Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  And yet … and yet. As Jaime looked at this man, her husband, she realized that nothing would ever be the same between them again. Even if they went to counseling, even if she found a way to forgive him—something she wasn’t at all sure she’d be able to do—she’d always be wondering in the back of her mind if he was going to do it again.

  “I’m sorry, Mark,” she said, her voice as gentle as his had been a few moments earlier. “Our marriage is over. But I would really like to work with you to find a way to divorce that doesn’t cause any extra trauma to our children.”

  Mark’s face hardened. Jaime recognized the stony fix of his features; it was exactly how he had looked every time she had offered an opinion, or—even worse—a criticism of his relationship with Emily.

  “Fine,” he said, standing abruptly. Mark turned and picked up his garment bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

  “None of this is what I wanted,” Jaime said.

  “You know, you aren’t exactly blameless yourself.”

  Jaime’s mouth fell open. “Are you saying it’s my fault you had an affair?”

  “There were a lot of problems in our marriage.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your attitude toward Emily, for one.”

  “I love Emily,” Jaime said.

  “You’ve always resented her. Do you think I didn’t notice?”

  “That’s not true. I resented the fact that you have never invested as much time in Ava and Logan, but that has nothing to do with my feelings toward Em,” Jaime insisted.

  “Bullshit,” Mark said. “And do you think it’s easy being married to someone who expects—no, demands—perfection at all times? The house, the kids, me—we all have to live up to your unrealistic expectations. People aren’t perfect. Kitchens get messy. Kids spill juice. Husbands make mistakes.”

  Jaime gaped at Mark for a few beats, before being able to splutter, “That’s not what this is about! This isn’t about my mistakes—it’s about yours!”

  “They’re not unconnected,” Mark said.

  “That’s just a typical lawyer’s argument. You can’t win the argument, so reframe it. Well, I’m not playing this game with you anymore. Just go. Seriously. Leave,” Jaime said, hurling the words at him.

  But long after Mark left, and Jaime lay there, listening to the house vibrate with silence, she thought of what he’d said to her. If that’s what you want.

  “None of this is what I wanted,” Jaime said again, her mouth twisting. “None of this.”

  WHEN FRAN ASKED WILL to have lunch with her, she half-expected him to say no. He’d been icily distant for weeks, leaving rooms when she entered, giving curt answers to any questions she posed to him, continuing to sleep on the sofa.

  “This can’t go on,” Fran finally said to him one evening, after the girls were in bed. “I found Rory sleepwalking again. And Iris has been having stomach pains. You and I need to sit down and talk. We need to figure things out.”

  Will had hesitated, but finally nodded. “Do you want to do this now?” he asked.

  Fran felt a stab of fear. It was one thing to worry that Will might leave her; it was another thing to get confirmation.

  “No,” she’d said, chickening out. “I’m too tired right now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Over lunch. I know. Let’s go to the Café Rouge.” It was a small French bistro, a favorite locale for their rare date nights. Fran held her breath, waiting for Will’s answer.

  But just when Fran was sure Will was going to refuse, he’d shrugged and given a stiff half-nod, and said, “Sure. I’ll meet you there tomorrow.”

  And then he’d retired to his couch-bed and ignored her for the rest of the night.

  Fran agonized over what to wear. She wanted to look pretty, but—considering the circumstances of their estrangement—didn’t want to look too suggestive. Excessive cleavage might just remind Will that she’d thrown herself at his best friend. But she also didn’t want to show up in her work scrubs. Fran finally decided on her favorite dark rinse jeans and a peacock blue cashmere sweater that Will had given to her for Christmas a few years ago, which she packed in a bag, so she could change at work.

  She arrived at the Café Rouge first. The waiter recognized her from their previous visits and seated her in a private booth, near the back of the restaurant.

  “Would you like anything to drink while you wait for your husband?” the waiter asked.

