The Husband Hour

by Jamie Brenner

  The worst part was the realization that the past four years of pretending the outside world did not exist had given her a false sense of control. She was not a snail who had suddenly lost her shell; like that slug, she’d never had one. So now what?

  There had been a time when she felt passionate about journalism. She had believed in discovering facts, in finding and telling a story. But Lauren, you know the real story. The truth.

  Yes, she did. And she couldn’t imagine sharing it. Not for any reason. Not for anyone.

  “You’re home!” her mother said, smiling as Lauren walked into the kitchen. “I tried calling but you didn’t answer your phone.”

  “Busy day,” Lauren said, checking the time. Maybe she should talk to Matt now, before she lost her nerve. Before she changed her mind and had the urge to run away again.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t you take a quick shower? We’re having company for dinner. Neil Hanes.”

  “Oh, Mom, I’m not up for that tonight.”

  Her mother’s face fell. “I’d really like for you to be here.”

  Lauren shook her head. When would her mother stop pushing?

  “Sorry, but it’s going to have to be just you and Stephanie and Dad.”

  “Stephanie is taking Ethan to a movie.”

  “But Dad’s going to be here, right?”

  Her mother hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  Lauren felt a pang of alarm. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Oh, just a little difference of opinion.”

  “About what?”

  “The past. The present. The future.” Beth gave an awkward laugh.

  Lauren leaned on the counter. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Sometimes people just need time apart.”

  Time apart? Before this summer, Lauren couldn’t remember her parents spending so much as a night apart in three decades. Was their marriage in jeopardy? When had the problems started? If there were signs of trouble, she had been too caught up in her own life, too removed, to notice.

  “Is this about the money issues?”

  “Hon, this isn’t for you to worry about. Your father and I will figure it out.”

  But she was worried. She realized, now that she was paying attention, how tired her mother looked. She had aged in the past year. Of course, she was pushing sixty, although in Lauren’s mind’s eye, her mother was still a young woman. But that wasn’t it; there was a weariness in her eyes, a tension to the set of her mouth.

  “Okay, I’ll stay for dinner.”

  Howard walked into the house sandy and wearing his bathing trunks at a quarter to six, fifteen minutes before Neil was supposed to arrive.

  “Where’ve you been all day?” Beth asked, sounding more confrontational than she’d intended.

  “I told you I was going to the Kleins’. Jack and I hit the beach for a few hours.”

  “No, actually, you didn’t mention it. Can you shower? Neil Hanes is coming for dinner.”

  Howard raised an eyebrow. “Second dinner here in as many weeks. Is he showing up for our daughter or the free meals?”

  Beth took the marinated chicken out of the refrigerator. “Can you, for one night, put your cynicism on hold?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Lauren called from somewhere in the house.

  Beth smiled. There was nothing Howard could say to upset her tonight. She was doing the right thing. She could feel it.

  “I wonder if Neil is as interested in real estate as his father is,” Howard said, heading up the stairs. “I’ll have to ask him at dinner.”

  Her smile disappeared.

  It had been a long time since Lauren had cooked dinner and even longer since she’d actually enjoyed it. Most days after working at Nora’s, she didn’t have the energy for more than takeout. But tonight her mother had bought the ingredients for an heirloom tomato and feta salad, probably from one of Ina Garten’s recipes, and Lauren had stood by her mother’s side in the kitchen dicing the feta and mixing the olive oil, white wine vinegar, and kosher salt.

  Her mother barbecued chicken and served it with corn on the cob.

  “Beth, this is just outrageously delicious,” Neil said.

  “Oh, please. It’s so simple!” Beth beamed.

  The sun set. Beth lit the citronella candles, and in quiet moments, the only sound was the ocean. Lauren tried not to think about Matt or the movie that someone else was trying to make.

  “The Lascoffs consider their place a teardown,” Neil said. Lauren’s father nodded in vigorous agreement. It seemed all Neil wanted to talk about was real estate. Maybe her fear that her mother was colluding with Neil for a setup was just paranoia.

  “Absolutely. With what it would cost to renovate? I remember when the place went up. Mid-eighties. It seemed so modern at the time.”

  “But this place? Now, this is timeless,” Neil said. “I told Beth I’m thinking of buying out here.”

  Lauren and her mother locked eyes.

  Howard turned to Beth, then back to Neil. “Oh? She didn’t mention it.”

  “Yeah, I mean, I’m mostly West Coast at this point. But I love the summers here. You know my parents might sell their house in Philly and move to Malibu? So I definitely want a house on the East Coast somewhere.”

  “Malibu is fantastic. Can’t beat the weather. Personally, I prefer Florida,” Howard said. “So, who knows? Maybe we can work something out so everyone’s happy.”

  Neil raised his glass to Howard’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I’ll clear,” Lauren said abruptly, standing and reaching for the salad bowl that held nothing but a lone chunk of feta floating in a small pool of dressing. Inside the kitchen, she closed the sliding-glass door behind her, not wanting to hear the ongoing conversation about the Green Gable.

