by D. J. Palmer
From the start of their relationship Simon had been nothing but generous, empathetic, and almost superhumanly in tune with her feelings and needs. Most importantly, she loved the way he loved her. It was like that first dinner he had cooked for her (eggplant rollatine), the first present he’d bought (an opal necklace, a perfect choice), the TV shows and movies he’d wanted to watch that she did too, the music he listened to—all of it perfectly aligned with her tastes and desires, as if the universe itself were sending signals to let her know she’d made the right choice. So if there was fault to pass around here, Nina considered it quite possible that it rested squarely on her shoulders.
In fact, in their brief history together there had been no fights, no misunderstandings, not even any minor tiffs for her to reference. The toilet seat was never left up. His clothes were never scattered about—or worse, dropped on the floor four inches from the hamper. He kept his side of the bathroom cleaner than Nina’s, as was his nature, and anytime he borrowed her car, it always came back with a full tank of gas.
Their first evening alone together, before they were a couple, had been at a restaurant Simon had picked out, the Blue Nile. It was new to Seabury but came highly praised by The Hippo, a weekly periodical covering arts and culture in New Hampshire. Nina hadn’t wanted to think of it as a date, because the word carried connotations she wasn’t ready to embrace. She had told Simon to meet her there, partly because it felt less datelike to arrive separately.
Strolling into the restaurant, Nina felt guilty for wearing an outfit she’d taken pains to select. To quiet her conscience, she reminded herself of Glen’s many betrayals. It was hard enough he’d gone missing, but when his secrets surfaced (the waitress . . . the missing money) and his body didn’t, it made things so much worse. So for that reason, Nina’s petty revenge felt strangely sweet. The fitted lace bodice with semi-sheer sleeves, paired with a pencil skirt, was both feminine and figure-flattering. She wore lipstick and mascara, something she saved for special occasions, but she had wanted to make an impression. Judging by how Simon couldn’t stop looking at her, Nina felt it was mission accomplished.
But it wasn’t a date. Her husband had been missing for only three months—twelve short weeks, and here she was, out with a man.
Simon had greeted Nina in the restaurant’s sleek foyer. She felt something stir inside when his lips brushed against her cheek. He looked dashing in his tweed blazer, white oxford, and dark slacks, and Nina began to rethink her stance. It wasn’t as if she had a marriage to mourn. As it turned out, she’d had no marriage at all. If Nina denied herself, it was only to adhere to some unspoken social norm. And it wasn’t as if she had gone looking for Simon. He just happened. It was organic. In a weird way, it felt almost predestined.
They exchanged pleasantries—“Hello,” “You look nice”—as he helped Nina with her coat. He thanked the hostess and before he took his seat, Simon pulled out a chair for Nina. She was glad to see chivalry wasn’t dead. In fact, Nina found herself fluttering a little at being treated like a lady, though she kept those feelings to herself.
The first order of business was the wine. Simon barely glanced at the menu before he suggested a bottle of Thierry Puzelat, a red she had never tasted before.
“It’s organic, unfiltered, and bottled without any added sulfites,” Simon said.
Nina was impressed. “Sounds perfect.”
And it was. Nina always shopped organic when she could. She was as careful about what she put into her children’s bodies as what went into her own.
Simon smiled appreciatively. “Had a good hunch about what you might like.”
“I’d say your hunch is very well informed.”
Simon chuckled in response.
The wine came while they were perusing the menu. Simon made sure Nina got the first sip, and it was in fact delicious. The waiter poured two glasses before taking their order. Nina asked for the Scottish organic salmon with savoy cabbage and truffle vinaigrette. Simon ordered steak frites with an arugula salad, and truffled shoestring fries.
“Tell me how you’re doing with everything.” Simon leaned in. Nina answered as best she could, sharing her worries, fears, doubts, and concerns for a future clouded by the smoldering wreckage of her past.
