Between Husbands and Friends Page 9

  I stared at her. Kate looked different. She was somehow different. She was shining.

  “I’ve been frantic with worry about you,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So I see,” she said wryly.

  “Damn it, Kate, this is not funny! I almost called the police! I thought you’d been kidnapped or assaulted or something!”

  Instantly her expression changed. “I’m sorry, Luce. I was having so much fun, I just didn’t think.”

  “I guess you didn’t.”

  Kate sat down next to me, and put her hand placatingly on my arm. Her clothes were rumpled and disarrayed … but then, so were mine. Her cheeks were rosy. She smelled like sex.

  Kate smelled like sex.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I told you. Someone’s house.”

  “To do what?”

  “What do you think? To dance. To hang out.” She stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  I rose, too. “Kate, you can’t just walk off like this. We need to talk.”

  She turned. The smile on her face was somehow indulgent. Condescending. “All right. Talk.”

  “I don’t think what you did was right. I had no idea where you were. You didn’t call me. You could have called me. I was really worried.”

  “Come on, Lucy, don’t be so stuffy. I’m a grown-up.”

  “I know that. And I’m not being stuffy. You left your son here, didn’t you think about him?”

  “Sure I did. I knew he was with you. I knew he was safe. So I had fun. I had a wonderful time, Lucy, and I don’t regret it. I’m sorry that you worried about me, but get over it. I’m here now.”

  “And all you’re going to say is that you went to someone’s house?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Well, I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you. I had a wonderful night, and I’m not going to spoil a second of it by sharing it with you when you’re in such a pissy mood.”

  I stared at Kate, my heart pounding. “Jesus. I don’t even know you.”

  “Mommy?”

  We both turned. Matthew was at the bottom of the stairs, looking into the room at us.

  “Hi, honey,” Kate said. “Did we wake up you?”

  “Uh-huh.” Matthew rubbed his eyes.

  By now the room was bright with sunshine.

  “You know what, Kate?” I said, my voice falsely cheerful. “You left me alone to care for the kids without consulting me. Now I’m returning the favor. I’m going to bed now. I’m going to sleep as late as I want.”

  “Fine with me,” Kate said, her voice edged. “I’m not sleepy anyway. Come on, Matthew. Curl up on the sofa with me, honey.”

  I looked in on Margaret one more time; she was sleeping like an angel. I shut my bedroom door, stripped off my clothes, and fell into bed. This time when sleep reached up to claim me, I let it take me under.

  I woke at one o’clock in the afternoon, feeling groggy and hung over. The sky was overcast; the air cool. I looked out the window and saw Margaret and Matthew playing Frisbee in the backyard. By the time I had showered and washed my hair and brushed my teeth, I felt better. I wanted coffee. I wondered how Kate was holding up.

  I found her in a rocking chair on the back porch. She wore sweatpants and a long white shirt and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup. She looked fabulous. She looked radiant.

  “Good nap?” she asked.

  I nodded. “How are the kids?”

  “Happy as larks. I took them to the library and to get videos. Walked them all over town.”

  I settled onto the wicker swing and sipped my coffee.

  “Want to talk?” Kate asked.

  “Please.”

  Kate looked out at the backyard. The M&Ms were picking berries from a shrub and mashing them into the Frisbee, muttering imprecations over the mixture. Kate said, “I slept with him.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.” Kate met my eyes. “Lucy, it was wonderful.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. I did it, and it was the best thing I’ve done for myself in years.”

  “Kate … Kate, who is he?”

  Kate laughed, a throaty, smug, delicious chuckle. “His name is Slade. He’s twenty-four. He likes to ski and swim. He just goes where the action is and works as a waiter and has fun. He is completely irresponsible.”

  “Not too irresponsible to use a condom, I hope,” I snapped.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. We used a condom. I should say condoms.” Kate leaned toward me, her face glowing. “Lucy, it was just astonishing. I’ve never had sex like this. I’ve never felt so free, so totally carried away. We made love all night long.”

