“Tessa, dear, please tell me you have white pepper,” Diane says, jolting me out of my thoughts with her usual sense of urgency and affected Jackie O accent. Earlier this week, she gave me a long list of ingredients for her various side dishes—but white pepper was not among them.
“I think we do,” I say, pointing toward the pantry. “Should be on the second shelf.”
“Thank God,” Diane says. “Black pepper simply won’t do.”
I force a smile of understanding, thinking that Diane is a snob in the classic sense of the word, feeling superior on just about every front. She grew up with money and privilege (then married and divorced someone even more well-to-do), and although she does her best to hide it, I can tell she looks down on the middle-American masses—and even more so on the nouveaux riches—or as she calls them in a whisper, “parvenus.” She is not classically beautiful, but is striking in the first-glance kind of way that tall, high-browed blondes often are, and looks a full decade younger than her fifty-eight years due to diligent grooming, obsessive tennis playing, and a few nip and tucks she openly, proudly, discusses. She also has a natural grace about her—the kind that comes from boarding school, years of ballet, and a mother who made her walk around balancing encyclopedias on her head.
In short, she is everything a first wife fears—refined and sophisticated with no trace of bimbo to be found—and as such, I do my best to disdain her on my mother’s behalf. Diane makes the task difficult, though, for she’s never been anything other than gracious and thoughtful to me, perhaps because she never had children of her own. She also makes a great effort with Ruby and Frank, lavishly gifting them and playing with them in a heartfelt, on-the-floor way that their two grandmothers never do. Dex, who is spending Thanksgiving with my mother in the city, is suspicious of Diane’s efforts, certain that her kindness is more about showing off to my father and showing up my mother, but Rachel and I agree that her motivation doesn’t much matter—it’s the result we appreciate.
Above all, Diane keeps my father in line and happy. Even when she’s complaining—which she often does—he seems content to remedy whatever’s ailing her, almost inspired by the challenge. I remember April once asking if I ever felt in competition with her—if she had somehow eroded my “daddy’s girl” status. Until she posed the question, I hadn’t quite realized that my dad and I never had that kind of relationship. He was a good father, prioritizing our education, taking us on great European vacations, teaching us how to fly a kite, tie sailing knots, and drive a stick shift. But he was never particularly affectionate or doting, the way Nick is with Ruby—and I have the feeling it might have something to do with my mother and how closely I aligned myself to her, even as a child. It was as if he sensed my disapproval, my affiliation with a woman he was betraying, even before I knew what he was up to. So, in short, Diane’s flamboyant arrival on the familial front didn’t really change much between my dad and me.
I watch her now, reaching into one of her many personalized Goyard bags, retrieving a pair of cherry-red, jeweled, cat’s-eye reading glasses that only a woman like Diane could pull off. She slips them on and peers down at her cookbook, also pulled from her bag, humming an indeterminable tune with an aren’t-I-adorable expression—a look that she kicks into high gear as my father pops into the kitchen and winks at her.
“David, sweetheart, come here,” she says.
He does, wrapping his arms around her from behind, as she turns and kisses his cheek before returning her full attention to her butternut squash soup.
Meanwhile, Connie is manning the turkey, basting it with peasantlike efficiency. In high contrast to Diane’s ultrafeminine skirt suit and sleek crocodile pumps, Connie is wearing elastic-waist pants, a fall-foliage sweater adorned with a pilgrim pin, and tie shoes that are either orthopedic or her attempt to win an ugly-footwear contest. I can tell she disapproves of Diane’s cookbook, as she is firmly in the no-frills-or-recipe camp, especially on Thanksgiving. In this sense—in every sense—she is utterly traditional, a subservient wife who thinks Nick, her only child, walks on water. She actually refers to him as a miracle child—as he came after her doctor’s prognosis that she could not have children. Considering this, and the fact that Nick has met and surpassed all parental hopes for greatness, it is another miracle that Connie and I get along at all. But for the most part, she pretends to approve of me, even though I know it kills her that I’m not raising the kids in the Catholic church, or any church for that matter. That my father’s Jewish (which, in her mind, makes me half Jewish, her grandchildren a quarter so). That I use spaghetti sauce from a jar. That although I love Nick, on most days I don’t think he lassoed the moon. In fact, the only time she has ever seemed genuinely pleased with me was when I told her I was going to quit my job—an ironic juxtaposition to my own mother’s views on the subject.
My hand sore from peeling, I set about filling a large pot with water while listening to two parallel conversations—one about Connie’s neighbor’s battle with ovarian cancer, another involving Diane’s recent girls’ spa trip, with only the most attenuated thematic connection between the two threads. It is one of the only things that Diane and Connie have in common—they are both big talkers, incessantly chattering about people I’ve never met, referring to them by name as if I know them well. It is an annoying trait, but it makes them easy to be around, requiring almost no effort other than an occasional follow-up question.
The next two hours continue in this vein, the noise level ramping up as the kids infiltrate the kitchen with their most nerve-trying toys, until I succumb to a string of Bloody Marys—which, incidentally, is the only other thing Diane and Connie have in common. They are both big drinkers. So by four o’clock, when we all come to the table, at least three of us are tipsy, possibly four if you include Nick’s dad, Bruce, who has drained several Captain and Cokes but never talks enough to reveal any signs of consumption. Instead, he sits gruffly, and after a nudge from Connie, makes the sign of the cross and speeds through his standard prayer: Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.
