by Nancy Geary
It was too late. She and Bill couldn’t stay together and stay here. And neither could imagine starting over in a new community.
“No,” she replied. The sound of her voice was unfamiliar. “I’m not all right. But my well-being hasn’t been front and center on your agenda recently, so there’s no point in your getting involved with it now.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Unfair? What can you possibly know about fairness?” She struggled to stop her voice from cracking. “Having my husband decide a few business-trip trysts are worth twenty-two years of marriage. Having some young woman seduce my husband. Everything I’ve built and made and loved is gone. So don’t accuse me of being unfair.”
Bill took a step back, surprised by her directness. “You wanted this. You asked me to leave. You didn’t have to add to the damage I’d caused.”
“And you were more than happy with that decision.”
His silence confirmed the accuracy of her comment. For the sake of appearances, for the sake of their daughter, he would have been willing to stay under the same roof, to purport to be a family. But he’d wanted something more. He hadn’t been satisfied. That’s why he’d taken a room at the Apollo on Arch Street three different times over a period of five days and stayed well into the late night hours with Miss JD, Ph.D., who’d probably confessed to her friends that she relished the seediness of low-rent sex and the gymnastics of insatiable older men. Although Faith’s friends never discussed such sordidness, she knew the younger generation shared no such inhibitions about their sexual encounters. Faith shuddered to imagine the two of them—she in the type of tawdry lingerie that even Nordstrom wouldn’t carry, and her husband panting like some rabid dog in his Brooks Brothers briefs. That there wasn’t a restaurant in the hotel added insult to injury. He couldn’t even pretend they’d met for a drink.
So when she’d asked for a divorce, he’d been all too willing to agree. Even if he’d stayed, she’d never have felt secure. She’d have been suspicious of every alleged business dinner, every last-minute change of plans that required his presence downtown. She’d have been fearful every time she left the house, and knew she’d have ended up sneaking back early from whatever she was supposed to be doing to see if there was an extra car in the drive. That was no way to live.
“How dare you try to blame me? I won’t allow you to equate what’s happening with my choice. Am I supposed to overlook the existence of this . . . this . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the other woman’s name. “I may not have much left to be proud of, but my daughter is not going to witness her mother’s further humiliation.”
“If this is about Foster—”
“It’s not about Foster. It is about our daughter, our daughter who is alive and well.”
“You’ve been strong. You’ve always been stronger than me. I couldn’t deal with that pain, with that loss.”
Faith stared into the deep blue of his eyes. She knew he’d suffered. Foster’s death—the discovery of his bloody body nearly eighteen hours after his own fatal shot had taken his life—had changed them all, forever. She’d thought it was the greatest trauma they would ever suffer. And in many ways it was. But she’d managed. She’d read book after book on dying and child loss and grieving and coping, how-to books on conversations that needed to be had with surviving siblings and neighbors and friends. She’d written letters to Avery at boarding school every day, and spent hours shopping for the perfect care packages. She’d even tried meditation. But after one yoga class where the instructor asked her to imagine her roots going into the earth—an impossible task given that the class was conducted on the third floor of a strip-mall building—she’d abandoned the effort at spiritual peace and focused her energy on what she knew: increasing participation in the Episcopal Church by joining the Flower Guild, volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club. This summer she planned to expand her exercise regimen by playing singles as well as doubles in the Ladies’ League at the Merion Cricket Club.
Then when she’d discovered Bill’s infidelity, she knew what it was to truly ache. And by that point, there was nothing left to add to her life for distraction.
This wasn’t about pain or loss. Bill’s actions had nothing to do with Foster. She wanted to throw the timeline in his face, but all she could manage in response was “I’m sorry.” The words came out flat, devoid of any feeling. “I’m sorry for you.” Sorrier for me, she didn’t have to add.
Bill shrugged and gave her a look as if he wondered who she was, or perhaps who she had become. It was the same puzzled expression she gave herself most mornings when she arose, looked in the mirror, and found herself unrecognizable.
“You can reach me through the office. I’ll let you know the number when my telephone gets installed. I spoke to the accounting department and half my draw will be wired into your account on the first and fifteenth. That should get you through until . . . until . . .”
She nodded.
“Okay then.” As he leaned toward her and gave her a kiss on her cheek, his familiar sandalwood scent filled her nostrils. She couldn’t move. He was leaving for good. She’d never be able to enter Crabtree & Evelyn without bursting into tears. Their lives were henceforth separate. Mrs. William Herbert no longer existed. In her wildest dreams of envisioning life at forty-three years of age, she’d never thought she’d need for there to be an extra man for her at a dinner party.
Faith watched as he walked past the moving truck to his sedan, which he’d parked on the grass to keep out of the way. Even with the weight of two suitcases and a briefcase, his stride was quick and strong. He lifted his bags into the trunk, slammed the door, and then folded his trench coat neatly on the passenger seat. Before settling into the driver’s seat, he removed his suit coat and draped it in the back. No break in rituals. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder when he might return from this next business trip. Never seemed impossible to fathom.