  Margaret and Matthew came up to the porch, went in the house, and returned carrying a doll and some pots and kitchen utensils.

  “Betsy’s sick,” Margaret said. “Matthew’s a doctor. He’s going to give her some medicine.”

  “That’s good, sweetie,” I said. I would have said it if they’d been carrying the Cuisinart outdoors. I was too stunned to think.

  It was true that Kate and I had developed a kind of conspiracy, not so much against our husbands as in the aid of being female. Over the past year as we’d become closer and closer, we’d complained about our husbands’ faults and made fun of certain particularly amusing habits.

  But we loved our husbands. We were happily married. If our sex lives were sometimes less than amazing, it was understandable. Anyone with young children had to forfeit a bit of quality sex.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I finally admitted.

  “You’re shocked.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “I’ve never done it before, Lucy. Never been unfaithful to Chip. And it can’t hurt him. He doesn’t ever need to know.”

  I thought about Chip. Over the past year he and Max had become friends; but then Max could be friends with just about anyone, and was.

  Of course Max and I had discussed Chip and Kate thoroughly, just as I was certain they’d discussed us.

  Why doesn’t Chip talk more, I’d asked my husband. He’s a lawyer, after all.

  He’s not a trial lawyer, Max pointed out. Chip’s one of those guys who read the mind-numbing fine print in eighty-page contracts.

  I think Chip’s vain, don’t you? I’d continued. I mean, the cost of his suits, his shoes. And everything is so perfect.

  He’s not any more vain than Kate, Max retorted, protecting his gender. And don’t forget, he works for one of the most prestigious firms in Boston. Image is crucial. It’s a responsibility.

  I couldn’t live like that, I’d sighed, and snuggled close to my cozy husband.

  Chip was happiest when we were doing something physical. When the men came to Nantucket the summer before, Chip had rented a sailboat for the day and had been in his element, hauling up the heavy canvas sail, tying intricate knots in the rope, trimming the sails. His play with the M&Ms was the best; he chased them, held them by their ankles and flung them around in circles, spent endless amounts of time supporting them in the salty waves of the harbor as they tried to learn to swim or float. In the evenings, when the children were asleep, Chip initiated card games or board games, while Max wanted to watch the news and discuss world events. I had assumed that because he was such an athlete, he would be a good, vigorous lover.

  “Aren’t you happy with Chip?” I asked Kate.

  “God, yes,” she said. “This has nothing to do with Chip.”

  “Has he had affairs?”

  “Of course not! Look, last night hardly qualifies as an affair.”

  “What would you call it?”

  Kate leaned back against the rocker and closed her eyes. She smiled. “Therapy,” she said at last. “Let’s call it therapy. Just what I needed, and ever so much less expensive.”

  Max and Chip arrived the next weekend. We met them at the ferry. Max swung Margaret up in
his left arm, grabbed me with his right, pulled me to him, and kissed me soundly on my mouth. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his breath warm and stirring against my neck.

  Chip lifted his son up onto his shoulders, and perhaps it was because he had to steady the boy by holding on to both legs, or perhaps it was just the way Chip was—reserved—but I noticed that he only leaned forward and pecked Kate chastely and briefly on the lips.

  While we’d waited for the ferry to pull in, our children tugging on our hands and wriggling all over like excited puppies, Kate had said to me in a calm, even cavalier tone, as if reminding me to pick up something at the grocery store, “Don’t tell Max about my little fling, okay?”

  I didn’t respond. I had to think about that. I told Max everything.

  “I don’t want him to think less of me, Lucy,” Kate continued. “And you know he would.”

  It was true. He would think less of her. And he might begin to wonder about me. About what it was I was looking for when I danced at the Muse.

  “Okay,” I said to Kate. “I promise.”

  That was the first time I made a choice between my husband and my best friend.

  July 1998

  Margaret’s helping me chop vegetables for tacos. She’s just returned from the Cunninghams’ and all she can talk about is Matthew’s new electric guitar.