We all mumble Amen, while Nick’s parents cross themselves again and Ruby imitates them, with a few too many touches—in what occurs to me, with amusement, looks more like a Star of David than a cross.
“So!” my dad says, as uncomfortable with religion as he is with Nick’s parents. “Looks delicious!” He directs his praise at Diane, who beams and helps herself to a comically small portion of mashed potatoes, then conspicuously refuses the gravy, passing it along to Nick’s dad.
The conversation comes to a standstill after that, other than murmurings of how great everything looks and smells, and Frank and Ruby’s discussion of what they do not want on their plates.
Then, about two minutes into dinner, Diane looks at me with alarm and says, “Oh, Tess! Do you know what we forgot?”
I glance around the table, finding nothing amiss, pleased that I remembered to get the rolls out of the warming drawer—which is my usual omission.
“Candles!” Diane says. “We must have candles.”
Nick shoots me an irritated look that makes me feel fleetingly connected to him. Like we’re on the same team, in on the same joke.
“I’ll get them,” he offers.
“No. I’ll get them,” I say, feeling sure that he has no idea where we keep such accoutrements. Besides, I know how Connie feels about her men getting up from the table during the meal, for any reason.
I return to the kitchen, standing on a stepstool to reach into a high cabinet for a pair of pewter candlesticks, two barely burned candles from last Valentine’s Day still stuck inside. Then I open the drawer next to the stove where we normally house matches. None to be found—which is par for the course these days in our disorganized house. I close my eyes, trying to visualize where I last saw a book of matches, one of those things, like safety pins or paper clips, that you find strewn everywhere unless you need them, a
nd remember that I lit a candle in our bedroom one night last week. I run upstairs, open the drawer of my nightstand, and find a matchbox right where I left it. Out of breath from the biggest burst of exercise I’ve had in days, I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hand over the matchbox cover, reading the pink, distinctive-font inscription: Amanda & Steve: Love Rules.
Steve was one of Nick’s better friends in medical school, now a dermatologist in L.A., and Amanda the model he met in his office when she came in for laser hair removal. Love Rules was the theme of their Hawaiian wedding, the three-day extravaganza Nick and I attended when I was a few months pregnant with Frank. The tagline was written everywhere—on their save-the-date cards, invitations, and Web site, as well as the canvas boat bags, water bottles, and beach towels given to all guests upon our arrival at the resort. The hip declaration was even scrawled across a banner, pulled by an airplane flying overhead on the beach just after the couple exchanged vows. I remember Nick, looking skyward, shading his eyes with amused cynicism, whispering, “Yo. Love rules, dude.”
I had smiled back at him, feeling slightly foolish for being momentarily impressed by the spectacle he was clearly mocking, and simultaneously proud that our wedding had been the opposite of a production. Nick had deferred to me in our plans, but had lodged a strong request for a low-key affair, one that I obliged, in part, because of my embarrassment over my canceled wedding and all the costs our guests accrued; in part because I had seen the light, come to believe that a wedding should be about a feeling between two people, not a show for the masses. As a result, we had a small ceremony at the New York Public Library, followed by an elegant dinner at an Italian restaurant in Gramercy with only our family and closest friends. It was a magical, romantic evening, and although I occasionally wish I had worn a slightly fancier dress, and that Nick and I had danced on our wedding night, I have no real regrets about the way we chose to do things.
Love Rules, I think now, as I slowly stand, gathering strength for my return trip downstairs, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. Then, just as I’m leaving our room, I spot Nick’s BlackBerry on the top of his dresser and feel seized by the temptation to do something I have always said I would never do.
I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous, that I do not want to be a snooping, paranoid wife, that I have no reason to be suspicious. Then I hear the little voice in my head say, No reason other than his withdrawn behavior, his long hours, our lack of intimacy. I shake my head, dispelling the doubts. Nick isn’t perfect, but he is not a liar. He is not a cheater.
And yet, I continue to walk toward his phone, strangely compelled to reach out and touch it. I take it in my hand, scroll through to the mail icon, and see that there is a new text message from a 617 area code, a Boston cell phone number. It is undoubtedly a colleague, I tell myself. A male colleague. A work situation that can’t wait until tomorrow—at least not in the estimation of a fellow obsessed surgeon.
I click on it with equal parts guilt and fear and read:
Thinking of you, too. Sorry I missed your call. Will be home around 7 if you want to try again. Until then, have a happy Thanksgiving . . . PS Of course he doesn’t hate you. How could anyone hate you?
I stare at the words, trying to determine who they could be from, who doesn’t hate Nick, reassuring myself that there is a logical, benign explanation behind them, even for the “thinking of you, too” portion of the message. And yet, my head spins and heart pounds with worrisome possibilities, worst-case scenarios. I read the text twice more, hearing a woman’s voice, seeing the vague outline of her face, a young version of Diane. I close my eyes, swallow back the panic rising in my throat, and tell myself to stop the madness. Then I mark the message as unread, slip his phone back on the dresser, and return to the table, candlesticks and matches in hand.
