by Amy Poeppel
Will, who was already divorced at that point, had been wrestling with so much regret, wishing he had slowed down and thought things through before making promises he couldn’t keep. He hated to see Bridget make a similar mistake by becoming a mom before she was ready or for the wrong reason or because of some societal expectation.
But a few months later she brought it up again.
“I want a baby,” she said, “and I don’t want to feel pressured to find the right guy at exactly the right time, like now, or, even worse, nudge the wrong guy into having a kid just because he’s around when I’m ovulating. I’d rather have a child on my own terms.”
“They’re a lot of trouble, aren’t they?” He wasn’t keen to have kids himself, so it was hard for him to understand this urge. “Why don’t you start with a cat?”
She looked like he’d hurt her feelings.
“You’d be a great mom,” he added quickly, “that’s obvious, but what’s the rush?”
“My mother was thirty when she had me, but she’d been married since she was twenty-four. Six years?”
“So?”
“So, I think she had a hard time getting pregnant. And then it was five more years before she had Gwen. I don’t want to wait and then find out it’s too late.”
Bridget started researching insemination, making appointments, and visiting clinics. She told Will she was still thinking things over, but then—without even telling him—she went ahead with it, having the twins in her very first round. And even though Will wasn’t the biological father, he quickly discovered that there were strings, strong ones, attaching him to her children. He was in the hospital when they were born, and they were the first infants he ever held and hummed to, the only ones who had fallen asleep on his stomach, fingers wrapped around his thumb.
He was right about one thing: kids were a hell of a lot of trouble. Isabelle and Oscar were screamy babies and klutzy toddlers. Even with Marge in the picture, Will couldn’t believe how much time went into picking them up off the floor, feeding them, and putting their spit-up-soaked clothes in the laundry. Oscar would climb up on his lap and pat Will’s face with his sticky hands, while Isabelle would bring him a revolting, damp lump of Play-Doh as a gift. One or both of them would always cry whenever he left Bridget’s new three-bedroom apartment to go home.
When the kids were about five, they all drove around Litchfield County to find a house that had a big yard, a place to ride bikes, and trees to climb. Will was in dire financial straits at the time, trying to manage about $42,000 of debt. That Bridget had money was blatantly obvious. She never worked in college. He, like most of the students he knew, had held countless jobs: he’d bused tables, played Christmas songs in department stores in New Jersey, busked in Manhattan subway stations, and made sandwiches with names like “The Spicy Bird” and “Hog Wild” at a deli. He’d even apprenticed for a seventy-year-old Japanese piano technician in Brooklyn one summer to learn the basics of tuning. Bridget played cello; that was her work. Bridget and Will were WASPy enough that they never discussed money in detail, unless it directly involved their business, and her circumstances didn’t entirely make sense to him. On the one hand, she complained about New York expenses like everyone else he knew, and she made good use of the New York City public school system instead of putting her kids in a private school like the one she’d attended. She didn’t spoil the twins with excessive toys or fancy clothes. On the other hand, she’d bought a country house and put her kids through college while still living in a nice uptown apartment. How, he’d often wondered, had she managed it all? How could one explain Bridget’s consistent lack of urgency and panic in the face of an artist’s poverty? And then he would remember: family money.
He didn’t hold their financial disparity against her; it wasn’t her fault that she was born into wealth. It wasn’t her fault that her mother died when she was eleven, leaving her and Gwen with an inheritance stemming from their great-grandfather’s business, a company that had made, among other things, gold and mother-of-pearl opera glasses, accessories that helped the wealthy see better. The great-grandfather invested the company’s profits well. Nor was it her fault that her father had—with pomp and circumstance and revolting narcissism—given her a graduation check made out for a huge sum of money, along with a drawn-out, self-indulgent toast in which he quoted everyone from Derrida to Winston Churchill to Samuel Clemens. Good for her, Will had thought. “Holy shit,” Gavin had whispered. Bitch! a few had probably said behind her back, although no one would gossip about Bridget in front of Will.
* * *
When the train pulled into the station, Will stepped out into the sunshine and waved to the car waiting for him in the parking lot. The driver, Frank, waved back. With his backpack over one shoulder and the Mac box under his arm, Will walked Hudson over to the field to let him sniff around and pee. One other passenger, a college girl by the looks of her, walked by them and got into the backseat of an Audi sedan that was waiting with the engine running. Will walked over to Frank’s car, put Hudson in the backseat, and got into the front, saying hello and asking to be dropped in front of Flanders Tavern. Frank, a straight-talking man who drove a Honda Accord and wore flannel shirts year-round, had been picking him up in the same spot for years and had the utmost pity for Will and anyone else who had to live in New York City.
“How’s that awful place you call home?” Frank said, as if he were asking Will about a dying relative.
Will rolled the window down and watched a chipmunk scamper over a stone wall. “Pretty much the same.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Frank said for the thousandth time. Will had learned it was best not to argue. “It’s too big, that’s all there is to it. How can you stand living with nine million hostile people?”
How to explain? They aren’t all hostile, Will wanted to say, although there was a child living in the apartment directly upstairs who liked to drop marbles on the hardwood floor right over Will’s bed on Sunday mornings, which sometimes felt hostile.