  “I think we’re ready,” I tell her. “Will you call Jeremy and your dad?”

  She knows by now that I don’t mean she should stand in the middle of the room and bellow. Off she goes, while I set glasses of ice water at each place. The ice seems to make my fingers tingle … but now my lips are tingling, too. I take deep breaths. I will not allow another effing panic attack to overwhelm me, not now.

  Max enters the kitchen, Jeremy riding on his shoulders. We sit around the table, passing salsa, cheese, tomatoes, and Margaret is still going on about Matthew’s electric guitar.

  “So is Matthew giving up piano?” Max asks.

  “No. He’s going to do both. Classical piano and electric rock.” Carefully she spoons green peppers onto the tidy layers of her taco. “He’s going to form a band with some other guys. Tony Rondo and Jason Cutler. It’s going to be really cool.”

  “Mom,” Jeremy asks, “who’s Jared Falconer?”

  Surprised, my first response is to wait for the anxiety attack to knock my breath out of my chest. But nothing happens. Perhaps the heat and spice of the tacos provide sufficient antidote to the cold of panic. I swallow and wipe my mouth. “How do you know about Jared Falconer?”

  “He left a message on the machine for you.” Jeremy looks guilty. “I forgot to hit the Save button.” His taco shell shatters before he can fill it and his chin crumples.

  I take his broken shell, put a whole one on his plate, and help him delicately spoon in the filling. “That’s all right, honey.”

  “Why did Jared Falconer call you?” Max asks.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Jumping up, I find myself spontaneously moving into diversionary tactics. “You know what would taste good with this? A beer. Want one?”

  “I’ll take one,” Margaret says.

  “Yeah!” Jeremy laughs, exposing a mouth full of food.

  “Close your mouth when you chew!” Max, Margaret, and I chorus, laughing with disgust.

  I open a beer for myself and one for him, pour them into glasses, set them on the table. “Jared Falconer asked me to join his firm.”

  “When did he do this?”

  “Um, just a couple of weeks ago. I was going to talk it over with you, but I wanted to think about it first.”

  “What kind of firm, Mom?” Margaret asks.

  “It’s a prestigious advertising and public relations firm in Boston,” Max says. “Did he talk about salary?”

  “Only generally.” I can feel myself blush. I sit down and slug back some beer. “I told him I need some time to think about it. He said I can let him know in September.”

  Max says, “So they’re not just filling an empty slot. They want you.”

  “I never thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right. They liked the fund-raising I did for the animal shelter.”

  “It’s quite a compliment,” Max says.

  “That’s true. But it might not be the best thing for me. Commuting to Boston and all. I’d probably have to wear suits. High heels.”

  “That would be cool, Mom,” Margaret says.

  “What do you think?” I ask Max.

  He considers. “It would change your life. Our lives.”

  “I know. And I’m very happy with my life just as it is. On the other hand, we’ve got Margaret’s college tuition to plan for.” Jeremy begins to cough.

  “It’s all the driving that bothers me. I’ve been so lucky, working at home.” Max rubs Jeremy’s back. “Okay now?”

  “Okay, Dad,” Jeremy says.

  “We’ve got a lot of time to talk about it,” I say. “Things have a way of coming clear when we’re on Nantucket.”

  Later that night, Max sits on Jeremy’s bed, leaning against the headboard. He’s just finished reading Caleb’s Friend for the ten thousandth time. Jeremy checked out this book so persistently from the library that I finally ordered a copy for him to have for his very own. He looks at it every night before he goes to sleep.

  It’s about a real boy who becomes friends with a mer-boy. They never speak—the mer-boy can’t, and can’t understand words either—but they manage to communicate, to tap into something profound and enduring in the other’s soul. It’s a beautiful book, but melancholy, and I wonder what it means that Jeremy loves it so.

