Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  Bridget looked at him skeptically. “Planting things involves digging in actual dirt. The dirty kind. Your fingernails will never recover.”

  It was true that Will was compulsive about his nails, but given the amount of time he spent looking at them, he thought it was reasonable. “I’ll get old man Walter to plant it as soon as he comes.”

  “I’m done with Walter. But I’m sure Kevin can do it.”

  “Ah, Kevin,” Will said, leaning back in his chair, remembering the absurdly wide-legged, husky-size cargo pants that Kevin wore with pride through his unbearably dorky preteen years. “Diamond in the rough. Salt of the earth. Ferdinand under the cork tree.”

  Bridget shushed him.

  “What?”

  “Everyone in this town knows everyone,” she said. “I don’t want it to get back to Walter that we were bad-mouthing his grandson.”

  “Those were compliments. Anyway, I thought the lumpy boy had moved away.”

  “He’s back, so I’m hiring him to do some odd, outdoorsy jobs.”

  “Perfect. Kevin was born to dig holes. And if he’s around, you won’t make me haul firewood or, God forbid, check the chimney for raccoons. I was covered in soot for days.”

  “Poor you.” Then she sighed sadly. “Poor me. Thank you for rushing up to see me, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m so glad Isabelle’s coming. I don’t know what I would have done here all by myself.”

  Will didn’t believe Isabelle would actually stay the whole summer and worried how Bridget would feel after she left.

  “I have an idea,” she said, “but you’ll probably think I’m nuts. I was thinking maybe this is all a sign. Maybe I should take the next couple of months to clean the place up, get rid of some things, and put the house on the market.”

  Will was quite sure this was the sadness of a breakup talking. “You told me you wanted to retire and die here.”

  “Connecticut winters are too cold for old age,” she said. “I would only retire if you came with me, and you always say you want us to grow old and die together in Santa Barbara.”

  “Well, sure,” he said. “They don’t call it the American Riviera for nothing.”

  “Forest fires are getting worse, and earthquakes can strike at any moment.”

  “That’s why we’re going there to die.” Will looked up at the porch ceiling. “I don’t think earthquakes ‘strike.’ Lightning strikes.”

  “What do earthquakes do?”

  “They hit.”

  “Either way,” she said, “earthquakes are better than blizzards, icy roads, and power outages.”

  “You don’t want to sell your house,” he said. Were it not for the serious look on her face, he would have assumed she was joking.

  “It’s a thought. It would be sensible,” she said plainly.

  “The kids will want to bring their families here someday—”

  “We can go to Edward’s instead, take advantage of Marge’s TLC and the pool. Every time we get a break, I come here. But what about all the other places to see and things to do? What if I want to take up… sailing or something?”

  “Sailing?”

  “What if I want to go on an adventure at the Great Barrier Reef? Or to Antarctica?”

  “You want to go to Antarctica?”

  “It would be nice to have the freedom to do something different.”

  “You can,” he said. “Why don’t you do this country music video with me? Or the low-testosterone commercial? It would be so much more pleasant to do odd jobs together.”

  “You’re doing a commercial for low testosterone?”

  “It’s against low testosterone, not for it. I’m helping cure sad men of their flaccidity, giving them a new lease on life. Join me!” he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Hudson thumped his tail in response.

  “I can’t. I’m stuck here. Maybe this summer is a chance for us all to enjoy the house and then say good-bye to it. Start a brand-new chapter in the fall.”

  “But isn’t this”—and he waved his arm to indicate the whole town—“I don’t know, our special place.”

  “Our rehearsal studio on Forsyth is our special place. We’ve spent a lot more time there.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. And he’d always thought the house was more trouble than it was worth. Walter would call Bridget about the leaky roof, or a power outage during a nor’easter, or her hypersensitive alarm system. “Are you being serious?”

  “I think so.”

  “Because it’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “A new chapter, I’m all for it.” He imagined her regretting such a big decision, and added, “But there’s no reason to rush into it. What’re the kids going to say?”

  “I’m not sure about Isabelle,” she said. “But Oscar won’t care. He and Matt are always too busy to come visit.”

  Will reached his arm down to pat Hudson on the head when he realized, too late, that he was accidentally smiling. Bridget had already noticed. She squinted her eyes at him.

  “Nothing,” he said before she had even posed a question.

  “What’s nothing?”

  Will shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m happy to see you. Hudson and I took a nice walk through town.” Will picked up his menu and looked at it. “I saw a bat weathervane at an antique store. You should buy it for the barn.”

  “And?”

  “And I got us books.”

  She pushed the menu away from his face. They stared at each other.

  “What?” he said.

  She was still watching him as he took a last, big sip of his drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “Fine,” he said, and he licked his lips, “and I’m sorry if this is bad timing, but I met a really nice woman.” He rubbed his jaw and looked to Bridget for a reaction. “I think I like her.”

  Bridget dropped her menu. “Will! That’s great.”

  “I don’t know her or anything about her, but she’s… First impressions?… She’s beautiful and funny and sexy. I felt this intense attraction, so strong I found it almost impossible to string a sentence together.”

  “Wow,” she said.