The For Sale sign in front of his building felt hostile as well.
“It works for me, what can I say,” said Will. “And besides, Manhattan has less than two million people.”
Frank whistled. “Sounds lonely to me. That’s no way to live.”
“I love it there,” Will said sincerely. “There’re people in the streets night and day, at all hours, so it’s certainly not lonely, and there’s always something to do. Although the building next to mine has been under construction for ages, and the noise can get pretty annoying,” he added.
“It’s quiet here,” Frank said. And then he stopped talking for a moment as if to demonstrate. “And people know you. Like they really know you. Life is all about the steady folks and places in your community.”
No, thought Will, considering the shops that closed down, restaurants that went under, the piano students who left for college, and neighbors who moved to less expensive places. That’s not quite it.
How could he explain to Frank what it felt like to drink coffee on his stoop in the morning or gin on the roof at night. To walk through Washington Square Park in the spring and along the Hudson in the winter. To teach a good lesson on the Upper West Side and rehearse a good piece on the Lower East. To be part of Forsyth through it all. Will was content, and New York had everything to do with it.
It had occurred to him, ever since that For Sale sign went up, how easily it could all be taken away.
* * *
The restaurant owner (Anne? Anna?) was wiping down the bar where two men, locals by the look of them, were already having drinks.
She waved to him. “Your wife’s not here yet.”
Will didn’t bother correcting her. “I’m early. Can I leave my stuff while I walk the dog?”
She pointed toward the coatroom. Will left his backpack and the new laptop, an unthinkable act in New York, and went back to the dining room.
“You’ll want a table on the porch,” she sai
d, patting Hudson on the head.
Will smiled. “Perfect. I’ll be back at seven.”
The town attracted an odd mix of visitors, from leather-clad motorcycle enthusiasts who cruised the scenic routes of Litchfield County, to bandana-wearing hikers in need of a shower who were taking a break from the Appalachian Trail, to rich New Yorkers dressed in black in search of all things quaint. Will was in a different category: he was a nonrich New Yorker with a wealthy friend who was a weekender. Without Bridget, he would never have found his way here.
Will wandered the full length of the main street (the only street), past antique stores, an upscale coffee shop, and the brick library. In the bookstore, he bought a thriller and Anne Tyler’s latest. He would let Bridget choose which one she wanted to read first.
Back on the sidewalk, Hudson trotted along next to Will, stopping to sniff the grass every few feet. When they reached the Civil War obelisk at the town’s center, Will checked the time on his phone and then kept going. A store caught his attention. Inside were large-scale armoires and antique mirrors. Old, ornate chandeliers and reclaimed-barn-wood furniture, distressed and full of character. Not Will’s taste, but cool nevertheless. Out back, there were large sculptures of stags, verdigris urns, and a stone cherub spitting water into a massive fountain. He found an unusual folk art weathervane in the shape of a bat in flight that Will thought would look perfect on the top of Bridget’s barn. The price tag said $1200. Will kept walking.
He soon came to the very last stop, where the sidewalk ended at a large nursery. As a man who had absolutely no interest in gardening, Will turned around. But then someone caught his eye. A stunning woman, in her forties maybe, was pulling a red wagon full of plants through the gravel parking lot. She had a heart-shaped ivy wreath hanging off the crook of her elbow, and a most appealing laugh that he could hear all the way from the sidewalk. She was wearing a tight tank top and loose overalls, and she made the whole rig look ridiculously sexy. He stopped and watched her load the plants (or shrubs?—some kind of leafy creatures) into the trunk of a sedan. Will watched as she stepped back with her empty wagon and waved while the customer drove away.
She glanced up in his direction, and Will pretended to be looking elsewhere, focusing on the flats of pink and yellow flowers behind her rather than on the shape of her hips, the curl of her hair, the smear of dirt on her cheek, and the flower tattooed on her arm.
“Cute,” she called out.
Will looked behind him, seeing there was no one else she could be addressing, and said hopefully, “Sorry?”
“Your dog. He’s cute.”
That was an invitation if ever there was one. Will looked at Hudson, patted his side in gratitude, and brought him over to say hello.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, he was sitting on the porch of Flanders Tavern with a gin and tonic in his hand, Hudson under the table, and a robust, potted rhododendron taking up the whole seat next to him.
“I would apologize for being late, but you’re in good company,” Bridget said, taking a seat across from him and the plant. Hudson got up, happy to see Bridget, knocking into the table legs to get to her. Bridget greeted him and then shook hands with one of the plant’s leaves.
Reaching in her purse, she pulled out a check and handed it to Will, saying, “Thanks for the laptop. Mine literally had smoke coming out of the keyboard.”
He folded the check without looking at it and put it in his wallet; knowing Bridget, she had probably rounded up considerably. “Show me your burns.”
She turned her right arm over, palm side up. “I’m healed,” she said.
“And your heart?”
She squeezed his hand. “I keep checking my phone, expecting him to call and say he’s made a big mistake.”
“He did. He made a colossal mistake,” Will said with certainty.
