Darling Discovered

by Mrs. Darling

  Leo was perfect. Well, of course not, nobody is perfect, but I thought that Leo was perfect for me.

  Is the pain now so great because of how far he has actually fallen from grace?

  The fallen Mister Donnovan. What a fucking shame.

  “Why two dozen?” I ask to a younger version of the man now helping me to “push!”

  It is five years prior and I am in an office working, not in a hospital in the worst pain of my life.

  Leo Donnovan, the thirty-ish year old bachelor who I have recently begun spending time with replied with a voice that sends excited chills through me even when on the phone: “One dozen for you to take home, one for you to keep there at your desk. So I can always be around.”

  I lean back in my office chair and begin twirling the phone cord through my antsy fingers.

  There are two dozen just-blooming orange roses the color of fire sitting on my desk, scenting the entire front office.

  “Cool, cool, I can do that. Thank you.” I respond with nonchalance that I am entirely faking.

  “Cool, cool,” Leo says teasing, completely aware of my effervescent attitude.

  My business cards still introduce me as “Chloe Larchmont,” my mother’s maiden name and mine as well. I had no idea I was currently falling in love but in hindsight I was a fool to have not seen it. Most of what I felt was lust.

  I pull my compact from my purse and touch up my face. I am a sleeker, hipper version of the woman who years later would be married with child. My face is thinner; my hair is just past my shoulders and styled professionally in a lovely straight honey blonde, low lights and highlights painstakingly applied every six weeks. I am smaller than I will probably ever be again, spending my mornings at the gym running before work, eating tiny salads in my tiny bachelorette pad for dinner.

  I like what I see but even then the mirror reflects a young woman with a secret in those blue eyes; a desire that remains unspoken.

  I snap my compact shut with finality, mentally ordering myself to forget about that nonsense.

  It scares me to wonder if Leo would be able to tell; Leo who can read me already.

  A new set of twenty-four roses arrives every Monday without exception.

  The blooms ensure that every moment of the day I am reminded of him. Red roses in a deep crimson and roses the color of raspberries and a rust color I’ve never seen before. Pink ones that looked like strawberry milk I used to drink as a kid and the color of my highlighter at my desk. The yellows, the oranges, the purples. The single rich-colored ones, the mixed ones that look like they were painted with a delicate watercolor brush somewhere in nature.

  My favorite becomes the white roses. So pure. So simple. So very me. Those arrive on the special occasions.

  I’ve neither asked nor have been told how he arranges for these deliveries or how much they cost.

  In a day and age when romance is all but a forgotten notion, I let the gesture be a constant reminder that what Leo and I have is special. Different. Both able to be counted on and whimsical at the same time.

  Until.

  My body and mind are completely wrecked but I am leaving the hospital instead of heading to it.

  Three days of pain have passed; now are days of confusion. I am lost. So lost.

  My new daughter is perfect but she is a stranger to me. I feel like I should be more connected to her somehow.

  Emily Jane Donnovan. She cries constantly and I spend my time that first week wondering if she is crying more than most newborns. I look at her face and my heart shatters, thinking of the sadness I brought her into the world amongst.

  Leo takes paternity leave upon the arrival of our first child (he was always so upstanding) and despite still not speaking directly of the affair I can tell he has put a stop to the communications with the other woman.

  The new father spends the next few weeks constantly available to me, helping through this transitory period. He wakes in the middle of the night, fetching the wailing hungry newborn, mixing bottles and feeding her hungry belly. He spends his days doing the work I will typically do: the errands and cooking and cleaning, heating up frozen casseroles I made just for this purpose while still heavily pregnant.

  His phone has gone silent. No bleeps of texts or waiting voice mails. I wonder several times if I picked up his phone I could see the goodbye message he must’ve sent to the woman or if he erased any history of their communications. I never check.

  What do I do these first few weeks?

  I cry. A lot. I am furious. A lot. I question every decision I have made over the past few years. I reminisce on the good times. I do my very best to bond with my child.

