Heart of the Matter

by Emily Giffin

  “You really should go, Barb. You’d love it,” my dad says, eyeing a corked bottle of red on the counter and suggesting that we have one more glass. Against my better judgment, I shrug and say sure, watching as he pours three generous glasses, handing one to me, the other to my mother. She takes it and matter-of-factly clinks her glass against his, then mine. She offers no toast, just a wink and smile, as if acknowledging how bizarre, yet somehow pleasant, the afternoon has been. I take a long sip just as Ruby and Frank burst through the front door, Carolyn trailing behind.

  “Nana and Pappy!” they shout in unison, seemingly unfazed by seeing their grandparents together.

  In a surreal, bittersweet moment, I watch the four of them embrace, as I turn to handle more quotidian matters—paying Carolyn, retrieving Nick’s predictably small gift from the front porch, wiping down the table, still covered with crumbs from Frank’s lunch. Then, while my father does magic tricks for the kids and my mother adds her color commentary, I quietly excuse myself, relieved when no one objects or even seems to notice.

  Once alone in my room, I down my wine and curl up on my made bed. After a few minutes of staring into space, I close my eyes and listen to the faint sound of my parents and children laughing downstairs, mulling over the strangeness of the afternoon—how surprising and sad and soothing it has been all at once.

  As I hover near sleep, I find myself thinking about Dex’s words on Christmas Eve—how he’d never cheat on Rachel—and only cheated with her because he was in love. Then I think of my father’s comments about Diane at lunch today, his implication that she was utterly beside the point, not the catalyst for my parents’ split, but merely a symptom of their problems. Then, against my will, I think of her. Valerie. I wonder which category she falls in and whether she and Nick could possibly end up together if I opt out of the equation for good. I imagine my children with her, stepsiblings to her son. Then I drift off, imagining the new blended family, riding in a pedicab in Hanoi while I remain home, sweeping crumbs under the kitchen table, bitter and alone.

  I awaken to find my mother sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me.

  “What time is it?” I murmur as my eyes flutter open.

  “A little after six. The kids have eaten—and your dad gave them a bath. They’re in the playroom now.”

  Startled, I sit up, realizing that I’ve been asleep for over two hours. “Is he still here?”

  “No. He left a while ago. He didn’t want to wake you. He said to say good-bye—and tell you he loves you.”

  I rub my eyes, remembering my full dream about Nick and Valerie, more graphic and disturbing than my vision of them in a pedicab.

  “Mom,” I say, overwhelmed by the sudden, startling conviction of what I need in order to move on, one way or the other. “I have to know.”

  She nods, as if she understands exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m trying to say.

  “I need to know,” I say, unable to shut down the images from my sleep. Nick making her laugh in the kitchen while they cook Thanksgiving dinner. Nick reading bedtime stories to her son. Nick soaping her back and kissing her in a beautiful claw-foot tub.

  My mom nods again and puts her arms around me as the haunting reel continues. I try to pause it, or at least rewind it, wondering how it all began. Was it love at first sight? Was it a friendship that slowly became physical? Was it an epiphany one night? Did it come from something wrong in our marriage or the truest, deepest feelings or mere empathy for a hurt child and his mother? I need to know exactly what happened in the middle, and how and why it ended. I need to know what she looks like, what she’s like. I need to hear her voice, see the way she moves, look into her eyes. I need to know everything. I need to know the whole, painful truth.

  So before I can change my mind, I pick up my phone and dial the number I memorized on Thanksgiving. I am gripped by fear, but undaunted, as I close my eyes, take my mother’s hand, and wait for my discovery to begin.

  42

  Valerie

  She is browsing the shelves at Wellesley Booksmith, while Charlie is at his piano lesson, when she hears her phone vibrate in her bag. Her heart jumps with the dim, unrealistic hope that it could be him, as she balances three novels under her arm and reaches inside her bag to check the caller ID. An unfamiliar local number lights up her screen, and although it could be just about anyone, she has the cold gut feeling that it is her. Tessa.

  Everything in her signals a flight instinct, warns her not to answer, and yet she does, whispering a hushed hello into her phone.

  She hears a woman’s low, nervous voice say hello back to her, and now she is certain. She takes a gulp of air, desperate for more oxygen, as one of her books tumbles to the floor, landing spine up, pages bent and splayed. A teenaged girl standing near her stoops to pick it up, handing it to Valerie with a smile.

  The voice on the other line asks, “Is this Valerie Anderson?”

  “Yes,” Valerie replies, filled with fear and guilt. She glances around for a chair, and upon seeing none, sits cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, bracing herself for whatever is to come, knowing she deserves the worst.

  “We’ve never met . . . My name is Tessa,” the woman continues. “Tessa Russo. I’m Nick Russo’s wife.”

  Valerie replays the word wife, over and over, squeezing her eyes shut, seeing a kaleidoscope of color as she concentrates on breathing.

  “I . . . I was wondering . . . if we could meet?” she asks without menace or malice, only a trace of melancholy, which makes Valerie feel that much worse.

  She swallows and with great reluctance replies, “Okay. Sure. When?”

  “Could you do it now?” Tessa asks.

