It was no great secret that marriage could be difficult to sustain. Each and every decision a husband or wife made, each and every word he or she said, affected the union. A person needed to know her own mind very, very clearly before participating with her partner in any decision more important than what to have for dinner. Wait, Marta thought. Even that decision should be made consciously. How many marriages had foundered on the rocks of faulty communication?
“You always order mushroom pizza. You know I don’t really like mushrooms.”
“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I did! But you never listened, so I gave up.”
“I’m not a mind reader, for God’s sake!”
The sidewalk had ended again; with a glance over her shoulder, Marta stepped into the street. She knew she should have left Mike a note that morning. It was common courtesy. But communication in a marriage could so easily break down and when it did, it could be so difficult to get it going again. To reset the good dynamic took maturity, determination, and courage on the part of both partners.
A handsome older man lifted a hand in a wave from his front porch. Marta returned the greeting. She wondered if his wife was in their kitchen, sipping her morning coffee, waiting for her husband to return with the daily newspaper. She wondered if they were happy.
Marta and Mike had been happy. Until this pregnancy. No, Marta thought. Her dissatisfaction had begun before that, when she had looked around one day and realized that her own life—or what was left of it—was lacking. Could she possibly keep from Mike forever the dissatisfaction she felt about the negative turn her life had taken with this fourth pregnancy? And if she was able to stay silent, who would she be benefiting? Would she grow bitter and angry if she didn’t speak what was in her heart? Would the marriage survive such deception?
The end of her marriage to Mike would mean the destruction of every aspect of the life they had built over the years, from the most minor bits like their shared preference for creamy over chunky peanut butter to the larger, more important matters like the charities they contributed to at the end of the year. It would mean irreparable damage to the children. It would mean major financial loss.
Suddenly, under the warm June sun, Marta shivered. She had known too many situations in which an otherwise rational husband or wife became brutally vindictive toward the soon-to-be ex-spouse. In spite of what she had implied to her friends, Mike was a powerful and well-connected lawyer. Would he attempt to punish her in a divorce settlement? Would she know how to fight back? But Mike would never be cruel. Or would he? Look at how Chris was treating Allison. Any of the friends would have said that Chris divorcing Allison for anything less than her taking to murder as a hobby was unthinkable.
Marta felt heartsick. How had it come to the point where she was imagining the end of the relationship that had meant more to her than any other? Maybe she was becoming clinically depressed. If she was still having such negative thoughts when she got back to New York after the wedding she would ask her PCP to prescribe an antidepressant that would be safe to take during a pregnancy. A pregnancy that was only one of the things that had triggered this unhappy mental and emotional state.
A young woman pushing a stroller was coming toward Marta. Marta didn’t think she had it in her to greet this woman, to make a pleasant remark about her child. She would go back to the house, see what the others were up to, and have something to eat. Protein would be good. She could temporarily quell her sorrows with boiled eggs and turkey sausage. Marta made an about-face and at a faster pace began the walk back to Driftwood House. Of course, she had memorized the way.
Chapter 42
After a full hour at the beach, Allison decided to return to Driftwood House. She packed up her travel art kit and with one last appreciative look at the water, she set off. She would miss the Atlantic coastline when she returned to Chicago. The city that had become her home because of Chris. The city that might not remain her home. Chicago wasn’t cheap. Her lawyer had been brutally honest about how a divorce would affect her economic status. In the marriage, Chris had handled the finances for the both of them. Allison was on a steep learning curve but with the help of a financial organizer recommended by her lawyer, she was slowly gaining confidence in her ability to live well on her own. Slowly. One step at a time.
“Successful expedition?” Marta asked when Allison came through the door that led from the back porch. She was sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of tea. Bess was with her, studying a series of paint chips. She had told Allison she was planning on doing some renovations to her condo in Portland.
“Yes. And guess who I saw again earlier? That big gray cat who mysteriously appeared in the dead tree. He was stalking something at the bottom of the yard by the azalea bushes but when he saw me he came trotting over, fell on his back, and demanded a belly rub! I really should try to find out if he has a home.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Marta queried.
Allison shrugged. “I don’t know.” She placed her sketchbook and kit on the dining table. “But I do know there’s a reason art therapy exists. Flow activities can be hugely helpful in quieting a troubled mind. I feel downright positive at the moment.”
“What’s a flow activity?” Bess asked.
“I guess you could say it’s something you’re consciously doing,” Allison said, “like playing a sport or planting a garden. It’s something that challenges you, something that’s rewarding in and of itself. Like drawing and painting is for me. I lose myself in the process. I’m concentrating, I’m enjoying what I’m doing, and the rest of the world just falls away for a while.”
Bess nodded. “So, a flow activity is something that makes you happy.”
“Right, but it’s different from just leisure,” Allison went on, “like watching TV or lying on a beach. Those things can make you feel good, but you’re not the one producing the happiness. The TV show is making you laugh and the sun is making you feel warm and drowsy.”
