by Jane Green
“Well. It wasn’t quite as straightforward as that. We were together at retreats over a long period of time, during which I suppose we had an emotional affair. Nothing happened, at least nothing physical, not while I was married to Daisy’s father. But it was clear to both of us that it would, that the only reason it hadn’t was because we were both mustering all of our willpower. It was obvious to me that although I have been attracted to men, I am much more attracted to women.” She looks at Nell, holds her gaze.
Nell feels as if she can’t breathe. “How did your husband take it?”
“It wasn’t a shock. I think we both knew it was only ever a matter of time. I could stay married to my best friend as long as I didn’t meet a woman. And I had met a woman.”
“So you left him and . . . ?”
Greta smiles. “I did leave him, and we remained friends, and Marsha and I lived together for ten years. We split up three years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” says Nell, who finds she isn’t. What she is, amazingly, is alight, her whole body buzzing and tingling as Greta tells her story. She recognizes her story; she knows, instantly and with no doubt whatsoever, because she has lived it, without ever realizing it.
“Goodness, why?” says Greta, who puts down her sandwich and looks down at Nell’s hand, resting on the bench between them.
Nell looks down too, Greta’s hand just inches from her own, as her heart leaps into her mouth, her body aflame as her fingers involuntarily reach for Greta’s.
She looks up and into Greta’s eyes, confused. This is her story, she knows, with relief and fear and excitement, as everything in her life suddenly makes sense. As her fingers touch Greta’s, she feels a jolt of something suspiciously like electricity, making her feel light-headed and dizzy. She looks at Greta, smiling with wonder, and relief, watching her hand entwine with Greta’s, marveling at how this feels.
She looks at Greta’s face then, at her hair blowing onto her cheek, her warm eyes, her searching gaze, and all Nell can think is that she wants to kiss her. She hasn’t felt this way about anyone since Lewis Calder, since she was a teenager. And now she is thinking this about a woman. Though if she is honest, she has felt this before, with a woman, but she has never allowed that thought to come out; she felt shame and guilt, and pushed those thoughts deep, deep down, refusing to give them attention, refusing to acknowledge that they might have been real.
Nell opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. She glances around, but there is no one there. Just the two of them, sitting on a bench, holding hands. When Greta leans forward and kisses her, her soft lips meeting hers for the briefest of kisses, Nell sighs with desire, as her whole body melts.
thirty-one
I miss you!” Lizzy croons through the camera to Connor, blinking back the tears. She had not realized how much she missed her son until she saw his small face looking at her on the phone, telling her about his day at school.
“Let me see the chickens,” says Connor, taking his father’s phone into the living room and crawling onto the sofa.
Lizzy walks around the yard to the chicken coop, showing off Nell’s farm, giving Connor the guided tour. “Here they are,” she says, holding the phone at arm’s length. “See those big ones with the great big feathery tails? Those are roosters. Aren’t they handsome?”
“Let me see,” says Connor. “I want to be there. I want to see the roosters.”
“I wish you were here,” says Lizzy, surprised that it is true, surprised that she loves her son as much as she does, even though she is the first to admit she does not have a maternal bone in her body. James once told her, very early on, that her energy was masculine, and she knew what he meant. It wasn’t that she was butch, or looked like a man, but that she was driven and ambitious and didn’t care what people thought of her. It never occurred to her to please anyone other than herself. Which was why James was in charge of child rearing. They both agreed he was the more compassionate parent, that he was, in many ways, the more maternal. It just seemed to make such good sense that Lizzy would be the earner while James stayed home to raise the kids.
Kid. It doesn’t look like there are any more on the horizon, not given their sex life the last few years. Lizzy thought childbirth had killed her libido, her desire. Even when she felt loving toward her husband, she couldn’t be bothered with sex. It was enough to have loving companionship, to climb into bed at night feeling safe next to his sleeping form. She was grateful she got home as late as she did, grateful that James was always asleep, that she didn’t have to push his hands away or shrink from affection just in case it turned into something more. She had presumed that side of her life was over, like a switch that had been flicked to the off position. It was normal. Surely.
She would flirt innocently with Sean, which gave her enough of a buzz, never thinking about anything happening. They were both married. Both happily married. Until the night they found themselves alone after a supper club, and the flirting seemed a little more intense, a little different, and before she knew it, she was gasping at her body responding to someone touching her, in a way she had thought it never would again.
It was only sex, she told herself, racked with guilt the first few times it happened, telling Sean each time that this was the last time, this could never happen again. But then she found she could compartmentalize, and she barely saw James anyway, and neither of them were the slightest bit interested in the physical side of the relationship anymore, so maybe . . . maybe . . . it was not the worst thing in the world. Maybe . . . maybe . . . if no one else knew, maybe they would get to have their cake and eat it too.
It was easy to keep the deception going, to find herself in a full-blown affair, given how little she saw her husband. By the time she got up in the morning, he was often out, dropping Connor at preschool, grocery shopping, doing errands. They might pass at lunchtime or in the afternoon, but with Lizzy’s TV schedule what it was, they were seeing each other less and less. She was seeing Connor less and less.