She walked out of the library and stood in the entrance foyer. On the side table a silver platter held the daily mail. Without thinking she flipped through the pile of bills, catalogs, an oversize charity invitation, a members’ newsletter from the Union League. What was she hoping to find? An answer to her problems, to her prayers, a handwritten note from her husband telling her that he’d made up the whole sordid story? That Little Miss Wunderkind was a figment of his imagination? Was there even any collection of words that could possibly mend the gaping holes in her life?
Her mouth was parched and she was about to head into the kitchen for a glass of water when her eye caught a light blue envelope. She picked it up and felt the thick, high-quality stationery. “Mr. and Mrs. William Herbert” was written on the outside in navy felt-tip pen. The engraved return address—a street in Bryn Mawr—was unfamiliar. Without bothering to get her silver-handled letter opener, she tore one end of the envelope and pulled out the single sheet.
Although this letter will no doubt come as a surprise—or perhaps a shock—to you both, I hope that it can be read in the spirit in which it has been sent. I am the biological mother of your adopted twins. Faith felt weak in the knees; she collapsed into a chair and held on to one arm for extra support, while her eyes remained fixed on a single sentence. Nine words.
This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t have happened. It had to be some horrible prank, a practical joke the humor of which she didn’t see. She felt coldness in her hands and feet and a tingling sensation along her spine. Her breathing was labored. Despite the pounding behind her eyes, she forced her focus back to the neat script, the sentences following the inauspicious beginning.
Having learned of Foster’s tragic death, I find myself unable to remain anonymous anymore. Although I imagine that as a family you are suffering through a difficult period of grief and mourning, I believe it is time to offer Avery information about myself. As a psychiatrist, I more than understand how hard this awakening will be, and if she rejects my overtures, I will respect that decision. But I wan
t her to understand why I made the choices that I did. My only concern is for her well-being. Sixteen years is a long time but not a lifetime.
The signature belonged to Morgan Reese.
Faith dropped the letter as if it were laced with anthrax and watched it flutter for a moment before falling to the floor. She knew the name.
She rose and ran through the dining room. She banged open the swinging pantry doors, continued through the kitchen, and stopped only when she came to the mudroom off the side of the house. It was a rectangular space with a slate floor, the only room in the house that rarely, if ever, got the housekeeper’s attention. Boots of various sizes formed a haphazard line along one wall. Jackets and hats were piled high on hooks. A croquet set with the mallets askew in the stand, gardening tools stored in a bucket, three folding lawn chairs, several shopping bags filled with donations for the Salvation Army, and the recycling bin for newspapers were crowded into the small space. Her attention immediately turned to the bin, which she tore through, throwing newspapers aside in her search for one particular Sunday section. Had it been one week ago or two? Could it have been three?
Faith remembered reading a profile. Everyone who had the slightest interest in the development of the area was following the story of who would become the director of the Wilder Center. There had been stories over the past weeks of all the doctors who had made the short list. As she’d sipped her coffee with warm milk and eaten two slices of oatmeal bread with margarine and cinnamon, she’d thought it interesting that nowhere in the lengthy article that outlined all of Dr. Reese’s accomplishments, publications, and prestigious research positions was there any mention of a husband or children. But she’d dismissed that anomaly as either the necessary sacrifice of success or the selfishness she’d seen generally in people without children. She’d never suspected the truth: that this stranger had solved Faith’s infertility problem by making her a mother of her own twins.
Her hands were black with newsprint before she found it. The front page of the Health Section had several coffee rings on it and the pages had been improperly refolded. Nonetheless the face on the cover was unmistakable. MORGAN REESE—THE QUEEN OF MENTAL HEALTH, the headline read.
She was about Faith’s age, attractive, and similarly slender. She examined the picture. Was Morgan wearing a Chanel suit? Faith had several of her own carefully tailored designer outfits arranged by season in her walk-in closet. She scanned the text that she’d read so innocently at the time. They were both from good families, Main Line stock, and had been presented to society within a few years of one another. They probably knew many of the same people. Were they interchangeable but for the pile of credentials possessed by one and not the other?
She’d never wanted to tell the children they were adopted in the first place. There was nothing to be gained. They were a family. But Bill had insisted, and she’d finally acquiesced. Then look what happened. Even though they’d had no name, no identity, no biological parent wanting to reconnect, it had still been the biggest mistake she’d ever made. And the costliest.
How could this woman waltz into Avery’s life? Faith was her mother. How could anyone try to come between them, let alone someone who’d never rubbed Vaseline onto her diaper rash, sat in the backyard examining an earthworm for most of a Saturday afternoon, spent hours carpooling a group of girls between elementary school, ballet, and riding lessons, or sat on the edge of a bed until the early-morning hours wiping tears from her face? How dare this woman try to make up for that now? Avery’s happiness, accomplishments, heartaches, celebrations, and disappointments were Faith’s—and Faith’s alone—to cherish.
She didn’t have the strength to stand so knelt on the floor amid the thin layer of dirt and clutter. How would Avery respond? Would she, like her father, be drawn to the intellect, the achievement? What if the bond was instantaneous? Would Avery dismiss the sixteen years that Faith had spent nurturing her and her brother? Was having filled the role of mother worth anything?