“I think athletes call it being ‘in the zone,’” Marta explained. “Being so involved with running or swimming or skiing that absolutely nothing else exists but that moment and the challenges that moment brings.”
“And I’ve heard some of my artist friends describe the state they get in when they’re working as ‘aesthetic rapture.’”
“Can I get that when I’m working?” Bess asked. “Because I totally love planning events.” She smiled. “And picking paint colors.”
Allison smiled. “Of course. You’re lucky your work provides real happiness. I suppose pretty much any task might provide challenge and pleasure if you were inclined to find it.”
“When you’re shooting professionally,” Bess asked, “do you lose yourself in the work?”
“Yes,” Allison said, “but not to the extent I do when I’m creating images entirely on my own. I’ve got the client’s vision to keep in mind. A well-informed client, one who knows his own mind, can be a joy to work with. On the other hand, a client who can’t see past his own stubborn vision can be a nightmare.”
“At least he’s a client. And a nightmare client is better than no client.” Bess laughed.
“I wouldn’t know,” Marta said.
The comment was made quietly, but Allison heard it.
“What do you do to get into the zone?” Bess asked Marta.
Marta laughed. “If I allowed myself to get into the zone I’d fall asleep for a week.”
“No, really,” Bess pressed. “Do you have a hobby?”
“I keep busy.”
“You would have made a great lawyer, Marta,” Bess commented. “You can be so evasive, saying something and saying nothing at the same time!”
“I didn’t want to be a lawyer,” Marta said dismissively. “I already told you I have no regrets about that. Regrets are foolish.”
“They might be foolish,” Allison said, “but they’re universal. I doubt any human being over the age of ten is free of all regret.”
>
“What’s that old saying,” Bess asked, “people rarely regret what they’ve done but often regret what they haven’t done? Or is it the other way around?”
Allison smiled. “Whichever way it is, whenever I hear the word regret I immediately think of Édith Piaf singing that wonderful song, ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.’ What a voice.”
“What about you, Bess?” Marta asked. “Do you most regret things you’ve done or things you’ve left undone?”
“Me?” Bess’s eyes widened. “Gosh, I don’t know. I kind of regret having that second piece of pie last night because I had a sugar overload headache for a while. But it was awfully delicious so maybe I don’t really regret it. And if I hadn’t had that second piece of pie I probably would have been lying awake forever thinking about it so I probably would have regretted not having it.”
“What I wouldn’t give to live in your head, even for a day,” Marta said musingly.
“I don’t think anyone would survive five minutes in another person’s head,” Allison noted. “Assuming we retained our own consciousness for the duration. We’d be witnessing a completely different way of living a human life. We’d be so disoriented we’d—Well, it wouldn’t be fun.”
“Better the hell you know.” Marta nodded.
Bess was frowning. “I don’t understand. How, exactly, would that work, being in someone else’s head?”
Marta rolled her eyes. Allison patted Bess’s hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Is there any of that pie left or did you demolish it last night?”
Chapter 43
Dean and Mike had taken the baby to York’s Wild Kingdom. Thomas was too young to appreciate the outing, which was clearly for the benefit of the men. Bumper cars. Butterfly exhibit. Merry-go-round. Greasy food. Chuck had asked Dean to bring him some fried dough.
Nathan was holed up in the den on the phone with his office. He had been very busy in the past few days and seemed a bit stressed, but when Bess had asked him if anything was amiss he had denied it. “The usual corporate craziness,” he said. “Even those of us in communications get our wires crossed. Maybe especially those of us in communications.”
The rest of the crowd was gathered once again on the back porch. It was perfect for lazing around, what with the shade provided by the roof, the spectacular views, and the comfortable furniture. Marta kept checking her phone; Bess assumed she was eager for word from her mother or from one of the kids. Chuck’s legs were stretched out before him; his folded hands rested on his stomach. Allison, looking cool and collected in spite of the sultry weather, was sipping a glass of ice water and reading from one of the bridal magazines Bess had amassed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask what sort of wedding cake we have to look forward to,” Chuck said.
“I couldn’t decide on what kind of cake I wanted, so in the end I ordered three,” Bess told him. “One classic vanilla cake with strawberry filling, one hazelnut, and one chocolate-chocolate mint.”
Chuck grinned. “Mmmm. Three of my favorites,” he said. “Something to dream about tonight.”
“Speaking of weddings,” Allison said, pointing to the magazine on her lap. “It says here that in general, more men than women want to be married. I wonder where the writer came up with that bit of information. This isn’t a rag like that gossip magazine Chuck was reading, but it’s not an academic journal, either.”
Marta put her phone aside and laughed dryly. “I bet it’s true. The benefits of marriage for a man are always larger than they are for a woman!”
“Oh, come on,” Allison protested, “not always.”
“Often, then. As late as the mid-nineteenth century in countries like England and the U.S. a married woman had no rights as an individual. The term used was coverture. Marriage voided a wife’s separate legal identity.” Marta shook her head. “And don’t get me started on the practice of primogeniture, focusing all the family’s money and property in the hands of the eldest son. Do you know how many mothers and daughters that nice little practice left in an economic mess?”
