The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  “I’m not into notches,” Rich says, pulling on his shirt, tucking it in, buckling his belt. “I’ve never seen the point. But as much as I think we both enjoyed last night, if it’s a problem we can pretend it never happened.” He says it lightly, but I’m starting to be able to read those hazel eyes. To decipher what he means, what he doesn’t.

  Nonetheless, I take the out he offers. “I apologize for crossing the line. We’re going to be working together, and it would be silly to jeopardize that. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen. And it definitely can never ‘not happen’ again.”

  Erin

  Jazmine arrives at work late the next morning even though she had nothing on her calendar, something that’s never happened before. She offers no explanation. Rich Hanson never shows his face. When I ask, his assistant says he’s out at meetings all day.

  We spend the day on paperwork and researching high school and college tennis players. Jazmine displays none of the excitement or satisfaction of yesterday’s presentation. I had never seen her that excited. It’s as if some curtain has been brought down and now it’s back to business as usual.

  It’s early afternoon and we’re in her office going over upcoming travel plans and discussing her calendar when Larry strolls up, knocks on the open door, and steps inside. He has a huge smile on his face.

  “Afternoon, Jazmine. Just wanted to say again how impressed I was with your and Rich’s work. I am blown away by what a great team you make, how well you managed to work together and put aside your differences.”

  Jazmine’s head cocks to one side. It’s a signal that she’s listening, of course, but although there’s still a smile on her lips, I can see that she’s gone very still. Her eyes are pinned on Larry’s face.

  “I told him when he joined the firm that the only way he was ever going to make his mark here was to get you on board.” He chuckles, wags his head. “I have to admit, I never thought he’d win you over. I was kind of looking forward to seeing you put him in his place.”

  “Is that right?” Jazmine’s smile freezes on her lips. Her eyes go all flinty.

  I’m not sure exactly who that look is meant for, but I hope I never find myself on the other end of anything half as lethal.

  Thirty-Three

  Judith

  I’ve spent the last five days waiting for the kids to call—they haven’t. Even the daily texts have stopped. Despite her own meltdown over Frank’s disappearance and her disillusionment with online dating, Meena keeps reminding me that whether to sell the house or not is my decision. So is what I do next with my life.

  I’m tired of waiting, waffling, and second-guessing. When I get in bed on Friday night, I stare into the ceiling and give myself a Meena-esque pep talk. By the time I turn the light out, the one thing I know for sure is that as much as I love my children, I can’t live only for them. It’s time to stop beating myself up and set things straight. It’s time to reclaim my life. Or, more accurately, begin to build a new one.

  For the first time since Nate died, I sleep through the night. At ten on Saturday morning, when I’m sure they’ll both be up, I place a call to Ansley. When she answers, I ask her to hold, then quickly add Ethan to the call before she can refuse.

  “Yeah?”

  At his tone, I swallow back the apology I had intended to lead with. “I hope you’re both fully awake, because there’s something I need to say to you.”

  “Yeah.” His response is slightly less hostile but nowhere near apologetic.

  “Yes, Mother,” Ansley says in the tone that has always accompanied an eye roll.

  I let go of any hope that this is going to be a poignantly beautiful meeting of the minds and force myself to continue.

  “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation,” I begin. “I loved your father. And I love you both more than anything in the world. The last thing I want is to hurt or disappoint you.”

  Their silence is heavy and unnerving, but I’ve made my decision, and I need them to understand my reasoning. “But you both live where you’ve chosen to live, and I believe I deserve the right to do the same. This house is too big and too empty. I can no longer stay here alone, stuck in our past. Somehow, I need to carve out some kind of future. I have to find a way to move on. So . . .”

  When neither of them speaks, I expel one breath and draw in another, gathering my courage. “I’m going to begin preparing the house to go on the market. I’d like you to come down over Memorial Day weekend—that’s five weeks from now—to help go through things and decide what you’d like to keep.” I hesitate, trying to strike the right tone, because as much as I want them to come be a part of this, I am not asking permission. “I would love for us to do this together.”

  I wait, barely breathing, as the silence spools out.

  I’m about to hang up when Ansley breaks the silence. “I’ll be there, Mom. And . . . I’m sorry for carrying on the way I did. It’s just . . .”

  “I know,” I say softly to them both. “Everything about this has been so hard.”

  “And I’ll see if Hannah can come with me.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I breathe, still waiting for my son, afraid he won’t speak. Even more afraid of what he might say.

  “And if I can’t make it?” Ethan finally asks.

  I close my eyes. “I hope you’ll come, sweetheart. Truly, I do. Otherwise, I’ll . . . I’ll have to assume there’s nothing here you want.” I swallow. “Or care about.”

  Another silence, one I’m careful not to fill. I’ve said what I needed to say.

  “I’ll think about it,” he says. Then they both hang up.

  Sara

  Mitchell and I no longer have a need to communicate, not that we’ve done much of that since our attorneys took over. And there’s not all that much to divvy up. The biggest plus for me was the ability to dodge part of the debt Mitch ran up. The biggest loss will be the house, but at least I’ll get enough from its sale to start over in something smaller. Which is just another word for ‘cozy,’ right?