  Fran hesitated. She had a feeling that if she ordered wine, she’d end up glugging down too much, and right now she needed to keep a clear head.

  “Iced tea, please,” she said.

  The waiter brought her the tea, and Fran had nearly emptied the entire glass before Will arrived, looking flustered.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he said, sliding into the booth across from her. “There was a meeting at work that ran way over, and I couldn’t get away.”

  “It’s fine,” Fran said, although the wait had been agonizing. For a while, she’d wondered if he was going to stand her up.

  Will picked up his menu and scanned it. “What are you having? I’ve never had lunch here before.”

  “I haven’t, either,” Fran said. “But I thought the quiche sounded good. Roasted red pepper and feta.”

  Will nodded. “I think I’ll have the steak sandwich with pommes frites.”

  “That sounds perfect. I’ll have the same thing,” she said, putting down her menu.

  The waiter appeared and took their order for the steak sandwiches. They waited in silence while the waiter went to get another iced tea for Fran and a Coke for Will.

  When they both had their drinks in front of them, Fran took a deep, shaky breath, and said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Will nodded, staring down at his Coke. “I know you are,” he said. “And I appreciate that.”

  Fran felt a rush of hope. “Can you forgive me?” she asked.

  Will looked up at her, and the expression Fran saw there caused her blooming hope to wither and blow into dust. Even despite the lack of passion in their relationship, she’d always known Will adored her. It had shone from him, even when he was exasperated or under the weather. But now, as he looked at her, his eyes were blank.

  “I don’t know if I can,” Will said.

  Tears pricked at her eyes, but Fran blinked, determined not to fall apart. Look at Jaime, she thought. She had kicked Mark out of the house, hired a divorce attorney and a part-time nanny, and next week was starting back at the realty office where she’d worked before her marriage. And despite all of these seismic changes, Jaime was taking the whole thing in stride. No, it was more than that—she seemed to be coming into her own, both toughening up and relaxing the over-the-top expectations she’d always put on herself. When Fran had stopped by Jaime’s house for a glass of wine a few nights earlier, there had actually been dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Dirty dishes?” Fran had said, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “I think you’re going to have to turn your Little Miss Perfect badge in.”

  Jaime had shrugged, lifted her glass of wine in a toast, and said, “I think I can live with that.”

  “That’s my girl!” Fran had said.

  There was the occasional crack in this tough facade. That same night, Jaime had gotten a little weepy when she reported Logan’s offhand comment about seeing Emily’s mom when he was visiting his dad.

  “I guess they’re still seeing each other. It’s like he can just slide from one marriage to the next, and then back again,” Jaime had said.

  “You know you’re better off without him,” Fran said.

  Jaime shrugged. “No doubt. But it’s still disturbing. It’s like he wants to pretend our marriage never took place, and just go back to the way things were. Mark, Libby, and Emily. The perfect little family.”

  “Except that he can’t erase it. There’s Ava and Logan now.”

  “That’s the one good thing to come out of this mess. Mark’s actually spendi
ng more time with them, now that he has to plan when he sees them.” Jaime sighed, and tossed her long hair back over her shoulders. “And he is a good dad.”

  “When he’s not fucking his ex-wife,” Fran amended.

  “Exactly,” Jaime said, and they’d both laughed.

  Now, sitting across the table from Will, wondering if her marriage was truly over, Fran hoped that she could channel some of Jaime’s bravado.

  “The thing is … I didn’t actually cheat on you,” she said.

  Will’s face hardened. “Not for lack of trying,” he said, the words a whiplash.

  Fran held up her hands in a sign of surrender. “Granted. And I was completely wrong to do what I did. And if it makes you feel any better, I made an absolute fool of myself.”

  “No, it doesn’t really.”

  Fran suppressed the urge to sigh. “What I’m trying to say is that in the end, nothing happened. I didn’t have an affair.”

  “But you wanted to,” Will said.