And now it’s still happening, and none of it feels good. She keeps trying to end it with Sean, but they can’t seem to stay away from each other. She keeps trying to change her schedule, get someone else to take over the bulk of the cooking for the supper clubs. But it just keeps getting busier. Every time she has tried to bring someone else in, there is a problem, and they never prepare the food in quite the same way.
I need to be a better mother, she thinks, gazing at Connor on her iPhone screen as she blows him kisses and ends the call. I need to figure this thing out, because it’s not fair to any of us. She walks back to the house, hands in her pockets, looking out around the countryside and marveling at how she now appreciates this bucolic view in a way she never did before.
What if she did move out here? For a second she allows herself to indulge in a fantasy she tries not to think about too often. What if Sean left his wife, as he sometimes talks about doing? He has the same marriage she has with James. He loves his wife, but he’s not in love with her; they have become like brother and sister.
What if Sean left his wife, remaining great friends, naturally, and she left James, and they started again out here? What if they bought a small house, made new friends, shed their old lives entirely? What if they stopped the supper clubs and started a farm restaurant, like Dan Barber did with Blue Hill at Stone Barns? Why couldn’t she do that in Connecticut? Sean would have his children every other weekend, and maybe he’d go into the city a couple of nights a week to see them. She could bring Connor out here, but let him visit with James in the city. They could work it out. It would all be fine.
She stops. What is she thinking? She has never thought of her and Sean together. That was supposed to be just sex. Wasn’t it? Why has she found herself fantasizing about a life she didn’t even think she wanted?
Her phone buzzes again and she looks down. It’s from Francine, one of their young waitresses.
I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Can you call now?
Lizzy frowns. These young women and their dramas. She tends not to get involved, likes to stay on the sidelines. She’s the chef. Sean is the one who takes care of the business side of things, and staff problems, as far as Lizzy is concerned, fall under the business side of things.
Is Sean around? Can you talk to him?
I need to talk to YOU.
Lizzy sighs. I’m in CT with family. Can it wait?
No. I can drive out. I need to see you. Can I come today?
Lizzy resists the urge to throw the phone in the nearest bucket of water.
No, not tonight. Tomorrow morning then.
And she gives her the address, wishing that everyone would leave her alone. She looks up as Nell’s truck approaches, and she walks over as her sister and Greta emerge.
“Hey, guys,” Lizzy says, sighing. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
“We’re going to Mom’s at six.”
“Okay. Do I need to cook?”
“Meredith said she’d roast a chicken and make a big salad. Greta is going to make spiced chickpea fritters for us as a vegetarian option.”
Lizzy turns to Greta. “You’re going to join us for dinner?”
Greta shakes her head. “No. But I’ll send the fritters with Nell. This is your family time.”
“Thank you.” As much as cooking is Lizzy’s passion, there is nothing quite like someone else cooking for her. No one has invited her to their house for dinner in years, unless they have a superhot caterer cooking and can be sure Lizzy will be suitably impressed. What no one realizes is that it’s the very act of being cooked for that is so special for Lizzy, regardless of the result. True, she wouldn’t particularly want tough, chewy steak or overcooked broccoli, but most people can do what Meredith is proposing tonight: cover a chicken with olive oil, salt and pepper; stuff the cavity with a couple of cut lemons, some garlic cloves, and herbs; and roast it in the oven for an hour or so. Most people can empty a bag of arugula into a bowl, slice some avocado into it, maybe some cherry tomatoes, and drizzle it with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. All of which will taste better to Lizzy than anything she could make herself because her sister has made it for her. Spiced chickpea fritters is just an unexpectedly delightful bonus.
“Yeah, but Meredith says Mom isn’t really eating. She’s been having some choking issues so she’s doing liquid.”
“That sounds terrible. I really think we should speak to her doctors. It’s insane that they don’t know what’s going on. I’ll make her a smoothie. Can I help myself to spinach and kale in the garden?”
“Of course,” Nell says, and she sees Lizzy squinting at her. “What?”
“What have you done?” Lizzy examines her face.
“What do you mean? I haven’t done anything,” Nell says quickly, the memory of Greta kissing her flashing into her mind and making her flush with . . . what? Guilt? Shame? What does she have to feel guilty or ashamed about? She wouldn’t want anyone to know, she thinks—before thinking: Why not? Who cares? Who would care?
“There’s something different about you,” Lizzy persists, in the way only Lizzy can. “Seriously, did you have, like, Botox or something?”
Nell barks with laughter as Greta grins. “Maybe your sister’s happy,” Greta says, as she and Nell walk up the stairs, leaving Lizzy watching them, a frown on her face as she tries to figure out what it is.
thirty-two
I had no idea you were this good a cook,” Lizzy says, plucking a chunk of crispy skin off the chicken and taking a bite, then swooning. “Look at this! This is the perfect color! And gorgeously seasoned. Meri, you used the perfect amount of salt. I am so impressed.”
Meri pulls a tray of crispy roast potatoes out of the oven and Lizzy starts to laugh. “You did not! How do you even know how to make roast potatoes like that? You live in England. The food is terrible there.”