As she’d struggled in the past months with the chaos exploding around her, she’d taken solace in imagining times with the only remaining constant, her daughter: shopping for a prom dress; celebrating Mother’s Day with a weekend at a spa; summer dinners together at the club; decorating Avery’s new room. She’d felt confident that having that companionship for three months once school ended would be enough of a buoy to float her through the upcoming fall. Were even these simple dreams about to be destroyed?
She stood up slowly, willing herself to find the strength despite her weakened, trembling limbs. Pull yourself together, she ordered. She may not have the credentials that Dr. Reese had. She may not have her husband at her side. But she was a mother and a fierce one at that. If Foster’s death was a symbol, it was to mobilize her to protect her remaining child from such a painful revelation.
Another mother was out of the question.
8
Saturday, May 17th 4:00 p.m.
Hey there.” Even over the telephone, Archer’s voice was distinctive, not too deep with a slightly nasal quality and a melodic inflection. Just hearing it made her warm inside. “Sorry I didn’t get up with you this morning,” he said.
“That’s okay.” She smiled, remembering the sight of his long muscular body, broad shoulders, and tight buttocks as he lay on her cast-iron bed. One leg dangled over the side, and he’d managed to cover his face with a pillow to block the early-morning sun that streamed through her window. She’d kissed his back and run her fingers through the thick brown curls on the top of his head, but he hadn’t stirred.
“The reading was fantastic but I guess it wiped me out,” he said, referring to the marathon poetry fest he’d hosted the previous night. Lucy hadn’t heard his key turn in her lock, but he’d crawled into her bed just after four in the morning, snuggled up to her with his arms and legs wrapped around her, and pulled her to him. In her semisleep she remembered the softness of his skin and the faint bitter smell of Dinkel Acker beer. She’d been barely conscious of his presence when he’d whispered in her ear, “If I promised to make love to you for the next twenty-four hours would you give up a day of work?” Then he’d kissed her lobe, sending a tingle through her body.
A few hours later, she’d showered, dressed, and tended to her pet rabbit while Archer slept peacefully. Before heading out the door, she’d left his white cotton boxers folded on the chair beside her bed, coffee in a chrome carafe on the kitchen table with the newspaper beside it, and a note with a red heart drawn on it, realizing as she’d drawn it that she could get used to the idea of living with someone.
“It was the reading that tired you out, was it?” she now teased. “And here I took credit for being such a great lover.”
“And that you are. A legend in your own mind.” Archer laughed.
“How quickly the romance of last night disappears in the cold, harsh light of day and your words of passion deteriorate into sadistic humor that wouldn’t amuse a toad,” she said in her breathiest melodramatic voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. What’s the plan for tonight?”
“Dad’s expecting us at seven. And he likes—”
“Punctuality,” she interrupted. “You’ve told me. I won’t be late.”
“Are you sure this is all right? I mean with your work.”
“Yeah. I already talked to my Lieutenant and Jack’s agreed to cover me,” she replied, minimizing the extent of the logistical hoops she’d jumped through to make herself available for dinner. Her shift was four to midnight and her rotation for a new case was up. That meant she was responsible for manning the telephones and waiting for the call from police dispatch informing the Homicide Unit of a new job. But she’d worked enough overtime in five months to earn her a little leeway with her boss, and Jack had volunteered to take her place by the telephone as the “up-guy.” She was free to go so long as she brought her beeper.
“I’ll pick you up at six-fifteen.” He blew a kiss
into the telephone.
As she hung up the receiver, she felt a mixture of agitation and excitement at the thought of her impending introduction to Archer’s father. She knew it was odd that in more than two months she’d never been to his house. For privacy, she tried to convince herself. And convenience. Staying at her apartment avoided the drive along Highway 30 West or a ride on the Paoli local to Devon. “Why go all the way out just to turn around and come back?” was Archer’s rationale. Still when he came home with a Brooks Brothers bag of new white oxford shirts because he’d run out of clothes, she’d wondered whether he lived with these obstacles because he wanted to keep her away.
Those thoughts would end this evening. She would meet Rodman Haverill, “Rod” to his friends. “Although be sure to wait for him to invite you to use that nickname,” Archer had instructed her when he’d extended the dinner invitation.
“I know Emily Post, too,” Lucy responded. “I won’t make inappropriate overtures or be too casual.”
Archer had apologized, hugged her, and then added, “The one thing I love best about you is that you say what’s on your mind.”
“What else am I going to do with my thoughts?”
That line had gotten her a second embrace.
Now she closed her eyes, trying to imagine what to expect. Archer had provided little detail. Would his father pad around his home in leather bedroom slippers like her father did? Would he barbecue a thick steak or have ordered in Chinese food ahead of time? Unfortunately, she had no information to help her form a picture. Contrary to her nature, she’d have to quell her curiosity for two more hours. Oh well, she thought. If he were anything like Archer, she’d adore him.