“Here we are!” I say, smiling brightly as I flank the autumnal centerpiece with the candles, lighting them one at a time, doing my best to steady my hands. Then I sit and eat in virtual silence, other than to remind the kids of their manners and occasionally fuel Diane and Connie’s babble.
All the while, I replay the text in my head, stealing glances at Nick, and wondering if I could ever hate him.
24
Valerie
She and Charlie spend Thanksgiving at Jason’s, along with his boyfriend, Hank, and Rosemary. Although the day is quiet and low-key, it still feels like something of a test and a benchmark, as Hank marks the first official contact Charlie has had with anyone other than family or hospital personnel. Hank handles the interaction perfectly, earning Valerie’s affection every time he looks Charlie directly in the eye, and without treating him with kid gloves, asks him questions about his mask, his surgeries and physical therapy, and how he feels about his upcoming return to school.
Meanwhile, Valerie neatly avoids being alone with her brother, ignoring his long stares and pointed remarks, until late in the day when he finally manages to corner her in the kitchen while the others are eating their second helping of pumpkin pie.
“Start talking,” he says, casting furtive glances at the door, safeguarding her privacy, even from their mother. Especially from their mother.
“It’s not what you think,” she says, still buzzing from the text message she read in the powder room right before dinner. It was from Nick—his third of the day—asking if Jason hates him, telling her he is thinking of her. She wrote him back, saying she was thinking of him, too—although obsessing was more the word for it. She dreamed about him all last night, and he has not left her mind once all day.
“So you’re not getting busy with the doc?” he probes, under his breath.
“No,” she says, as a vision of him weakens her knees.
“So he always makes house calls? Late at night? Unannounced? Wearing cologne?” Jason rattles off the questions.
“He wasn’t wearing cologne,” she replies a little too quickly, then attempts to cover up her intimate knowledge with a sidebar about how she has never trusted guys who wear cologne. “Lion wore cologne,” she finishes.
“Aha!” he says, as if this is all the evidence he needs. Why else would she compare a man to Lion—the love of her life so far? Which isn’t saying much. But still.
“Don’t aha me,” she says as Rosemary walks into the kitchen.
“What are you two all whispery about now?” she asks, opening the refrigerator.
“Nothing,” they say in unison, clearly hiding something.
Rosemary shakes her head, as if she doesn’t believe them but doesn’t much care, returning to the family room with a container of Cool Whip and a large serving spoon.
“Carry on,” she says over her shoulder.
Which Jason does, switching tactics, slipping into his straight-shooting mode. “Val. Just tell me. Is something going on?”
She hesitates, making a split-second decision that she does not want to layer a lie on top of everything else.
“Yes,” she finally says. “But it’s not . . . physical.”
She thinks of their embrace last night, as intimate as any moment in her life, but decides that she is still telling the truth. Technically.
“Are you falling in love with him?” he asks.
She gives him a bashful smile that is more telling than anything she could say.
Jason whistles. “Wow. Okay . . . He is married, correct?”
She nods.
“Separated?”
“No,” she says, answering questions the way she instructs her clients—as simply as possible, offering no extra information. “Not to my knowledge,” she adds, entertaining the hopeful thought that this could be the case.
“And . . . ?” he says.
“And nothing,” she says.
She has thought about his wife a thousand times, of course, wondering about her, their marriage. What does she look like? What is she like? Why did Nick fall in love with her? And more important, why has he fallen out? Or maybe he hasn’t. Maybe this is only ab
out the two of them, the feelings they share, the uncontrollable force bringing them together—and nothing else.
Valerie doesn’t know which scenario she prefers, whether she wants to be a reaction to something that has already soured or to be something that has taken him by storm, out of the blue, overriding his contented existence with an offer of something more. Something better. All she knows for sure is that he isn’t the kind of man who has done this before. She would swear anything on it.
Valerie sticks to the facts now. “He’s married with two kids . . . And he’s Charlie’s doctor. It’s an all-around big problem,” she says succinctly.
“Okay,” Jason says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I thought maybe it was just me.”
“No. It’s not just you. I am perfectly aware that there is nothing about this situation that is right,” she whispers resignedly. “And for the record, he knows it’s wrong, too. But . . .”
“But you’re not going to stop seeing him?” Jason says in the voice of a brother, a best friend, a therapist, all rolled into one. “Are you?”
“No,” she says. “I can’t.”
25
Tessa
That night, shortly after Nick’s parents leave for home and my dad and Diane depart for Fifteen Beacon, their favorite hotel in Boston and where they always stay when they come to town, Nick pokes his head into the kids’ bathroom where I am stripping off their clothes and corralling them into the tub.
“I’m going to run out. Be back in a few,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, my heart sinking as I glance at my watch and note that it is nearly seven o’clock.
“Cherry Coke,” he says.
Nick has always insisted that cherry Coke is more effective than Tylenol in curing headaches, which he claims to have tonight. And maybe he does. I desperately hope that he does, hope that he is on the brink of the worst migraine ever. “You want anything?”