Simon had impressed Nina. He was so thoughtful and engaged, asking all the right questions; interested in her, but in a relaxed way. It didn’t feel like an inquisition or a romantic tryst, but more like two friends getting to know each other better, chatting with ease. It felt nice.
“Kids are hanging in there,” Nina said, answering one of Simon’s follow-up questions. “They’re trying to resume their lives, and I’m looking for therapists to help guide them, but it’s hard, as you can imagine.”
The evening flowed as easily as the wine went down. It wasn’t until Nina got home, with only a friendly embrace and no kiss goodnight from Simon, that she realized how much she had dominated the conversation. They’d barely spoken of Simon’s life, his hardships. It wasn’t a big secret that Simon’s wife had committed suicide some five years before. Nina didn’t know how to broach the subject, and thought it best if he were the one to bring it up. But he never did. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe the wound was still too fresh. Or maybe Nina was too consumed with her own misfortunes to discuss those of another.
She thought about this for much of the next day, wondering how to apologize for not encouraging Simon to speak about himself, when he showed up unexpectedly at the house with a toolbox in his hand.
Nina’s breath caught, surprised at how good it felt to see him again.
“I was in the neighborhood and remembered you had a loose and leaky faucet. I keep a toolbox in my car, and had the crazy idea to come by and fix it.” He swung his toolbox in the direction of the kitchen. Nina eyed him dubiously. She recalled the day Simon brought over her favorite meal and she’d invited him in for dinner. He had fiddled with the faucet that evening, so his story was believable. But she was also aware of the general vicinity in which Simon lived, meaning the only thing that might have led him to this part of town was looking squarely into his sweet baby brown eyes.
Nina was anxious about inviting Simon inside, as the children were at home and his presence again would obviously raise questions. But she found herself stepping aside, then following Simon to the kitchen. There he opened his toolbox and got right to work.
“Shouldn’t take but a minute,” he announced, using a flashlight to examine the faucet carefully. The kids did not come to inspect the visitor, but Daisy did, and her olfactory memory earned Simon a lick on the arm.
While Simon toiled, half hidden underneath the cabinet, Nina worked in an apology for the other evening.
“We didn’t talk about you hardly at all,” she said, making no allusions to them both sharing a tragic past. “I felt bad about it when I got home.”
Simon eased himself out from under the sink and met Nina’s worried gaze.
“I had a wonderful evening,” he said. “You don’t owe me an apology for anything.” And with that, he turned his attention back to the faucet.
As if on cue, Maggie came into the kitchen, surprised to see Simon there.
“Hey there,” Simon said, pulling himself out from under, his expression becoming animated. To Nina’s delight he anticipated Maggie’s question. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d fix the faucet. I noticed it was loose last time I was here. How are you?”
“Good,” Maggie answered.
“Everything going well at school? I know getting back must be hard.”
“It’s okay,” Maggie said in a soft voice.
“Well, it’s almost summer,” Simon said brightly. “I don’t know who’s more excited for the break—the kids or the teachers.”
Maggie returned a polite laugh. She had missed almost three weeks of school—first for the search, later for the grieving—while managing to keep up with her studies from home. At first, to help her kids stay on track,
Nina had kept the most damaging information from them. All they knew was that their dad was missing. She said nothing of their father’s many misdeeds, nor did they have an inkling that their mom was beginning to develop feelings for another man.
Maggie didn’t stay long. Adults had nothing to offer her, and if she did have questions about Simon’s motives for fixing the sink or her mother’s feelings, she’d never shared.
But she was sharing now.
Long after Nina and Simon had become a couple—after more dinners out, then movie dates; after long talks on the phone (something Nina hadn’t done since she and Glen had begun dating); after a moonlit beach walk and dance in the sand with only the wind and waves for music; after their first kiss on the lakeshore by Simon’s house and the first time they made love; after Simon professed his love for Nina (words he admitted to being too scared to say to anybody since his wife’s suicide); after the rocket-ship trajectory of new romance—Maggie had found her voice, and had no trouble speaking her mind.