  I also get Dorothy. She has nowhere else to go and not enough funds to get there, so as far as I’m concerned, she’s mine. We’re pooling our resources, and when she’s not chatting with or mooning over Dean, she’s surfing real estate sites, looking for houses that we can afford and open houses we can attend.

  Bonnie Traiman says all that’s left is for the paperwork to make its way through the system. Apparently, the average divorce takes about nine months from filing to final decree. Exactly the length of a pregnancy. The ironies certainly do keep piling up.

  It’s Saturday night, and I’m more than a little surprised when a text arrives from my soon-to-be ex-husband asking to come by next weekend to pick up the rest of his things. (I didn’t manage to throw everything out in the yard.)

  Come while I’m at work. You can schedule with your mother.

  She there now?

  No. I actually smile as I type, She’s on a date.

  The cursor blinks. There is no sign of typing. I enjoy what I assume is a stunned silence. But that’s life for you. Even the seventy-five-year-old mother you abandoned might have something better to do than sit around waiting to hear from you.

  A date?????

  Yep.

  How?

  How does anyone meet someone new? (Yes, that’s a dig.) Online. I don’t mention his name or Harvard or the big house out in Sugarloaf, because that might make Mitch think Dorothy has access to money, which might make Mitch think his mother has something left to steal.

  Holy shit.

  I make no comment. Watching Dorothy evolve has been inspiring. It reminds me of the George Eliot quote, “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” God, I hope it’s true.

  Like to see you, too, Mitch texts.

  I consider responding “not if I see you first.” I can’t imag
ine what we could possibly have to say to each other. Perhaps now that he’s almost free of me he imagines we can be “friends.”

  Or maybe there’s something he still wants.

  I settle back on the sofa, in a spill of light, and go back to reading this month’s book club pick, which is set in three different time periods at the Ritz in Paris. I’m grateful not only for the escape from real life, but not to have to huddle in the bathroom or hide from Dorothy while I’m escaping. Sometimes Dorothy and I sit here in the very same room reading. In our own worlds, but not alone.

  I’m at the end of a chapter when a car pulls into the drive. I glance at my phone. It’s only nine o’clock. Thinking I might be about to meet the infamous and fascinating Dean Francis, I uncurl myself and straighten my clothes. But I hear the car back down the drive at almost the instant the front door opens. The door closes. No footsteps sound on the floor.

  “Dorothy?”

  “Yes?” Her voice wobbles. “I’m just . . . I’ll be right there.”

  She walks into the living room. Her shoulders are back, her chin is up. She’s wearing a lovely lilac dress with nude low heels, but the smile she left with has disappeared.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She lowers herself onto the chair facing me. She looks as if she’s trying not to cry.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Why, thank you.” Her attempt at sarcasm falls flat. It’s completely lacking in energy.

  I wait, but she still doesn’t speak. “Did something happen?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. It felt like something went wrong, but I can’t think why.”

  “Tell me what happened.” I close the book and set it beside me.

  “We went to dinner at Il Giallo, you know, the Italian place that Meena mentioned. Dean had never been there, either, and he seemed up for trying it. At first everything seemed fine.” She hesitates as if running it through her mind. “I thought things were going well. But . . . I don’t know.” She pauses again. “We were having dessert when he mentioned putting his house on the market and possibly looking around here in Sandy Springs or in Dunwoody for something smaller. He said he thought it was time to let go of the past and to stop mourning. He even brought up the idea of us taking a weekend trip up to the mountains this summer.”

  Her hands clasp in her lap.

  “He’s so attentive—it’s one of the things I enjoy about spending time with him. And he’s had such exciting life experiences. I told him I’d like to introduce you and that we were going to be looking for a new house, too. That led to a conversation about Mitchell and his . . . his behavior. I hadn’t brought it up before because I didn’t want to come off as too needy or sound as if I hadn’t tried to be a good mother and raise him properly.”

  Her face reflects her uncertainty. Her teeth worry at her lip. “He listened to everything I said. He seemed sympathetic at first. But then he got the oddest look on his face. He demanded to know why I hadn’t told him any of this before.” She swallows before forcing herself to continue. “He told me that he was hurt that I hadn’t been honest with him. That he didn’t know if he could continue to see someone who would keep so much of herself a secret.” She lets out a jagged breath.

  “The worst part was the way he looked at me. Perhaps he holds me responsible for Mitchell’s actions. I know I do.”

  Her lip trembles. I have the oddest urge to reach out and take her in my arms and tell her she’s not to blame. That everything will be all right. But I’m not sure how she would react. And I’m not at all sure that everything will be all right.

  “It certainly sounds as if he overreacted,” I say in a measured voice. “You’re a victim, Dorothy. In many ways even more than I am.”

  We sit in silence for several long moments.

  “I don’t know,” she says finally. “His expression was . . . it was like a light switch turning off. He barely spoke on the way home. When I was getting out of the car, he said he’d be in touch, but he sounded so different. I don’t know what it was that I said or did. But I clearly did something wrong.”