  Valerie hesitates, feeling sure she should prepare for this meeting the way she prepares for trials, with intense, careful attention to detail. Yet she knows the anticipation would be excruciating—for both of them—so she simply says yes.

  “Thank you,” Tessa says. And then, “Where?”

  “I’m at Wellesley Booksmith . . . Would you like to come meet me here?” she says, wishing she had worn a nicer outfit, and bothered to run a brush through her hair, then realizing this is probably a good thing.

  Valerie listens to a silence so thick that she wonders if Tessa hung up or muted the phone until she hears, “Okay. Yes. I’ll be right over.”

  And now she waits. She waits in the front of the store, next to the shelves of greeting cards and wrapping paper, staring past a window display onto Central Street, a hundred, disjointed thoughts spinning in her head. She waits for fifteen, then twenty, then thirty minutes as a dozen or more women walk through the door. She remains convinced that none is Tessa until this second when this woman walks in. A woman who, very clearly, has not come to shop for books.

  Valerie studies her hungrily, memorizing the way she unbuttons her long camel coat, exposing an elegant yet understated ensemble of slim black pants, an ivory crewneck sweater, and matte gold flats. She admires her thick, honey-colored hair that falls to her shoulders in soft waves, and features that are vivid and strong, unlike so many of the generic beauties populating Wellesley. If she is wearing makeup at all, Valerie decides, it’s the subtlest of applications, although her full lips are shiny with peach gloss.

  The woman glances furtively around the store, somehow missing Valerie upon first scan despite how close they are standing. Then, suddenly, their eyes lock. Valerie’s heart stops, and she considers running out the door. Instead, she takes a step forward, no longer protected by the buffer of greeting cards.

  “Tessa?” Valerie says, a chill running up her spine.

  The woman nods, then extends her arm, offering her hand. Valerie takes it, her heart aching as she feels her smooth, warm skin and catches a whiff of a citrus fragrance.

  As their hands fall to their sides again, Tessa swallows and says, “Can we go find a place to sit down?”

  Valerie nods, having already scoped out a table in the back children’s section, saving it with her
puffy parka and stash of books. She turns and walks toward it now, and seconds later, the two women are seated across from one another.

  “So,” Tessa says. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Valerie echoes, her throat dry and palms wet.

  Tessa starts to speak, then stops, then begins again. “How’s Charlie?” she asks, with such genuine concern that for one hopeful second Valerie thinks that she has it all wrong—and that Tessa is only here to check on her husband’s patient.

  But as Valerie replies that Charlie is doing much better, thank you for asking, she sees Tessa’s lower lip quiver tellingly. And Valerie knows that she knows.

  “Good. Good,” Tessa manages. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Then, when Valerie can’t take the suspense another second, Tessa draws a deep breath and says, “Well. Look. I think we both know why I’m here . . . Why I wanted to meet you.”

  Valerie nods, her throat becoming tighter and drier by the second, her cheeks blazing.

  “I’m here because I know,” Tessa says so matter-of-factly that for a second Valerie is confused.

  “You know?” she says, instantly regretting the question. She has no right to be cagey. She has no right on her side at all.

  “Yes. I know,” Tessa replies, her eyes flashing. “I know everything.”

  43

  Tessa

  There is no denying that she is pretty, very pretty, her eyes a disturbingly deep blue. But there is nothing sexy about her. With a petite, narrow frame, and almost no hips or chest, she is more boyish than bombshell. Her face is pale against her stick-straight ebony hair, which is pulled into an uninspired low ponytail. In short, as I say her name and watch her nod back at me, I feel a strange sense of relief that this is the woman, that she is the one. I am relieved by her frail handshake, her thin voice, and the frightened way her eyes dart about while I stare directly at her.

  “Can we go find a place to sit down?” I say, determined to be in charge of this encounter, keep the upper hand.

  She nods, and as I follow her to the back of the bookshop, I am speaking to Nick. This is who you picked? This woman? This woman I would pass on the street without a second glance? This woman I’d overlook at a dinner party?

  And yet. He did pick her. Or at least he let her pick him. He had sex with this person, now seated across from me at the table she apparently reserved for our conversation.

  We exchange awkward hellos, and I force myself to ask about her son. Several long seconds pass and when it becomes clear she is waiting for me to speak, I clear my throat and say, “Well. Look. I think we both know why I’m here . . . Why I wanted to meet you.”

  I tell her this, even though I am not completely sure of my mission—whether it is one of discovery or about preserving my pride or finding closure of some kind or another. But no matter what, I am relieved to get this inevitable moment over with, ready for anything she might tell me, bracing myself for the worst.

  She looks at me and waits.

  “I’m here . . . because I know,” I tell her, which seems to cover all the above. I lean across the table, holding her gaze so that there is absolutely no mistaking my message and no possible escape for her.

  “You know?” she says. She gives me a puzzled look that infuriates me, and I resist the sudden, intense urge to reach across the table and strike her. Instead I continue calmly, determined to maintain my dignity and composure.

  “Yes. I know . . . I know everything,” I say—which of course is not entirely true. I know a few facts—but none of the details. But I continue the lie, hoping that it will prevent her from doing the same. “Nick told me everything,” I say.