  I consider the choice ahead of me. Should I stay or go?

  Remain with a cheater, a man I barely recognize right now but loved (still love?) so deeply a month ago? Or opt for single motherhood?

  How do I leave Leo when I have already left my job? I have no money that is my own. No family nearby to help with Emily. How would I even begin to do that?

  Does Leo want me to leave? Does he want out? Did he want to be caught? At some point I will have to figure it out. Until then, I just continue to pull the comforter of the guest bed where I have been sleeping back over my head, weep, and relive the good times over and over.

  It may be pulling me deeper into a sickening depression but I can’t help but wish for the simpler times of years ago.

  Smack dab in the beginning of the white hot passion of Leo Donnovan and Chloe Larchmont’s romance, I move away from Phoenix and the mister himself.

  It is for business reasons. The job I took on as a means of income after college I begin to excel at and enjoy. When the company asks me to go help open their new office in Atlanta, a city I have never visited much less even considered, I jump at the opportunity.

  When I tell him about the move he is as supportive as expected. He treats me to celebratory drinks and offers to help me pack. A teensy part of me hoped for him to ask me to stay but that was never “us” in the beginning.

  I move to Atlanta and try as we might to end things (I mean, what is the point of maintaining a physical relationship if you can’t be present physically, right?) Leo and I keep in contact. We can’t break each other’s pull.

  We began by sending sexy texts and unclothed pictures back and forth. The roses continued across the miles.

  More than anything: we talk. Both on the phone and texting.

  We learn about the other’s childhood. Each other’s schooling. Favorite foods. Greatest fears. Bucket lists.

  I fall in love with Leo Donnovan, the complete man. The moment I realize that I am in love I blurt it out over the phone connecting us. It is the middle of the night after a long work day and despite being exhausted and the several hour time difference pushing me closer to dawn, neither of us seems to want to end the conversation.

  “I think I love you, Leo.” I say with a tone of shock because shock is what I am feeling.

  After a long pause I hear back from him, “Thank you, Chloe.”

  Thank you? Thank you? My heart is stammering out into the blackness of the still strange bedroom in the Deep South.

  How could I have been so foolish?

  I breeze past his response and end the call, hiding behind a brave mask but ready to cry myself to sleep.

  Three months go by as if nothing happened and I never say “I love you” again. Leo doesn’t mention it either.

  But he does move to Atlanta.

  He applied for and was granted a transfer within his company without discussing it with me. When he tells me about the move, he cites his reasoning as, “I‘ve never lived outside Phoenix and it’s time for a change.”

  He asks me if I’d consider having a roommate.

  I say yes.

  We move in together the following month and the fire for each other is greater than even before.

  Still, though, no “I love you.”

  A year goes by and we are living happily together. I love this man.
He is the sexiest balance of bad boy and good guy I have ever encountered: his back covered in tattoos, riding a motorcycle fast through the skinny streets of downtown Atlanta, a man’s man who can change your oil and properly “change your oil,” but at the same time with Boy Scout morals, incredibly brave and thoughtful and helpful. Trustworthy.

  I am confident that Leo is in love with me, too. The man simply won’t say it.

  My birthday comes along in the hot Southern summer and my (lover? boyfriend? roommate?) Leo reserves a log cabin in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains for us to celebrate.

  The weekend is magical. We spend most of our time having passionate sexual encounters everywhere. In the hot tub, the shower, the couches, bent over the island in the kitchen. In between the sex we talk and laugh, tease each other, muse over which local restaurant to try next, be the friends we have become.

  I can feel it coming. He is going to tell me he loves me on my birthday.

  The day comes along and I wait for it every moment. Leo gifts me a lovely ruby bracelet (my birthstone) and he places it on me with gentle care. Still. No “I love you.”

  I fall asleep that night facing away from him, my silent tears falling onto the pillowcase in the mountain cabin rental.