  Fran nodded. “Yes,” she said. There was no point denying it. That was exactly what happened. She had wanted to have an affair. In a sense, it had been an emotional affair, even if Coop hadn’t been an active participant, simply by the amount of emotion and energy she’d put into thinking about him. She’d been ready to walk out on her marriage, on her family for him. “I am very sorry. I would promise that it will never happen again, but I know my word isn’t worth much to you right now.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “But I love you. Please tell me we can fix this,” Fran said. Tears filled her eyes again, and this time she couldn’t blink them back. They welled up and spilled over her lashes.

  Will looked at her and then down at his Coke.

  “It’s not like I’m completely blameless. You were unhappy for a long time. I should have seen that,” Will said.

  “I should have talked to you about it,” Fran said.

  “And I should have been investing more energy into our marriage,” Will said. “If I’d spent as much time working on us as I spend on my combat bots, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “Oh, God, no, that would be annoying,” Fran blurted out. Then she gave a shaky laugh while wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I couldn’t stand that much quality couple time.”

  A corner of Will’s mouth turned up. “Okay, half as much time.”

  “Maybe a quarter,” Fran compromised.

  “I don’t spend that much time working on the bots,” Will protested.

  “Will. You have a disturbingly large army of combat robots in our garage. All of which you’ve built by hand,” Fran said.

  “Maybe it’s time for a new hobby,” Will said.

  “No … no. You just need to be you,” Fran said.

  She was about to reach across the table, to put her hand on his, but the waiter chose that moment to arrive with their steak sandwiches. Fran leaned back to make room for the plates, and then there was an extended wait while the server asked if they wanted fresh ground pepper on their sandwiches (an odd question, Fran thought, considering they hadn’t yet tasted them), and if they needed anything else. When he finally accepted that they were fine and departed, Will seemed distant again. He dipped a pomme frite in the small dish of ketchup, and popped it in his mouth. He had always been a fries-first kind of a guy, Fran thought. She liked to eat her food together, alternating bites of sandwich and fries, while Will would often polish off entire side dishes before moving on to the entrée. In another, less strained time, she would have remarked upon this to him, and he would pretend that it was a criticism and act offended, all the while enjoying there was someone who cared enough to notice his idiosyncrasies.

  Instead, she said, “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  “What do you think about seeing a marriage counselor?” Will asked carefully, not looking up from his lunch.

  “Okay,” Fran said, keeping her voice neutral. The truth was she hated therapy, and couples therapy in particular. “Do you think we need one?”

  Will looked up at her. “Well, yeah. Don’t you?”

  “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” Fran said quickly. “But I just sort of hoped we could put this behind us. That we could move forward, with the understanding that I’ll have to earn your trust again.”

  “And then what? What if six months from now, you feel like leaving again?”

  Fran shook her head vehemently. “No. That was a terrible idea. Childish. I was just playing out this stupid fantasy I had of a different life.”

  “Well, that happened for a reason,” Will said. “There must be something missing in your life that you were trying to fix.”

  Fran bit into her steak sandwich, quickly leaning forward so that the juices wouldn’t drip onto her sweater. She barely tasted the food, but wanted a minute to think. Her plan for this lunch had been to throw herself on Will’s mercy and beg for a second chance. But, at the same time, she knew he was right—she had been unhappy. That was something that probably should be addressed if they were to move on.

  “I think what I was feeling—what I’ve been feeling for a long time—is that my entire life had become about working, and helping the kids with homework, and doing laundry. There hasn’t been any excitement, any passion. Nothing to look forward to, other than more of the same,” Fran said.

  Will sat up, his back stiffening. “I work hard, too. And I do a lot to help out around the house,” he said.

  “I know. It isn’t a contest. But I thought you wanted to know what I’ve been missing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “This,” Fran said, gesturing to the restaurant. “This is the first time we’ve had lunch together at a nice restaurant, just the two of us, in ages. And it took a crisis to get us here. I want to have date nights. I want to go on a vacation, just the two of us.”

