never saw his son. As far as I know, he doesn’t know he has a son. Although, sometimes I find that very hard to believe. That none of his friends has ever seen me with a child. A child that has his curly hair. His diamond-shaped face.”
It is more than she has ever said on the subject, and she feels drained by revealing so much of her life—but also relieved. She can feel Nick’s eyes on her, and somehow finds the courage to look up and meet his gaze.
“Do you know where he is now?” he asks.
She sips her wine again and says, “I heard he moved out west . . . But I’ve never tried to find him . . . I’m sure I could, though . . . I’m sure he has exhibits . . . But I just . . . don’t see the point. I’ve always believed that it was better for Charlie this way.”
“It was,” she admits.
“Is it still?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” she says, holding his gaze, thinking of the night of the accident, how terrified and alone she felt, even with Jason. “But not at this moment.”
He smiles another glorious, broad smile that makes her heart race, and says, “I’m really glad to hear that.” Then he glances at his watch and suggests that they order dinner.
“Don’t you have to go?” she protests mildly.
“Not yet,” he says, motioning for Tony and telling her how much she’s going to love the spinach ravioli.
15
Tessa
I am hanging Frank’s navy peacoat and Ruby’s fluffy pink shawl on the coatrack in the mudroom when Nick comes flying through the side door as if eager to shave a few seconds off his two-hour delay. We have not spoken all day, other than an exchange of three messages. The first from me, asking him what time he would be home. The second, a voice mail from him, telling me he’d be home in time to put the kids to bed. And the third, a text informing me he’d be later than expected. Fortunately, I did not make any promises to Ruby and Frank, having long since learned that that is a risky proposition.
“I’m really sorry I’m late,” Nick says earnestly, kissing me hello, his lips landing to the left of my mouth. He tries again, our closed mouths meeting this time, and in this instant, I have the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t working when he sent me that final text message.
Some would call it women’s intuition, like Cate, who rampantly uses the term when what she really means to say is that she’s not completely blind and dumb and oblivious to a certain set of obvious facts, which tonight include the pungent aroma of garlic on Nick’s skin and clothes. The fervent tone of his apology. And most of all, the guilty look in his eyes.
To be clear, it is not the guilt of a man who has cheated or has even contemplated cheating. That has never been my worry. Nor is it the guilt of a man who feels contrite for being a garden-variety bad husband—for missing his kid’s soccer game or not noticing his wife’s new haircut or getting paged in the middle of an anniversary dinner. The guilt on Nick’s face right now is more subtle than that, yet still unmistakable. I try to place it, peering at him while trying to seem nonchalant, and decide that it is the guilt of someone who wishes he were somewhere else.
“It’s okay,” I say, looking into his eyes, hoping that I’m wrong, that I misread the clues, drew the wrong conclusion. That Nick actually rushed through the door because he missed me or was desperate to fix whatever happened between us last night. Even if that fix means pretending that nothing happened, which is our usual way.
So I say, as off handedly as I can, all accusations stripped from my voice and face, “What was the holdup?”
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he walks into the family room with his coat still on.
“Like what?” I say, following him, thinking of so many scenes in movies where the husband stops off for a drink before coming home, taking his usual spot at the bar, spilling his troubles to the bartender or anyone who will listen. Or worse, stewing alone, keeping them all bottled in. I suddenly wonder whether Nick has troubles he’s not sharing with me—beyond the typical worries of a pediatric surgeon. I recall one night last week when I looked out our bedroom window to see him pulling up the driveway after work. He parked the car, but then sat there, staring straight ahead. I watched him for a moment, wondering if he was listening to a song or simply lost in thought. Whatever the case, he was clearly in no hurry to come inside. And when he finally did walk in, a full five minutes later, and I asked what he was doing out there, he appeared bewildered, as if he didn’t know the answer himself. He gives me the same quizzical look now.
So I ask the question more concisely, going out on a limb this time. “How was Antonio’s?” I say, inhaling garlic again.
His silence is telling, and I look away before he can answer, glancing up at a cobweb in our chandelier, feeling somehow embarrassed for him—for both of us. It is the way I felt when I once walked in on him in the middle of the night, reclined on the couch, his jeans unbuttoned, one hand down his boxers, quietly moaning. I tried to creep out of the family room unnoticed, but tripped on one of Ruby’s toys, both of us caught. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and froze, saying nothing. The next morning when he came down for breakfast, I expected him to make a joke about it, but he didn’t. The idea of my husband masturbating didn’t bother me, but his silence on the subject made me feel separate, the opposite of intimate—the same way I feel now.