  The doughnuts her mother had baked were covered in plastic wrap on the counter. Lauren set the salad bowl in the sink, filled it with warm soapy water, and then investigated the doughnuts. They were golden brown and topped with a light glaze. She opened the edge of the plastic and bent close to see if the aroma would clue her in on the flavor. She inhaled and it was the sweet, rich smell of apple pie. Apple-pie doughnuts! How many years had it been since her mother had made them? Lauren must have been in grammar school.

  “Busted!”

  She turned around to see Neil smiling in the doorway.

  “Oh, yeah. Caught with my hand in the cookie jar. But it’s doughnuts.”

  “Your mom sent me in here to let you know that she’ll clean up. She said we should go for a walk.”

  Ugh, Mom! Making it really difficult for me to be a team player here.

  “You sure you and my father don’t need to talk some more about real estate domination? Plans to kick me out of my home?”

  “Oh, damn. You’re not on board with selling the house?”

  “No, frankly. I live here. Selling the house is my dad’s brilliant idea.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Come on—let’s humor your mom. Come for a quick walk around the block. Maybe I can scout out an alternative house to buy.”

  Lauren hesitated. He was just being friendly. And dinner had been pleasant. A little distraction to get her out of her own head wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  “Fine. A quick walk.”

  Neil stepped close to her, too close. She tensed, but he just reached for the doughnuts. He opened the wrapping, retrieved one, and handed it to her.

  “Take it for the road.”

  She tried to smile, to get into the playful spirit of things. “My mother will kill me. She has this weird control-freak side to her when it comes to serving dessert.”

  “Live on the edge,” he said.

  She looked at him, at his long-lashed, light brown eyes. Auburn hair. There was a hint of freckles on the bridge of his nose, freckles that she remembered as
being more pronounced when they were young. He was attractive, though he hadn’t been her type even back when she had a type.

  Maybe he was interested in her; maybe he was just being friendly. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. It was never going to happen.

  It was amazing that people were born with the capacity to fall in love, to be in love. To love, as a verb. It was like breathing; at least, that was how natural and undeniable it had felt when she met Rory. Fifteen years old, she knew nothing about life, but she was about to feel emotion of that magnitude. Her love for him had felt hardwired. But now that he was gone, it was like she had lost one of her senses.

  Lauren had never slept with anyone but Rory. She’d become a sexual being in the context of that relationship. No Rory, no sexuality. She did not know how she would get past that feeling. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

  It had taken her a long time to sleep with him. At least, a long time by high-school standards.

  By the beginning of his senior year, they had done “everything but.” If asked, Lauren would have sworn that Rory didn’t pressure her for anything more. But the truth was, his “Catholic” patience toward her virginity was being tested to its limit.

  Why was she holding out? A part of it was that she felt so in love with him, so deeply attached, she was afraid that the ultimate physical act would make her more vulnerable to the intensity of their relationship. And then there was the fact that he was leaving for college the following year.

  They would be apart; there was no way around it.

  His first choice was Harvard—if he could get a hockey scholarship. The college’s hockey coach had been to a Lower Merion game, and Rory spent a weekend at Harvard in December. Lauren felt sick with loss the entire forty-eight hours he was gone. She imagined him meeting some brilliant Harvard undergrad and cheating on her. Or, worse, he would see his potential new life laid in front of him in all of its glory, and he would come home and break up with her.

  Instead, he returned eager to see her, bringing her a Crimson T-shirt in her size. Nothing had changed between them! And yet, something had. The ground had shifted; Lower Merion was now just a way station between the life he had and the new life he wanted. She was part of the former, and the realization filled her with a sinking dread.

  She felt desperate to hold on to him.

  That winter break, Lauren didn’t go with her family to visit her grandparents in Florida. Her decision to stay home sparked the first real argument she ever had with her parents.

  “Your grandmother will be so disappointed!” her mother said. Lauren knew this and felt guilty, but her pangs of conscience were nothing compared to her desperate need to cling to Rory.

  Two nights before Christmas, her first of total freedom, Lauren and Rory went out for Chinese food in Ardmore, saw a movie, and then returned to her house.

  When the place was empty, they typically hooked up on the couch. But that night, she suggested they go up to her room. Rory knew her well enough to understand what the change in scenery signaled. When the two of them were stretched out side by side on top of her lavender Pottery Barn comforter, he propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at her. “Are you sure?” he said, scooping one arm around her, pulling her close. She nodded. And in that moment, it felt right. In that moment, she could almost imagine they would never be apart.

  Afterward, they stood barefoot in the kitchen eating leftover Chinese and ice cream. She felt giddy, high, on drugs. He couldn’t stay over—his mother would know something was up. When she was alone, she huddled underneath her covers, the bed still smelling like him. All of her anxiety lifted. She had never felt more certain of them, or of their future together.