  Thirty-Four

  Judith

  Although I haven’t heard anything more from Ethan, I remain hopeful that he’ll come around. In the meantime, I’ve made a list of Realtors to interview, reached out to the estate sale company that Meena and Stan used, and plotted out a plan of attack and a timetable I intend to stick to. It’s such a relief to have a reason to get up in the morning. I am a woman on a mission.

  I’m not yet ready to empty Nate’s closet or face his lucky ties, so I’ve decided to start at the bottom of the house and work my way up. In the basement I tell Alexa, who is no doubt stunned at being summoned after being ignored for so long, to put on my favorite playlist. Since Meena and I are serving refreshments at book club tonight and are discussing a Paris-set novel, I begin by pawing through the boxes filled with costumes and accessories we’ve been accumulating since Ethan’s and Ansley’s first Halloweens.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I arrive at Between the Covers, Annell envelops me in a hug.

  “That’s quite the mustache,” she teases, eyeing the black cardboard number affixed inside my nostrils and dangling above my mouth. A droopy French chef’s hat perches on my head. (I briefly considered dressing as the French mime Marcel Marceau, but there’s no way I’m making it through book club in silence.)

  Meena has already set up the food table, which is covered with platters of macarons, éclairs, and petits fours that she picked up from a favorite French bakery. (A definite step up the food chain from my homemade body-part cookies.)

  She’s wearing a pin-striped chef’s coat and starched white toque. Her mustache is drawn on in what looks like black eyeliner. We are extremely careful not to smudge or dislodge as we hug hello.

  I pour champagne into plastic flutes that Meena hands out with a deep-throated and yet nasal, “Hon, hon, hon,” delivered in a truly horrible accent, which may or may not be intentional.

  She hams it up, pretending to be a woman without a care in the world, but her eyes are troubled. I know she’s fretting over Frank’s vanishing act and the pall it’s cast on the realities of online dating. But we all have our secrets. If I learned anything from the tequila-induced revelations at Superica, it’s that other people’s lives look easier and less complicated only because we don’t know the burdens they carry.

  Jazmine and Angela stop for pastries and champagne and stay to chat, showing off their French manicures. Chaz, Erin, and Carlotta join them along with Wesley and Phoebe, who arrive in matching black berets. Nancy Flaherty is back and absolutely thrilled with the golf skort and halter top Carlotta presents to her.

  Dorothy and Sara are the last to arrive. They stop off at the register, no doubt to stuff the box with book club name entries, then come over to join us. Conversation and laughter swirl around us. Everyone offers a cheery “merci” and an extra “oui” or “mais oui” as they fill their plates and accept glasses of champagne.

  When everyone has been served, Annell escorts us into the carriage house, where Meena and I settle next to each other on the window seat. Each time I check, Meena is smiling or “Hon, hon, hon”-ing, but I can feel the effort even a bad faux French laugh requires.

  With no newbies in the group, we skip introductions and give ourselves a round of applause for our mostly terrible French accents. I pass a champagne bottle around the circle for refills as Annell kicks off the book conversation with insights into how deftly the three authors wove three very different characters into three separate time periods and also managed to turn the Paris Ritz into an important fourth character.

  The discussion has barely ended when Angela raises her hand. “I’d like us to choose Becoming by Michelle Obama as our next read as a birthday gift for Jazmine, because it’s her favorite and our Ma
y meeting falls on her birthday.” She shoots a smile at her longtime friend. “I’ll bring the birthday cake.”

  “I like eet,” Annell says in a terrible French accent. “All een favor?”

  The vote is unanimous. Jazmine stands up, smiling, raising a now-empty champagne bottle aloft. “Thank you! I can’t wait to discuss it with you all. It might even help soften the blow of getting older.”

  Annell is about to pull out a stack of book club name suggestions when Meena stands.

  “If it’s okay, there’s something I’d like to say before we wrap up.”

  “Of course.” Annell sits.

  All eyes turn to Meena, who has ditched the “Hon, hon, hon” and the last vestige of her smile. “How many of you put a profile on a dating site for the first time after I presented Online Dating 101?”

  Dorothy, Annell, and Chaz raise their hands. Erin’s goes up halfway.

  Angela gives Jazmine a look. “You promised.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been busy,” Jazmine counters.

  “I think most everyone else who’s single was already using dating apps?” Meena’s going somewhere with this; none of us know exactly where.

  “You know that’s right,” Carlotta says.

  “On occasion,” Nancy replies with a knowing smile.

  Wesley nods. Phoebe grimaces.

  “Yeah, turns out it’s a mixed bag of an experience.” Meena looks around the circle. “I . . . want to apologize for making it sound like it’s all sunshine and roses.” She drops her eyes for a moment, then meets our gazes again. “I was matched up with a man named Frank who seemed perfect for me. Remember, I told you we spent that week together on the Mayan Riviera?” She swallows. “Then he wanted to be exclusive, and in the end I figured, Why not? But as soon as I agreed to that, he started talking about living together. He wanted to move in with me.”