“It was fine.”
“So you already had dinner?” I clarify.
He quickly replies, “Just a little bite to eat. Was craving Antonio’s.”
“Did you bring me anything?” I ask, hoping that he simply forgot to remove the white to-go bag from his backseat. I am ready to dismiss my whole theory if he can just produce that bag.
He snaps his fingers with regret. “I should’ve. I’m sorry. I figured you ate with the kids?”
“I did,” I say. “But I’d never turn down Antonio’s. I could eat that ravioli for dessert.”
“No doubt,” he says, smiling. And then, clearly in a hurry to change the subject, he asks how my day was.
“Fine,” I say as I try to remember how I filled the last twelve hours. My mind goes blank—which can be a good sign or a bad sign, depending on your perspective, your life at the moment. Tonight, it feels like a bad sign, along with everything else.
“And the kids? They’re down for the count?” he asks, a throwaway question.
“No. They’re out on the town.” I smile to soften my sarcasm.
Nick smiles, nearly laughs.
“How was your day?” I ask, thinking that my mother is right. He is the one with something interesting to talk about. He is the one who had better things to do than come home on time tonight.
“The graft went well,” he says, our conversation falling into autopilot.
Four words for a four-hour surgery.
“Yeah?” I ask, craving more details, not so much because I want the medical report, but because I want him to want to share with me.
“Yeah. Textbook graft,” he says, slicing his hand through the air.
I wait several seconds until it’s clear he has nothing more to offer. “So,” I say. “April said she saw you at the hospital.”
His expression becomes animated, nearly fierce, as he says, “Yeah. What the hell was up with that?”
“They didn’t know the surgery was today,” I say, wondering why I’m offering April and Romy an excuse—when I basically agree with Nick.
He snorts. “Even so.”
I nod, my way of taking his side, hoping that the alignment will fix whatever is brewing between us. “I heard they brought wine,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Who brings wine to a waiting room?”
“In the morning, no less.”
He unbuttons his coat, shaking his arms free. “You should cut her out of your life,” he says adamantly.
“Cut April out?” I ask.
“Yeah. You have better things to do with your time.”
Like, being with my husband, I want to say, but restrain myself. “She has her good points,” I say. “I really think she was trying to help.”
“Help who? Her negligent friend?”
I shrug lamely as he continues, now on a roll. “They deserve to get their asses sued.”
“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I ask.
“No way,” he says.
“Did the kid’s mother discuss it with you?” I ask, intrigued more by the interpersonal side of his work than the medicine.
“No,” he says curtly.
“Would we?” I ask. “Would you?”
“I might,” he says, showing his vindictive side. A part of him that
I don’t particularly like, but still admire, right along with his bad temper, blind stubbornness, and unabashed competitiveness. All the hallmarks of an acclaimed surgeon—the very traits that make him who he is. “I might sue for no other reason than that offensive bottle of wine . . . And that look on her face . . . What’s her name? Remy?”
“Romy,” I say, marveling that the man managed to learn the name of every muscle and bone in the body, endless Latin medical terms, and yet he can’t commit a few names to memory.
He continues, as if talking to himself. “That fake smile she has . . . I’ve just finished a grueling surgical procedure and there she is grinning, wanting to chat me up about private schools.”
“Yeah. April said she’s going to write us a letter,” I say.
“The hell she is,” he says. “No way. I don’t want a letter from her. I don’t even want Ruby around those kind of people.”
“I think that’s a bit of a generalization,” I say, my own frustration and anger starting to displace the forlorn feeling in my chest.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?” I say. “So that means you’ll look into it? Consider it?”
“Sure. Whatever,” he says. “I told you I would.”
“Did you look at the application today?” I ask, knowing that I am not really talking about an application—I’m talking about his connection to our family.
He looks at me and then says my name the way he says Ruby’s name when he’s asked her to brush her teeth for the tenth time. Or more often, when he’s heard me ask her to brush her teeth for the tenth time.
“What?” I say.
“Do you know what my day was like?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“I glued a kid’s face back together,” he says. “I didn’t have time for kindergarten applications.”