  I will never forget waking up that next morning, the day after my birthday, to seeing Leo awake, propped up on his elbow, and staring at me.

  He reaches over and moves my sleep-mussed hair out of my face, our eyes meeting.

  He speaks quietly in the room filled up with birds chirping, picking each word with grave seriousness.

  “Chloe.” Silent thoughtfulness rings out.

  “I know what you were expecting me to say yesterday. I’m sorry I disappointed you, darlin. It pained me to not say it then, to not say it a year ago when you told me first. But I wanted to say I love you when I meant it, when I could tell it to you honestly. So I know it hurt. But I hope it will mean something more this way, knowing that my word will always be truth to you, that I will always speak in honesty. So Chloe... I love you.”

  The tears well up in my eyes at the sound it makes coming from his throat. I say back what I mean the most in the moment:

  “Thank you, Leo.”

  It takes me three weeks to climb out of the fog of depression. I climb out with a plan. I dunno if it’s a good one but anything is better than living in this darkness. There are three weeks left until Leo should return to work and I am alone with Emily.

  I want to spend that time in the sunshine; to let the salt air go to work healing me.

  I want to go home.

  I have no way of knowing that once I push away the guest bedding and rise up to search out my husband and make this demand things will never be the same for Chloe Donnovan again.

  Chapter Two: A Handshake

  “Move me home Leo,” I blurt out while I bounce the fussy newborn baby gently.

  Leo is putting clean onesies and burp cloths away and I can tell as he looks in my red rimmed eyes that he thinks he has misunderstood my demand.

  “We are home Chloe,” Leo replies gently.

  No, I’m not, I think sadly. I continue swaying the now wailing girl in my arms, trying to find that speed of “gentle” that apparently every mother alive has been gifted but me. Seriously. Our daughter never stops crying. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

  The first pangs of mommy guilt hurt. I can’t help but feel like maybe our girl who was brought into the world on the worst day of my life is suffering by default because of my overwhelming grief. I try my best to not sob now along with my daughter in the nursery that Leo and I painted yellow together, reflecting on the day we painted.

  Him pulling out that damn smart phone of his and texting, me ignoring his actions while dying inside to ask, “Who are you talking to constantly?”

  But no. I wanted to be the cool wife. The one who didn’t nag or yell. Besides, I trusted him. I trusted Leo with my whole heart. I was wrong. Sighing, I repeat my request.

  “Take me home Leo. Please. I want to be with my family right now.” By “family” I mean my mother and he knows that without my saying so.

  My mother, Victoria Larchmont, is the only one of my kin left who is still on that beachy stretch of Gulf Coast I grew up on. Mom is an inspiration of a woman who has a permanent love only in her child (and now grandchild) and in the heat of the Florida sun. Determined to never marry again after divorcing my father early on, she enjoys her fifties doing exactly what she wants. She works, and drinks, and tans. She dates, she attends church on Sunday, she calls me at least twice a day.

  Standing at just over five foot tall and with jet black hair she is a lovely woman; an ideal inspiration for mothering. Which if the past couple of weeks have been any indication, I desperately need. My mom is my very best friend and she has no idea that her little girl is dying inside.

  I switch from bouncing to swaying. No dice. The newborn shrieks continue.

  “Chloe. I thought it would be best to not involve our family in our affairs,” Leo suggests cautiously, like I am a ticking bomb.

  I hand him the hysterical infant that is not hungry, or dirty, or cold, or hot, just miserable, and I spew out, “This isn’t our affairs, Leo, this is your affair. You figure it out.”

  I go to the bathroom, determined not to let him see me cry yet again and take the hottest shower I can manage until the water turns icy. When I come out of the bathroom I am dry, slathered in lotion, dressed, hair styled, doing anything I could do to postpone myself joining the two heart-breakers outside this room. As I bravely step out, Leo is waiting in the hallway.