  “I don’t want to gloat, given what’s happened with Sterling—”

  “No, it’s fine, gloat away. Tell me about her.”

  The topic was uncomfortable under the circumstances, but maybe he could take her mind off Sterling. “I don’t have much to tell. Her name’s Emma.”

  “Where’d you meet her?” Bridget said.

  “Here,” said Will. “She works right down the street—”

  “Wait, here?” Bridget said. “You met her here? In town?”

  “—at the plant store.”

  “Ah, I see.” She reached behind her and began looking through her handbag.

  “What? What do you see?”

  She pulled out her reading glasses and began perusing the menu. “Have we had the duck before?”

  “Bridget. What?”

  Bridget shook her head.

  “Say it.”

  She took off her readers and set them on the table. “You live in Manhattan. In the Village.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And you love it there.”

  “I know.” He did love it. He loved it, and he needed to find out what he and Mitzi could do proactively in order to stay where they were.

  “And you don’t love the country,” Bridget was saying, “and you sure don’t have an interest in plants.”

  “So?” he asked. They’d discussed his dating life many times, and Bridget often came up with new explanations for why his relationships ended. She always made sense, and he wondered what her theory would be this time.

  “I just wonder if you’re not starting out with the odds against you. You do this. You pick women who come with built-in deal-breakers, starting with your ex-wife.”

  “That’s not true. I have… bad luck. I can’t help who I like.”

 
The waitress came and took Will’s empty glass, and set down their drinks. “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

  “No,” they said.

  The waitress walked away.

  “You pick the wrong women,” Bridget said, “every time. Remember Amanda? You fell for her even though you knew when you met her that she was moving out of the country.”

  “So?” he asked again.

  “I’m saying, maybe you picked her because she was moving out of the country.”

  “You’re overthinking things,” Will said.

  “In the last five years you’ve dated a lesbian—”

  “She was bisexual.”

  “—and a woman who completely despised classical music. And let’s not forget Evelyn—”

  “What? I really liked Evelyn.”

  “—who told you the day you met her that she had a paralyzing fear of big dogs.”

  “I thought she’d warm up to Hudson once she got to know him, and you know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re feeling grouchy because of Sterling—which is completely understandable—so you’re raining on my parade.”

  “Not at all. Nothing would make me happier than to see you attached.”

  They were quiet, Bridget studying her menu and Will pretending to.

  Bridget broke the silence. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be grumpy.”

  “You’re allowed to be grumpy.”

  “I’m just thinking, what if we’re too old to find the right people? What if Sterling was it for me, my last chance?”

  “We’re not old,” Will said, trying not to feel offended. “We don’t act old. You don’t look a day over thirty, and when you were thirty, you didn’t look a day over twenty. I remember, when we were in Texas one time, we got invited to a party after we played a concert at Rice, and everyone mistook you for a college student.” They’d played badly, he recalled. Gavin had left them already, and their new violinist, an older woman named Martina, simply wasn’t that good. Bridget was distracted, calling Marge from the hotel to check on the twins, who were sick. “A freshman tried to get you to go back to his dorm room.”

  “I have no memory of this.”

  “You were sleep-deprived. The point is we’re still young. You can find someone new, when you’re ready.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t bother. We have each other. And maybe we should just put the trio first and focus on our relationship with Caroline.”

  “I wish Caroline were a better communicator,” said Will, knowing he sounded like a needy boyfriend. “I don’t feel like we’re a priority.”

  “She’ll prioritize us once we get started. She’s our partner now. She’s hooked her cart to our ass.”

  “I’d say she hooked her ass to our cart. We’ve placed our fate in the hands of a twelve-year-old.”

  “She’s twenty-six. And she’s excellent—”

  “I know, I know,” he said wearily. “She’s very hot.”

  Bridget looked up at him. “Hot? Really?”

  “I mean in demand,” he said. “And it isn’t very generous or feminist of you to misunderstand me on purpose. Give me some credit. She’s a child.”

  Caroline Lee was, in fact, strikingly beautiful. Her website featured her posing with her violin on a beach in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, staring intensely into the camera, as if challenging the listener to find fault in her playing; they would be hard-pressed to do so.

  “Please be optimistic about her,” Bridget said. “She’s all I’ve got right now, and I’m trying to keep in mind that my dream in life has always been to play music at St. Luke’s in London, not to get married there.”

  “Married?” said Will with horror. “Who’s talking about marriage?”

  But from the look on Bridget’s face, he could tell that marriage had been exactly what she’d been thinking about: an end-of-summer engagement to Sterling and a spring wedding on Edward’s lawn. Will was glad she’d dodged that bullet; marriage was a hideous institution.

  The waitress came back and took their order. Will, feeling motivated to stay trim, ordered fillet of sole, while Bridget, bless her, ordered pasta with gorgonzola sauce.

  * * *

  After dinner they drove up to the house, listening to Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring on the radio, arguing over which recording it was. They had to sit in the driveway to hear the opening of the “Sacrificial Dance” to find out who was right (Bridget), but also because it was too good to turn off until it was over.

  When they opened the car doors, Hudson jumped out and ran happily in circles around Bridget.