  She starts to speak, then stops, her eyes filled with unmistakable hurt and surprise that brings me a measure of comfort. Until this moment, she likely believed, or at least hoped, that I was here only on a hunch, or as a result of some solid spy work. It is clear by the look on her face that she did not know that Nick confessed. As I stare at the sharp lines of her chin, memorizing the facets of her diamond-shaped face, I suddenly realize that I couldn’t have called her, and certainly couldn’t be here facing her, had I learned the truth any other way. It’s almost as if the facts about my discovery level the playing field between us. She slept with my husband, but he told me their secret. So in the end, he betrayed her, too.

  “It was just once,” she finally says, her voice so soft that I can barely make out the words.

  “Oh. Just once,” I say. “All right then.”

  I watch her cheeks turn a deeper scarlet as my sarcasm registers, further shaming her. “I know. I know . . . It was one time too many . . . But—”

  “But what?” I snap.

  “But we were mostly just friends,” she says, the way Ruby sounds when making up an excuse for her blatant disregard of a basic rule. Yes, Mommy, I know I scribbled all over the walls, but isn’t it a lovely picture?

  “Friends?”

  “He was so . . . so kind to Charlie,” she stammers, “and such an amazing surgeon . . . I was so . . . grateful.”

  “So grateful that you had sex with him?” I whisper.

  Her eyes fill with tears as she shakes her head and says, “I fell in love with him. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t know exactly how or why it happened. Maybe it’s because he saved my son . . . Or maybe I just fell in love with him . . . because.”

  Her voice trails off as if she’s talking to herself. “I’ve never met a man like him. He is . . . exceptional.”

  I feel a fresh rise of fury that she would dare tell me about my husband. Someone she’s known for a measly three months as opposed to our seven years together. But instead of pointing this out, I say, “Exceptional men don’t cheat on their wives. They don’t have affairs. They don’t put a cheap thrill ahead of their children.”

  As I say the words, the paradox of the situation crystallizes in my head. If she was a cheap thrill, then Nick isn’t worth fighting for. But if she is a person of quality for whom he had genuine feelings, then what? Where does that leave me?

  “I don’t think that’s what he did,” she says, but I can tell she is wondering, questioning what they had.

  “Did he tell you he loved you?” I fire back at her, realizing that this is why I am here. This is the linchpin for me, everything turning on this one singular fact. He slept with her; he clearly had feelings for her; and I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that he was—maybe still is—in love with her. But if he told her he loved her, or if he told her he didn’t love me, we are finished forever.

  I hold my breath, waiting, exhaling as she shakes her head, slowly, emphatically.

  “No,” she says. “He didn’t feel the same. He doesn’t love me. He never did. He loves you.”

  My head spins as I replay the words, searching for the truth in them. I want to believe her. I desperately want to believe her. And maybe, maybe I actually do.

  “I’m sorry, Tessa,” she continues, her voice cracking, anguish and shame all over her face. “I’m sorry for what I did. To you. To your children. Even to my own child. It was wrong—and I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I take a deep breath, imagining her with Nick, her eyes closed, holding him, telling him she loves him. Yet as much as I want to blame her and hate her, I don’t—and can’t. Instead, I feel pity for her. Maybe it’s because she is a single mother. Maybe it’s because her son was hurt. Maybe it’s because she’s in love with someone she can’t have. My husband.

  Whatever the case, I look into her eyes and say the thing I never dreamed I’d say in this moment.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, and as I watch her accept my gratitude with the slightest of nods, then gather her belongings and stand to leave, I am shocked to realize that I actually mean it.

  44

  Valerie

  Time heals all wounds. She knows this better than most. Yet she still feels surprised by it now, marveling that the mere passage of days can feel like gradual magic. She is not yet over him, bu
t she no longer misses him in an acute, painful way, and she has made peace with what happened between them, even if she doesn’t fully understand it. She thinks about what she told Nick’s wife—that he never loved her—and wonders if this is true, part of her still clinging to the belief that what they shared was real.

  But as more time passes, this hope dwindles and she begins to see their relationship merely as an impossible fantasy, an illusion born from need and longing. And she decides that just because two people believe in something, however intensely, doesn’t make it real.

  And then there is the matter of Tessa, the woman she envies and pities, fears and respects all at once. She replays their conversation a hundred times, even repeating it to Jason, before she can fully grasp what transpired in the back of the bookstore on that bitterly cold January evening. Nick’s wife had thanked her. She had listened to another woman confess to falling in love with her husband, making love to her husband, and yet she actually thanked her, seemingly accepting her apology, or at least not rejecting it. The whole scenario was so unlikely, so far-fetched, that it began to almost make sense, just as it began to seem perfectly logical that Charlie would come to love Summer, a girl who had once tormented him on the playground.

  It was about grace, she decides, something that has been missing from her own life. Whether she was born with a shortfall of it or lost it along the way, Valerie can’t be sure. But she wants it now. She wants to be the kind of person who can bestow unearned kindness on another, replace bitterness with empathy, forgive only for the sake of forgiving.