  “You know money has been tight,” Mark said.

  “I know. I’m not saying it has to be all filet mignon and trips to Paris. We could go have a picnic on the beach, for all I care,” Fran said.

  “The problem with that is that it always sounds good in theory, but then sand gets in the food. And flocks of seagulls end up stalking you for leftovers,” Will said.

  Fran stared at him. “Really?”

  “Sorry,” Will said. “No, I do hear you. You want romance.”

  “I want you,” Fran said. This time she did lean over the table and put her hand on his arm. “I want to spend time where it’s just you and me. Time apart from the kids, and the household chores, and paying the bills, and the monotony of everyday life.”

  Will nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That’s something we can definitely work on.”

  Tears filled Fran’s eyes yet again. “Really?” she said. “You’re not going to leave me, then?”

  Will put his hand on top of Fran’s. And this time, when he looked at her, it was the way he used to. With love.

  “Fran,” he said gently. “You’re my life. You and the girls. I couldn’t live without you.”

  “I can’t live without you, either,” Fran said, now full-on blubbering. She used the crisp white napkin to wipe at her eyes and nose, while wondering, What is it with me and crying in restaurants lately? She held up one hand to Will, and with the other dug in her purse for her compact. “Wait, don’t look at me. I know I’m all red and splotchy.”

  “You are. You’re red, and splotchy, and you’re snotty, too,” Will said. He smiled at her, and Fran wondered if his eyes were extra shiny because he was tearing up, too. “But I love you anyway.”

  “You do?” she sniffled.

  “I do,” he said, and he lifted her hand and kissed it.

  THE SUN WAS SETTING in ribbons of pink and orange as Coop steered his boat back toward the dock. It had been a good day out; he’d caught three red snapper early, which were now in the cooler, and then had spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the sun with a beer, Bear at his side, contemplating his life. He had spent
most of his adulthood doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. He’d dated more than his share of beautiful women, had professional success in a job he enjoyed, and had the love of a good dog.

  This introspection led him to an inevitable conclusion: He had been the world’s biggest schmuck.

  He was forty-six years old, well past the age when most men married, had kids, bought a house. They carved turkeys at Thanksgiving and decorated Christmas trees and hid chocolate eggs for Easter egg hunts. They watched bad sitcoms tucked up on the couch with their wives’ feet on their laps. They slowly lost the hair on their heads, and grew it back in their noses and ears, and displayed the pottery pencil holders their kids made them for Father’s Day on their desks. Was it boring and unoriginal and suburban at times? Undoubtedly. But it was a life full of textures and memories, and—above all—a life filled with love.

  That was the sort of life he wanted to have with Audrey, he thought. Unfortunately, she was even more damaged than he was. She was so hung up on her late marriage, she had yet to realize that her life was still going on.

  “But what can I do? I can’t force her to be with me,” Coop said out loud.

  Bear looked at him, adopted the pose of the concerned listener—his brown furry head cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on Coop.

  “I know what you’d say if you could talk,” Coop said. “You’d say I didn’t exactly go all out trying to win her over. I mean, I did tell her I love her. But I didn’t make the big gesture. I didn’t hire a sky writer or propose during a nationally televised sporting event. I didn’t even bring her flowers.”

  Bear’s tongue unfurled from his mouth, and he began to pant.

  “Yeah, I know. Audrey doesn’t seem like the big gesture type. In fact, I’m pretty she she’d think sky writing was tacky. But most women like to be wooed, right? It just seems like there’s a fine line between continuing to woo a woman who’s turned you down cold—twice, no less—and stalking,” Coop continued.

  Bear yawned and lay down on the padded boat seat, his head resting on his paws.

  “I hear you, buddy. I’m boring myself. And I’m also questioning my sanity, considering I’m looking for love advice from a dog.” The dock came into view, and Coop drove slowly toward it, obeying the speed law and staying in the designated lane for boat traffic.