  First thing in the morning, he called. She smiled at the sound of his voice, sitting up in bed, her room taking on new meaning as the place where she had become his in every way. Nothing would ever change that.

  “Lauren, it happened,” he said. He sounded so excited. Yes, she thought—it happened. They’d slept together. And then he said, “I got the hockey scholarship. I’m going to Harvard.”

  “Rory, I’m so happy for you,” she said automatically.

  It was the first time, but certainly not the last, she felt she’d lost him.

  In the kitchen, Lauren looked at Neil. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I’m tired. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Matt shouldn’t have been at Robert’s Place drinking, but he was so consumed with editing, so mired in the film, he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t find a way to bring himself down a few notches. And he was still freaked out from Craig’s call about the other Rory Kincaid movie in the works. At least Lauren shared his concern; maybe it would be the nudge she needed to trust him. The lesser of two evils.

  He nursed a beer, watching the Phillies game on the screen at the end of the bar closest to the door. If he wasn’t consciously waiting for Stephanie to show up, he certainly wasn’t surprised when she did.

  “Howdy, stranger,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

  “Where’s your new boyfriend?” he asked.

  She snorted. “Oh, he’s probably busy setting a wedding date with my sister.” She waved Desiree over and ordered a shot of tequila.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  She downed her shot. “Let me set the scene for you: I spent the first half of this night banned from the house because Neil was invited over for dinner with Lauren.”

  Matt felt an inexplicable pang, a decidedly negative rush of emotion.

  “Lauren is dating that guy?”

  Stephanie called for more tequila, downed shot number two, and shook her head. “My parents wish. No, she’s not dating him. She was probably miserable tonight. But it’s always about her. Always, always. See, my parents think I’m not good enough for Neil, but the truth is, guys like me.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  She glared at him. “They like me more than her. Even Rory liked me.”

  “What do you mean, he liked you?”

  “Buy me a drink, and maybe I’ll fill you in.”

  Matt, his storytelling nerve twitching, flagged Desiree. Stephanie ordered a Tito’s on the rocks.

  “Make it two,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lauren could hear her mother in the kitchen doing dishes. Her father’s and Neil’s voices carried up from the living room. She locked her bedroom door.

  She opened her closet. The pile of boxes took up all the floor space and obscured some of her clothes. Not sure what she was looking for, she pulled the top box down. It was unwieldy and she lost control of it, so it landed with a thud. She froze, hoping the noise wouldn’t summon her mother. A few seconds passed, and she felt safe enough to start cutting through the tape of the box marked Rory/LA/Press Clips.

  The first thing she found inside was a copy of the LA Times from May of 2011. The LA Kings had made the playoffs for the second consecutive year, this after a seven-year playoff drought. But by that point, Rory was in a drought of his own. He suffered a streak of games with no points. Lauren tried to help him put it in perspective: No one expected him to be the star of the team. The Kings were doing great—wasn’t that the important thing? Everything she said seemed to make him feel worse.

  It had been so tempting to look for outside help, for outside answers.

  She called Emerson, a move that would prove to be a tragic mistake.

  “I’m worried about him,” she told Emerson. “Maybe you can talk to him?”

  Emerson came to visit the first week in May. The second night he was there, something happened to take everyone’s mind off hockey: the U.S. military killed Osama bin Laden.

  This dominated the conversation for days. Lauren got tired of it.

  The two brothers took long walks, and she made dinner plans with friends from work to give them bonding time.

  The visit must have done the trick, because in the days immediately following it, Rory seemed noticeably calmer.
She said as much to him one night, climbing into bed.

  “Yeah. I am,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

  “Oh?” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Anything you care to share with your future wife?”

  She was being playful, but when he turned, the look on his face was serious.

  “Yes, actually. It’s something we need to talk about.”

  Lauren wanted to rewind, to go back two minutes before she’d climbed into bed. As if by avoiding the conversation, she could change whatever it was going on in Rory’s mind. Because it was bad—she knew it was bad. Was he having second thoughts about the wedding?

  Rory reached for her hand, and she closed her eyes.

  “You know my contract is up this summer. I go into free agency.”

  Wait—this was about his career? “Yes, I know. Are you worried?”

  “Not worried. But I’m thinking I can do something more meaningful with my life than ride the bench on a hockey team. There’s so much going on in the world.”

  She nodded, pretending to understand. “Okay. Like what?”

  “I want to join the military.”

  Oh my God. “Where is this coming from?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, she knew: Emerson.

  And she remembered a conversation from many summers ago, at Boston Style Pizza: I don’t think I’d be happy if I wasn’t good at something. Great at something.

  “You know, you can quit hockey without doing something this extreme.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Are you even physically eligible for the military?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m an athlete.”

  “You’ve had concussions.”

  “That was over a year ago. A nonissue.” The way he said it, she knew this was past the hypothetical stage.

  “You’ve already talked to a recruiter.”

  He nodded. He’d gone with Emerson. Behind her back.