Bess opened her mouth to speak, but Marta went on, her voice more strident. “There are still countries where rape in marriage is legal! Where sattee, the burning of a widow on her husband’s funeral pyre, is still seen as having significance!”
“Actually, I think sattee is illegal,” Allison pointed out. “It still happens on occasion, but it’s not a generally accepted practice.”
Bess nodded. “Yeah, and that other stuff doesn’t happen any longer, at least not here.”
“It matters that it happens anywhere,” Marta said forcefully. “Do you realize that in some cultures a married woman isn’t allowed to leave the house without being accompanied by a male relation? What’s the benefit of marriage for her? Security? More like prison!”
Bess frowned. “You’re making me feel stupid for wanting to be married.”
“Bess, you’re too sensitive!” Chuck said. “Marta’s just waxing political. By the way, does that article say anything about same-sex marriages? Or are those wedding magazines still skewed toward the heterosexual market?”
“Toward the heterosexual market mostly,” Bess told him. “There are some publications, though, that cater to the homosexual market.”
“How nice of them,” Chuck commented dryly.
“I wonder if Chris will remarry,” Allison said. “Surely every one of us has thought about that possibility.”
“Unless he unloads the baggage he’s carrying regarding his brother,” Marta said, “that marriage would also be doomed to failure.”
“We might never know if he remarries,” Chuck said.
“What do you mean?” Bess asked.
“Chris has pretty much cut us out of his life already,” Chuck noted. “After a trauma, it’s not uncommon for people to turn their backs on those from their old life and try to begin anew. Whether that works or not I can’t say—I guess it depends on lots of factors—but in Chris’s case I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve heard the last of him.” Chuck shook his head. “I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth.”
“I never thought—” Bess realized she could not finish the statement aloud.
“That anything bad would happen to any of us?” Marta’s tone was mocking.
“No,” Bess replied stoutly, “that’s not what I was going to say at all.” But in fact, it had been what she was going to say.
Chuck rose from his seat. “I want to pop into that little bookstore in town, Fine Print Booksellers. Anyone want to come along?”
“I will,” Allison said. “Maybe they have a title by Elizabeth J. Duncan I haven’t read yet.”
“Do you know that on average men grow more content in marriage while women grow less so?” Marta announced, the moment Chuck and Allison were gone, pointing to yet another of the magazines Bess had accumulated. “An article in that one says that a full two-thirds of divorces after the age of forty are initiated by women. Seems a bleak topic for a wedding magazine to talk about, but there it is in black and white.”
Bess restrained a sigh. She had had enough talk about marriage, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Before she could say so, Marta received a text. She reached for her phone, read the text, and put the phone aside again.
“Nothing important?” Bess asked.
“Just a catty update on one of the women on the community board. She’s been talking about leaving her husband.”
“Was he unfaithful?” Bess asked. It seemed like a reasonable first question.
“No,” Marta said. “He’s fidelity personified.”
“Did she fall in love with someone else?” A reasonable second question.
“Nope,” Marta said. “And Ben isn’t violent or a drinker or a gambler. He’s a successful, well-adjusted, even-tempered guy.”
Bess shook her head. “Then why does this woman want to leave her husband?”
“Because she’s unhappy in the marriage.”
“But why?” Bess p
ressed. “What’s wrong with—”
“You were going to say what’s wrong with her, weren’t you?” Marta snapped.
Bess blushed. “Yeah, I guess I was.”
“Nothing is wrong with Violet,” Marta said forcefully. “She’s unhappy in her marriage for reasons that are real to her if mysterious to her friends. Unhappiness, assuming it’s genuine and not just a brief, irritating itch, is a valid reason for making a change.”
“Still, her friends must be so confused,” Bess pressed. “What can you say to help her?”
“You mean, to talk her out of a divorce?” Marta asked. “Pretty much every one of her friends think she’s being incredibly stupid. They’ve told her that she and her son will suffer financially, no matter how good a settlement she gets. Some of them have decided that Violet’s wanting to leave is just a whim. Her best friend, Rowan, reminded her that to some extent everyone is dissatisfied in their marriage and that she should just accept that fact and carry on. Of course,” Marta pointed out, “Rowan is seriously miserable in her own marriage so I wouldn’t trust any advice she’s giving.”
“And you?” Bess asked. “What do you say to Violet?”
Marta shrugged. “I support her. I believe she has the right to make her own decisions.”
Bess wondered. Marta was often flippant and provocative, but at the moment she sounded downright cold. “Marta,” she ventured, “is everything okay between you and Mike?”
“Of course,” Marta replied quickly. “Why would you ask?”
Bess tried to choose her words carefully, something she often wasn’t very good at doing. “It seems to me you’re championing this woman’s decision to leave her husband, so I can’t help but think . . .”
“I’m not championing anything,” Marta snapped. “All I’m saying is that everyone has a right to make her own choices. And no one needs to hear advice from people whose own lives aren’t in perfect shape.”
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