Nina trudged upstairs, anticipating a rehashing of her daughter’s well-worn complaints: He’s not my real father. How could you just replace Dad? Why don’t I have any say? How come I can’t move to Nebraska and live with Nonni and Papa? The real issue, of course, was Glen.
It took time and a lot of soul searching before Nina had decided to level with her kids about what their father had done. She didn’t expect them to comprehend the situation the way an adult would, but she had hoped it would make it easier for them to accept what she wanted out of life now: Simon, love, a second chance at happiness.
While Nina wasn’t completely forthcoming, she’d given them the essential shape of the truth. She avoided using the word “affair,” and downplayed certain details of their financial woes for the benefit of young psyches in no need of further scarring. The most important message Nina tried to convey—and thought she’d done a good job of it, too—was that their father was gone, never to come back. In nearly the same breath, she had reassured them that she would always be there for them, but she wanted, needed, and deserved to move on with her life—a move that, to Maggie’s chagrin, involved Simon. This recent flare-up would in no way deter Nina’s resolve to make everyone happy, including herself.
When she got upstairs, Nina found Maggie spread out on her bed, lying on her stomach, feet where her head belonged, listening to music on her phone (she was still in her pop phase). Daisy was on the bed with her, curled in a tight, furry ball, content as could be. A book lay open on the plush comforter: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, the novel Maggie was reading with Glen when he disappeared.
Nina sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her daughter’s silky hair. Maggie wasn’t crying, but her eyes were red, suggesting she’d only recently stopped. The whole room buzzed with her daughter’s energy, her vibrant life force. The walls were plastered with a kaleidoscope of bright colors and handmade crafts Mags never tired of making: felt flowers, stuffed sock toys, painted rock animals, little creatures made from clam shells she had collected on a family trip to Sanibel.
Almost every inch of wall space was taken up with something Maggie had made, along with pictures of horses (her new obsession, though riding lessons were out of the question) and a lacrosse poster saying: I play like a girl; try to keep up. The furniture included a comfortable chair for reading, and well-stocked bookshelves. Mini blinds covered the windows. All in all, Mag’s room was neat and ordered—unlike their lives.
“Want to talk about it?” Nina asked.
Maggie flipped over onto her back before pulling herself upright. “What’s there to talk about? You won’t listen anyway.”
“You’ve been calling for me since I got home.”
“Well, I thought it over and I realized there’s no point. I’m stuck here . . . with him.” She pointed at her wall, in the direction of downstairs.
“Can’t you give him a chance?”
Maggie shook her head in a defiant no. “When Dad comes back, I won’t have to.”
“He’s not coming back,” Nina said, sensing her composure begin to fracture.
“You didn’t see Simon’s eyes tonight, Mom. His anger. It was really, really scary.”
Nina gave a roll of her eyes that would have made Connor proud, thinking he was right to call Maggie overly dramatic. This was and had been her unending pattern: make big bold claims about everything falling apart and how it was all her mom’s fault. But this was the first time Maggie had talked about being afraid of Simon. Clearly she was trying a different tactic to get a rise out of her mother.
Nina was mulling over how to respond when Simon came marching into the room holding a gun.
Chapter 7
I admit I panicked when I saw the barrel of the rifle. My first thought was, This is it—I’m dead. I’ve seen horror movies and true crime shows. I’m going to be tomorrow’s news today; a dead body in a room stained with blood-splattered walls. But then my eyes went to work, and I realized the gun in Simon’s hands was not going to be used to shoot my mom, my dog, or me. It was an antique gun, a musket to be exact, and was part of Mr. Fitch’s well-known hobby of reenacting the Revolutionary War.
Every year, Mr. Fitch gives a big presentation on it to the entire school. Seventh-and eighth-grade classrooms gather at different times in the auditorium to see his one-man play. He dresses up first as a Redcoat and then a Patriot to show both sides of the conflict—you know, give us kids a complete picture of what was happening back then.
