Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “I say if you’re this high on him, maybe you should think about it a little more.”

  Maybe Sasha should have.

  Maybe she did.

  I cover my mouth with my hand. Maybe I’ve busted my Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em Robot and I am the center ring cliché: a wife whose husband is cheating with her best friend. I hear the bathroom door open; Rob flips off his bedside lamp. I listen as he punches the pillow. His body falls so hard into the mattress I feel the vibration ten feet away. I turn and look at him in the moonlight. What I see is Sasha’s flawless sexy frame—the one that seems ageless—lying beside him. She is wearing a puddle of silky nightgown. Rob would like that so much more than tarty, lacy scabs of red lace. So would Sasha. I’m absolutely sure of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Theo

  Theo has spent time thinking about how he will get through his mother’s Boston Public Library gala. Perhaps he will find a remote corner and get lost in a book. It seems like the safest alternative. When India first left him, his mother was all for canceling her contract with Take Me to Church Catering. “Theo, forget the cost . . . I’ll find another caterer. I was merely doing India a favor by hiring her parents’ company. If it saves you any pain, I’ll gladly do it.” She meant it. His mother would fire Take Me to Church Catering and move her fundraiser to Toledo if it benefited Theo. He appreciated the thought. He would never do it. Besides, the Church’s contract is not with Claire, but the charitable board on which she sits. It would be beyond embarrassing to have his mother intervene on behalf of her son’s broken heart. Theo insisted she let it go. He also doesn’t want to be the thing that comes between Brown Bag Dollars, his mother’s slogan name for the event, and success.

  He prepares for the evening at his boyhood home in Newton, aware that he may have to face Daisy and Charlie Church, India’s parents. He may even encounter Helen, who they employ in a less visible capacity. But it’s unlikely India will be present. While she may have dumped Theo, she is not cruel. Unless India proves to be someone he didn’t know at all, Theo is certain she will not be there. At least this is what he hopes.

  Standing in front of his father’s dresser mirror, Theo rips at a crooked bowtie. He does not hope this at all. In fact, he’s spent all week wagering that if his mother’s expectations are on par, the event may demand India’s presence. Before they broke up, the theme and dining portion of Brown Bag Dollars was in India’s hands. The committee has dedicated the bulk of its annual fundraising budget for this one of a kind night. It’s imperative that it be a success. Theo wonders if this can be accomplished without India.

  His mother has hired a limo for the evening, and Theo’s agreed to ride with her. After she’s helped him with the tie, Claire asks once more if he would prefer to stay home. She’s more than capable of making his excuses. Theo considers it. He declines for three reasons: His father did not raise him to hide from uncomfortable circumstance. Secondly, he’s not five; Theo is man enough to face unpleasantness. Lastly, a small part of his brain will not let go of hope. What if he did hear regret in his phone call with India? Maybe tonight is the chance for a different outcome. As they get into the limo, Theo recalls the last time he and his mother did this. He wonders if she is thinking the same. They rode in a limo to a packed memorial service for his father, where there was nothing to bury. Theo climbs into the limo wondering if any passenger gets into such a vehicle destined for normalcy.

  Halfway through the ride Claire breaks the silence. “Theo, you can always leave. You know that, right?”

  While his mother hasn’t spoken India’s name all week, they both know to what she is referring. “I’ll be fine, Mom.” He smiles in her direction. She cannot help herself, raising pink painted fingernails and brushing them through his wavy brown hair. While it’s not really possible, Theo is certain that Claire sees his father when this gesture occurs. She confirms as much. “He’d be so very proud of you.”

  “He wouldn’t have lost the girl in the first place.”

  “Ah, so she’s still on your mind.” Claire smiles sympathetically. “Theo, what makes you think I was your father’s one and only dream girl? Perhaps there was someone before me. Someone he was madly in love with.”

  “I was only ten, but I remember. The way he looked at you.”

  “Maybe you don’t remember everything.”

  Theo is unsure if his mother has just admitted to being the second love of David McAdams’s life—something that has never crossed his mind—or if she’s trying to make a point. Maybe, prior to his mother, there was a girl David McAdams loved. Theo cannot fathom it. But if so, her innuendo should give him a different perspective. It appears to be the exact point Olivia tried to make when she went on about an ex-husband. Of course, his mother has done a better job, especially since she turned out to be the love of his father’s life.