  Maybe Jeremy thinks he’s part merman. Certainly he loves the water as if he were. His joy at being in the ocean has strengthened my sense that we are right to keep the Nantucket house. I am an enthusiastic if graceless swimmer, and Margaret has had lessons since she was two years old and likes the water well enough, but Max is a Taurus, a land animal, preferring to keep his feet on land. Or he did, until the first summer that Jeremy toddled, shrieking with glee, into the shallow waves at the Jetties. Jeremy is one of the few children I’ve seen who didn’t cry when he first got his face wet, and when a wave knocked him off his feet, rolling over him so that for a moment he was under water, out of our sight, he came up grinning, blowing water out of his nose, and dancing a little jig of happiness. He could swim well by three; he didn’t need lessons, but looked around him, saw other people, imitated their movements, and set off. Max has become a stronger swimmer, and has even taken lifesaving lessons, just to try to keep up with his son, and I know he’s proud of his new skills, glad to feel more at home in the water. In the winter, Jeremy and Max go off to the high school pool two nights a week and on Saturdays, to keep improving their strokes. Of course this all delights me; it makes our Nantucket house seem even more integral to our life.

  Jeremy’s longing to really swim, like the big boys do, out beyond the sandbar. Tonight he looks too small to fight his way across a pool, let alone a harbor. His brown curls glint with gold lights and his nose and cheeks are sunburned from his days at Camp Arbor. He’s lost his right front tooth and all of his teeth look too small, out of scale with his face. His cough has dried up; he is a normal healthy boy, tired after a summer day, and fiercely protective of his secret relationship with the boys in the book.

  I’m leaning against the doorframe, looking in at my guys, pleased with what I see. Jeremy will be on the short side like his father, and if he ever gains any weight, he’ll be stocky, too. He has taken up his father’s habit of taking a deep breath and nodding sharply, once, between one matter of attention and focus and another, and as I watch, both father and son inhale and nod. They’ve finished reading. Time to move on.

  “All right, son,” Max says. “Time to get some sleep.”

  “ ’Night, Daddy,” Jeremy responds, sliding down onto his pillow. His book stays in bed with him.

  “Good night, Jere-Bear,” I say, entering the room. Jeremy reaches u
p his skinny arms for a good night hug.

  Max turns on the night-light. We pull the door not quite closed, open enough so he can see the light in the hallway.

  Margaret is also in bed, also reading, so deeply engrossed in a gothic mystery that she only offers her cheek for a quick kiss and keeps her eyes on the page. I love this; I feel Max and I have done at least one thing right: We’ve turned our children into addicted readers.

  “ ’Night, Magpie,” Max says, kissing her forehead.

  “ ’Night, Dad.”

  “Don’t read too late,” I warn her, and she nods absently. I could have spoken in Russian and received the same response.

  Max is in the study, reading a fax.

  “It’s late,” I tell him. “Come to bed.”

  “In a minute.”

  It’s been two weeks since Stan dropped the bomb about Paul Richardson’s involvement with the CDA Corporation. Max is making an effort to interact with the children, but with me he can’t dissemble quite so easily.

  Entering the study, I approach Max and stand behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his back. I feel the muscles in his shoulders move as he adjusts the pages of the fax.

  I have a book waiting, too, a good book. Over the fifteen years of our marriage there have been plenty of nights when I’ve chosen to read a book rather than make love, or even when I’ve resented having to put a book aside because my husband’s hand was on my thigh. We haven’t made love for two weeks, and this is an early warning sign. I can feel Max slipping away from me.

  “Do you want to discuss the Jared Falconer thing?”

  “Not now.”

  “Then do you want to do this …” I move my hands down to his groin.

  “Not now,” he grumbles, twitching his shoulder irritably.

  “Now,” I say. Standing on tiptoe, I nibble at the skin behind his ear. He has shaved today and his skin is only slightly bristly with evening beard.

  “I’ve got to make some notes.”

  “You can do that later.”

  “Come on, Loose,” Max says, suddenly moving away from the table and away from my touch. “I told you I have work to do.”