Even though I didn’t pay much attention to last year’s performance, a lot of kids really liked it. And our principal said it helped bring history to life, which is what Mr. Fitch, our “beloved” social studies teacher, got paid to do. On stage, he paraded that musket around (yeah, school shooting concerns and all) like a good soldier. He spoke in this lame English accent and complained about not having enough food and ammunition to do some big battle or something.
Each year, around this time, Mr. Fitch leads a field trip for his classes to Strawbery Banke, an outdoor history museum that features a bunch of restored buildings from colonial New England. He goes dressed in costume and carries that musket with him like he is guarding the place from invaders. Only the kids who go on the Strawbery Banke field trip get to handle Mr. Fitch’s musket, which cost over two thousand dollars from an antique gun dealer. They’re allowed to load it with powder, even try out the bayonet on a tree—all under his careful supervision, of course. So once I figured out what the gun in his hands was, I knew he hadn’t brought it into my room to kill me.
He’d brought it as a peace offering.
“I’ve come to lay down my weapon,” Simon said, amusing only himself. He made a big show of putting his ancient musket on my bed, which annoyed Daisy, who up and left. My mother was looking at him like, What the heck are you doing? She didn’t know the history of that musket, the cool factor it held for some kids—but not me.
“Look, Maggie, I’m sorry about what happened. Your mother and I had a little misunderstanding. Can you forgive me? I was headed downstairs to oil the musket, get it ready for the field trip, and thought maybe you’d like to help. Connor is working on that robot with me; I was hoping this could be our thing.”
Oh joy, oh joy, I was thinking. Nothing in the world would make me happier than oiling a gun—not! I kept my thoughts to myself because I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. Simon was all smiles and apologies, and my mom couldn’t have looked more pleased.
“No thanks,” I said.
Rather than fight it, Simon extended his hand to me. “Could we be friends again?”
Again??? I thought. Whatever.
“Sure,” I said, trying to forget the look I’d seen in his eyes, that flash of something scary dark.
“Maggie, we’ve all got to try harder, okay, sweetheart?” Mom said as she got up from my bed. “This is a big adjustment for everyone, Simon too.”
I didn’t say anything because sometimes silence speaks louder than words. Mom let
go a heavy sigh.
“I’ll try,” I mumbled.
“You can do better than that,” Mom said.
My mom didn’t get angry very often, especially these days, when we’d already suffered so much. But I heard the shake in her voice, a little rumble telling me that if I pushed any harder, her volcano might blow. I backed off, saying I had homework to do, forgetting my earlier lie, so they left.
Simon took his dumb gun with him.
At some point, Connor poked his head into my room. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but he was in the mood to lecture.
“Hey, you’ve got to help Mom out,” he said. “She’s been through a lot too, you know.”
I thought about telling Connor what I’d seen, that look from Simon, but I knew he’d say I was being dramatic, because that’s what he always says. I was so done with him, with everyone. He could have Simon all to himself, if that’s what he wanted. Go practice football with him, go make that robot, go do whatever. I didn’t care anymore, because I had nobody. I didn’t think it was possible to miss my dad any more, but I was wrong.
About a half hour later, I heard loud talking from downstairs. I snuck down the steps the way I did on those Christmas Eves years ago, when I thought for sure I’d catch my parents putting presents under the tree. By this point I could maneuver in my stupid boot like I wasn’t wearing it at all. I worked my way down the hall, careful not to alert Daisy, who would gladly give me up. I got close enough to hear my mother and Simon talking, let’s just call it animatedly, about her going back to work. I kept my back pressed up against the wall, listening to the conversation coming from the kitchen.
“I can’t sit around and let you cover all of our expenses,” Mom said. “It doesn’t feel right to me, even if you can afford it.”
“But I can afford it,” Simon whined. “We’re fine. I’m making way more money than I thought renting out my house.”
How does he have money? I wondered. Simon always bragged how he could provide for us, college and all, but I never thought it was possible on what a teacher made. Then again, he did own a two-thousand-dollar costume prop. Maybe he came from a wealthy family. What did I know? I hardly knew him.