  “I’ll be in after I walk him,” Will said.

  “Need a hand?” she asked, as he lifted the rhododendron out of the backseat.

  “Nope, I got it.”

  He set the plant on the steps and went back for his backpack and Bridget’s laptop.

  Hudson ran out into the field, and Will walked with him in a big circle around the yard, stepping through the tall grass with his hands in his pockets, sucking on a butterscotch candy. The moon was full, and it was hard not to be impressed by the ruckus coming from the thicket near the pond, cicadas or peepers or crickets or whatever critters carried on like this at night. And then there was the business with the stars overhead, scattered across the sky.

  He felt a lightness, an excitement for the night to pass and the morning to come. How soon could he go back to see Emma, he wondered, and what excuse could he come up with? A need for fertilizer? A garden gnome? Vegetable seeds?

  While they’d listened to Stravinsky, Will had been thinking about Bridget’s words and decided that although she knew him better than anyone, she was wrong about his feelings in this case. He wasn’t trying to sabotage anything; he was only hoping to get to know this woman, find out who she was and whether she’d felt the charge between them. He liked the way her eyes watered when she laughed, explaining that the plant had to be taken out of the plastic pot before being planted in the ground. And the way she’d thanked him as he was leaving, handing him his receipt and pressing a butterscotch candy into the palm of his hand.

  It was then that he noticed a light was on in the guesthouse, and he saw a shadowy movement inside. Hudson put his head up and growled, low and deep. There was definitely someone in there. The lock on the guesthouse door hadn’t worked for the past ten years or so, but it had never occurred to him anyone would ever break in. And then he saw her in the living room: Isabelle. Through the big window, he could see her as she pulled clothes out of her suitcase and tossed them in a pile. He felt like he was watching a flashback, a glimpse of carefree, ten-year-old Isabelle rather than the serious, business-minded woman she’d become. She looked happy, which was good, but Will had a feeling the summer was about to get much more complicated.

  He whistled to Hudson and hurried back to the main house to get Bridget so they could go welcome Isabelle together.

  6

  No one, not her son or her grandchildren, not her friends, and none of the Strattons, seemed to fully appreciate that Marge had developed a superpower. It was a gift that had emerged after years and years of taking care of people. It had intensified recently, until one day, she realized: all she had to do was tune in, and she could figure out how or what the people closest to her were doing, feeling, and thinking. The laundry held secrets, as did the mail, as did hushed conversations, bedroom trash cans, and open laptops, but Marge had no need for snooping. Nor would she describe herself as psychic. Rather, the knowledge came to her. As for the Strattons, she had known before anyone else, for example, that Gwen would be a much happier, more satisfied person once she got rid of her jackass ex-husband, Charles, and started focusing on her career. She’d known Isabelle would never last the year in Hong Kong. Just like she knew that Edward was up to something very, very big because there was an energy radiating off of him she had never felt before. And that Bridget was grasping at straws to give her midlife meaning, unaware that what she needed was change.

  Marge was only a part
-time employee now, a temp, and barely one at that. Her son dropped her off every year at the end of May, and picked her up after Labor Day weekend, and all she did throughout the summer was tell other people what to do. She had a list of numbers at the ready (from a landscaper and an appliance repairman to a window washer and even a tapestry-restoration expert), and she made appointments, opening the door whenever the bell rang, and watching workers while they did their thing. She was an overseer.

  One of these days, Bridget would ask for help. Marge hadn’t been to Bridget’s house since the previous summer, and she could only imagine the state it was in after another year of neglect. Her apartment in New York wasn’t much better. Bridget was not a messy person by nature. She was clean, and she had good taste. But she had a blind spot when it came to seeing when change was needed. When a lightbulb burned out, it stayed burned out. When a window latch broke, it stayed broken. Screens stayed torn; floors stayed damaged. She was sentimental, keeping T-shirts for decades, regardless of their condition, and driving the same car she’d gotten when the kids were born, convinced it would have its feelings hurt if she sold it.

  Marge was no therapist, but it was clear that losing a mother to cancer at only eleven, the greatest, most difficult loss imaginable, had left Bridget wanting to keep everything in her life steady. The same house, the same job, the same music partner.

  Marge also knew that Bridget was ready for so much more.

  * * *

  Edward, who had been up since six that morning, was composing in the living room. Marge would hear him every so often, vocalizing a line with a “pa-pa-pa” or playing the same notes over and over on the piano. He was quiet now, and Marge wondered if he was pacing, as he sometimes did when he was writing music, or if he was sitting at the desk, pencil in hand.

  At ten in the morning, Gwen still hadn’t come downstairs.

  While Marge waited for Edward’s new assistant to arrive from New York, she baked two desserts to bring to Bridget’s house that night, a blueberry crisp, a family favorite, and a pie for Bridget, tripling the amount of Irish cream the recipe called for. It would be a small consolation for the cowardice of that dumb Sterling. Marge was not surprised he’d blown up the relationship; Sterling was a weasel. He was one of those stupid men who thought he was smart. A weak man who thought he was tough. He had a fragile ego, and what he wanted was a mother, not an equal. His ex-wife, as far as Marge was concerned, could keep him.