Bridget took a tissue from her pocket and wiped under her eyes. She attempted a smile, and he noticed that her eyelids were lined with smudgy black makeup and were shadowed up to her brows. “That’s a lot of makeup for a day where the chances of tears are a hundred percent,” he said.
She looked up at him. “Do I look silly?”
She didn’t; she looked beautiful. “I’m not used to seeing you so done up.”
“You see me done up all the time.”
“This is different. You’re all… shimmery. Like you’re heading to Studio 54 in 1980.”
Bridget touched her tissue lightly to her thickened ink-black lashes. “This is Gwen’s handiwork. I went to my dad’s house this afternoon in search of a shoulder to cry on, and Gwen’s solution to my heartbreak was to give me a makeover.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, watching her struggle to put on a brave face.
“No. And Gwen threw away my favorite sweatpants while I was in the shower. I loved those sweatpants.”
“The sweatpants?”
She started to tear up again.
Will stood halfway, leaned across the table, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.” Will decided if he ever saw Sterling again, he would… he would… he would have very strong words to say. It wasn’t necessarily a good idea to criticize an ex-boyfriend, but Will couldn’t help himself from making one jab as he sat down again: “Sterling did have a stick up his ass.”
“Marge said the same thing,” Bridget said, “using different words.”
Knowing Marge was an ally gave Will the courage to say something more. “Sterling’s suffering from the bitter taste of his first novel’s success. He’s threatened by his younger self who won the National Book Award.”
“His most recent book did well.”
Will had seen it on the front table of a bookstore in Grand Central that afternoon, with its dull graphic design on the gray cover that screamed, I am a book to be taken seriously! Will hid it under a bright yellow pop-health and diet book, a small act of revenge that made him feel good. “It’s not doing that well. And anyway, no matter what he writes, he’ll never again be the young genius bursting onto the literary scene.” Will had given this phenomenon a lot of thought and was convinced, based on cases he’d seen, that too much success in one’s twenties was a terrible thing. In Sterling’s case, it had given him the belief that he was precious.
“Are you asking me to feel sorry for him?”
“Not at all,” Will said. “I’m just armchair-analyzing his terrible personality.”
“You think he’s terrible?” she said. She unrolled her napkin and put it in her lap, lining up the silverware on her placemat. “I sort of thought he was perfect, or very close to it.”
“His relationship with his ex is bizarre.” Will had had zero contact with his ex since the divorce, which, he knew, was extreme as well. Something in between would be healthy. “I don’t get why she has such a leading role in his life. You would have been fighting for that position before long.”
“I thought I was getting my own role,” said Bridget sadly, “but Sterling obviously didn’t like me that much since he threw me away so easily. I bet I’m more upset about losing my sweatpants than he is about losing me.”
“Maybe, but to be fair, those sweatpants were in your life a lot longer.”
Bridget attempted a smile.
“And if he didn’t appreciate you,” Will went on, “he’s not very smart.”
“That’s what my dad said.”
Will set his drink down. “Since when do you confide in Edward about matters of the heart?”
“He asked what was wrong, I answered, and then he delivered a verdict: ‘He must be stupid.’ It was touching.”
“Edward Stratton? Asked a question about somebody else’s well-being?”
Bridget smiled. “He put his hand on my shoulder. I was so shocked I invited the whole family for dinner tomorrow night.”
Will turned around and called the waitress over. “Another gin and tonic, please. And, Bridget? Rosé?”
“Yes, please,” she said and ran her fingers through her
hair. It looked silky, and he could smell something vaguely almond. “Sorry about the impromptu party,” she said. “Gwen caught me in a weakened condition, and the next thing I knew, I was issuing an invitation.”
“I can’t wait to spend an evening listening to Gwen name-drop while Edward broods about something but won’t tell us what it is. Promise me Marge will be there to fill the awkward silences.”
“I wouldn’t expect silence. My dad’s becoming downright chatty. When I was leaving, he said to tell you hello.”
Will allowed his mouth to drop open. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. ‘Send my regards to Will,’ he said. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s exuberant. Gwen finds it alarming, Marge thinks it’s curious.”
“And you?”
“Haven’t decided,” she said, crossing her arms and considering the question. “He’s focused on work, as always. Do you remember Nicholas Donahue?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s that good-looking, talkative professor from Oxford—you’ve met him and his wife a few times. He dresses nicely and speaks upper-class Queen’s English in a very low register.”
“Sounds pretentious. Musician?” he asked.
“Historian slash musicologist. He’s written a few books. He was visiting with Edward last week and seemed enthralled.” Bridget was looking at the potted plant seated across the table. “Are you taking this back to New York on the train?”
“Of course not,” Will said as he imagined maneuvering through the crowds in Grand Central, hugging the plant to his chest. He was dying to tell Bridget about the woman he’d just met, but given what she was going through, it seemed completely inappropriate, bordering on mean. Better, he thought, would be to share his worry about his apartment, to tell her he was scared he was about to get priced out of his building and out of Manhattan itself. But he couldn’t bring himself to admit that, at his age, he was in a situation that could lead to a real financial crisis. It was humiliating. Instead, he put out his hands to signify an offering. “The plant is a breakup present,” he said. “I’m contributing to your garden.”