  “Ok,” he whispers, with a peaceful baby sound asleep, sucking on a tiny pink butterflied pacifier relaxed on his broad shoulder. “Let’s go to Florida.”

  He leans forward hesitantly and for the first time since that Godforsaken day, I allow him to kiss me in his usual place smack dab in the middle of my forehead. I smile weakly, if only for an instant.

  Ten days later and I am watching the sunset on the water of the Southern Gulf Coast of Florida, just as my husband promised.

  Looking out of place in his dress slacks and bare feet (stripped of wingtip shoes and dress socks) Mr. Donnovan puts his arm around my still lumpy from pregnancy waist and leads me to where the dry sand meets the wet.

  We plant our bottoms on the Gulf of Mexico. Grandma Larchmont is at her designer-decorated condo inland cooing over time alone with her only grandchild. Surprising Leo, I reach into the paper grocery bag I brought and pull out a six pack of beer. I haven’t drunk a drop of alcohol since the day I held a pregnancy test.

  Silence hangs between us as we behave in a pattern we have for years: swapping a single cold lager between us, the can sweating fiercely in the Florida “spring,” versus having our own can. It always seemed intimate and personal, as if we wanted to share everything possible with the other.

  Leo, a man so full of giving. Yet.

  At some point we need to talk about what happened.

  Handing the drink between us, the quiet roar of the waves converting the absence of talking into healing instead of hurting, we relax. For the first time since, well, maybe since a year ago finding out over a hot Fourth of July weekend about our unexpected and unplanned pregnancy, we are able to just be. Just Leo and Chloe. Like old times.

  Without knowing the weight of the moment, the very first of a thousand conversations that will change our path forever takes place. Maybe it comes about because of the isolation of the two of us, surrounded by nature and nothingness. Maybe it is the desperation from each of our aching hearts to not let what existed between us be lost forever. Maybe it's the alcohol.

  Leo breaks the ice.

  “Darlin, the interview went great. I really think they’re gonna offer me the job. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  I drink and think. After a minute, watching a gaggle of spring breakers near us pack it in for the day, surely headed to get cleaned up and head to the next available party spot,
he continues.

  “I understand if you want to leave. That kills me to say, but I never want you to feel stuck. I love you so much Chloe. I’m so fucking sorry. I will do anything to keep us together. Please. I’m so sorry.”

  I continue to watch the sun setting full and pink on the gentle waves. I feel the need to make a choice. The choice.

  I just feel so unequipped to know where I am supposed to go from here. Cracking open the next can of brew, I wonder about how other women deal with infidelity, if my giving him an opportunity to make things right makes me incredibly strong or terribly weak.

  I realize that I don’t really care about other women’s choices. They don’t have to walk my path. I do. I want to believe in something other than anger.

  “Do you really love me at all? How can that still be true?” I ask him, bottom lip trembling.

  His thumb reaches over to brush my cheek, detouring that first tear.

  “Please, ahh God, my wife, please know. I love you more than I love life. It was a horrible mistake that would never happen again. I beg you. Give me this one chance to show you the kind of man I am meant to be for you.”

  I look with awe at the horizon: in the same sky, the moon perched and the sun dwindled at the same time, ready to make today yesterday so tomorrow can start with a fresh slate.

  Draining the second beer, getting a buzz for the first time in a year, I turn to face my husband. His eyes are icy right now and I can see that he is desperately afraid. I don’t see that often.

  I speak with my heart:

  “Ok, mister. Here’s how it’s gotta be. No more lying and no more secrets. No hidden life. You’ll never contact that woman again. Ever. I’m gonna be checking. We’ll move to Florida. Sell our old stuff. Erase Atlanta. New bed. New house. New job. New memories. And marriage counseling. I mean that. In one year, three hundred and sixty five days from today, we’ll come back here to this piece of sand. Then and only then will I decide if I have any interest in staying married or not. Not a day sooner. This is the only way it can happen. Are you interested, Mr. Donnovan?”