“You really need to not say that,” Meredith says, with all seriousness. “Every time I hear anyone talk about terrible English food, it’s basically showing their naiveté and parochial, unsophisticated palate.”
“Um, hardly.” Lizzy laughs. “Hello? This is me you’re talking to. Celebrated chef, et cetera, et cetera. I think I know what I’m talking about.”
“When was the last time you were in London eating in restaurants? Never?”
“Fifteen years ago. And the memories remain.”
“Bollocks, as we say in England,” Meredith says with a smug smile. “If you were as sophisticated as you think you are, you would not only have traveled to London, but you would have realized the food there is pretty much the best in the world.”
“You have to say that, you live there. Anyway, I will come back, for your wedding to Derek.”
Meredith says nothing. She isn’t planning on telling them they aren’t invited. She isn’t planning on discussing Derek at all. “Also, this is Julia Child’s recipe for chicken.”
“Aha! So your amazing recipe for roast chicken isn’t English but American, thus proving that we do have the best food here.”
“It proves nothing other than Julia Child has a great roast chicken recipe, learned, I might add, in Paris. The roast potatoes that you are admiring—and yes, you may have one—are scuffed with a fork after they’re blanched to crisp them up as soon as they hit the sizzling duck fat.”
“Duck fat!” Lizzy marvels. “Where did you learn about duck fat for roast potatoes?”
“Not from an American. It was either Nigella or Delia. Either way, a Brit.” She watches Lizzy chew on the potato. “Now, tell me that roast potato isn’t the best you’ve ever had.”
“I’ve gotta give it to you,” Lizzy says reluctantly, chewing the potato and popping another into her mouth. “These are pretty fucking awesome.” She leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Have you seen Nell?”
“Not since this morning. Why?”
“There’s something different about her. I can’t figure it out.”
“Different? Like what?”
“She looked . . . happy. Which is weird, don’t you think? Nell never looks happy. She’s always intensely frowning and serious. Why is she happy?”
“Lizzy!” Meredith berates her, even as she tries not to laugh. “How about, ‘Yay, Nell, figuring out how to be happy.’”
“I do feel ‘yay, Nell’! I just want to know what it is that’s making her happy. Or who. Do you think she’s met someone? My spidey senses are telling me she’s met someone. Who do you think it is? Do you think it’s someone we know?”
Meredith shakes her head. “I have no idea and, frankly, it’s none of my business.” The doorbell rings and Meredith smooths her hair back.
“That’s the journalist?” asks Lizzy.
Meredith shrugs and says, “I’ll get it.” She leaves Lizzy in the kitchen to help herself to more potatoes as she walks to the door, trying to still the butterflies that have suddenly appeared.
“Hey.” Billy walks in as Meredith steps back. Then he pauses, and Meredith awkwardly extends a hand, not sure how to greet him.
“I think we know each other well enough now to kiss hello,” he says, leaning forward and kissing her on one cheek as she blushes. “You look so nice.”
“You mean, I’m not in my pajamas with bedhead and puffy eyes,” Meredith says, attempting to laugh off her appearance the previous time she opened the door to find him on the doorstep. He has no idea she went out shopping for new clothes today, bored of the careful, color-coordinated skirts and tops, the middle-aged dresses Derek likes to see her in. He has no idea she looked, with a feeling of nausea, at the midheel wedges Derek approves of and tossed them in the trash.
She went to Calypso, which was having a huge sale. She found the kinds of clothes she adored, the kinds of clothes that always made her pause wh
en she saw them in the pages of a magazine, the kinds of clothes Derek abhorred. Floaty tunics embroidered and beaded, elegant loose linen pants, silky, feminine skirts. She tried on outfit after outfit, delighting in how feminine she felt, how pretty, how good it was to be in the kind of clothes she would never wear in London. They were—oh, how flattering they were, showing off the best of her figure and hiding the worst, and she felt oh so wonderful in them. The tunics and loose pants hid her middle, the extra weight she was carrying, although she didn’t feel dumpy, she realized. Over the last couple of days she had been feeling quite beautiful, and not once had she had her usual thought that if only she were fifteen pounds thinner, then everything would be perfect. And now tonight, in a simple kaftan dress with a beaded necklace, she feels confident in a way she never does at home, even though she still has no idea how to receive a compliment, particularly when it comes from a man like Billy.
“I thought you looked fantastic in pajamas with bedhead and puffy eyes,” says Billy, who doesn’t appear to be joking. “I’m just saying, all you women think you look better done up, but most men like the natural look.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Meredith, leading him into the kitchen, wishing she hadn’t put on quite so much makeup, wondering if she ought to excuse herself and wipe off some of the eyeshadow.
“Do,” he says, walking in and introducing himself to Lizzy.
“The famous journalist arrives,” says Lizzy, narrowing her eyes as she shakes his hand and looks him up and down. “I’m presuming I ought to be on my guard?”
“Not at all,” he says, his smile easy and light. “You have my word that everything tonight is off the record. We’re still in the early stages of figuring out what we’re going to be doing. I’ve brought a video camera, so I might shoot some footage tonight, just of the family, but really I want to try and get to know you a little. I’ll just hang out and maybe ask some questions, and fade into the background a bit.”