  A short time later, Theo looks toward the approaching lights of the Boston Public Library. The stately Copley Square site has been transformed. It looks, indeed, as if his mother has outdone herself. A Hollywood red carpet event has dropped into the middle of Boston. Some people will view tonight as the upper crust deigning to do their part for the masses. But Theo knows they will also come with fat checkbooks and worthwhile connections. Boston Public Schools will benefit greatly. Claire knows what she is doing. His mother always has a plan. As Theo escorts her inside, he is proud to have his mother on his arm. Local press and TV news crews are on hand. In the giant marble entry, a reporter shouts Claire’s name. She turns and smiles. “Shep—how good of you to come!”

  Theo stops dead. He has never spoken to Shep Stewart. He doesn’t want to start tonight. Animosity bubbles. Theo keeps forward motion moving, heading toward the grand staircase. But since his mother’s arm is looped through his, he has little choice but to follow when she glides in Shep Stewart’s direction.

  “So this is the famous Theo,” Shep says. Theo is certain that “famous” achieved by way of his dead father is the last thing he wants to be. Shep extends a hand. “Great to finally meet the flesh-and-blood man. Kind of feels like I’ve been writing about a ghost for the past fifteen years, you know?”

  Theo doesn’t shake Shep’s hand. “To do that, you’d have to interview my father. Try that one. Excuse me.” He unloops his arm from his mother’s and heads toward the staircase.

  She is not far behind. “Theo!” He turns. “That was incredibly rude. The man was just anxious to finally meet you. There was no reason to be so sharp with him. He’s just doing his job.”

  “And the only reason he has his bottom-feeding job is because you continue to supply him with annual updates. Not my choice, remember?” Claire rises to the next step up so she is looking down at Theo. She glances past his head. She seems suddenly, acutely, aware of the throngs of event-goers flooding in.

  She smiles at him and moves to the base of the steps, where they are not on display. Theo is obliged to follow. His mother looks very regal in her blond updo and navy gown, though her nostrils are flaring. She speaks in a softer but no less irritated tone. “If this is any indication of how you plan on behaving, perhaps it would be best if you left now. I have a lot riding on this event.”

  Theo feels like he’s twelve and thinks if Brown Bag Dollars were taking place in his mother’s living room, he’d be sent to bed before the main course is served. Before he can recover, a voice interrupts. It sounds leery, as if it has been listening.

  “Theo, this must be your mother.” A hand extends, reaching toward her. “I’m Olivia Klein. Maybe Theo’s mentioned me?” This is the most forward behavior he’s ever seen from Olivia. Her nervous smile and abrupt entrance is fidgety, quirkier than usual.

  Like blades over ice, his mother’s expression skates deftly toward amicable. She smiles widely. “Of course, you’re with the New England Symphony. You’re assisting Theo in his classroom.”

  Theo hasn’t mentioned that Olivia has landed in his classroom because of her community service hours. It isn
’t Claire’s business. He’s aware, however, that Olivia’s made a much better pre–first impression by appearing philanthropic, like his mother. Olivia further impressed his mother after offering, via Theo, to secure a chamber orchestra to play for the first hour. As Claire’s hand meets Olivia’s grip, Theo is struck by the contrast—his mother’s hand is delicate and refined, meant for turning book pages and touching his hair to brush back pain. Olivia’s grip, he knows, is firm, her fingers rough and permanently ridged. All of her is talented in a way that feels sublimely natural to him, something to which he connects. It occurs to Theo that together, each woman’s strengths—while vastly different—complement the other.

  A man clears his throat. Only after Olivia looks over her shoulder does she release his mother’s hand and gaze. “I’m Rob. Liv’s husband,” the man says. The introduction seems to ground Olivia, who repeats what he has just offered. He looks much like what Theo expected, a good fit for Olivia. He stands just to her side, partially behind her, as if she is on display and he is there to make certain all goes well. Theo can tell that his mother finds him attractive. Her head tips to the left and her conversation continues beyond cursory introductions, though it’s mostly directed at Olivia’s husband. She points toward the staircase, inviting them up to Bates Hall. She takes Rob by the arm.

  Theo offers his to Olivia and says, “Thank you for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it.” Her eyes are on the back of Claire’s head, though a sideways glance cuts to Theo. Her expression is mischievous. Then it fades. “Although, for a second, I thought I might have to come alone.”

  “Why’s that?” They make the wide turn on the marble staircase and head toward the grand room India secured. Olivia breathes deep and glances at him, taking in his tuxedo-covered appearance. “Rough week at home. Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Theo is disappointed at the blip of information. He’s stuck on his first impression, and he wants it to be true. Rob is the love of Olivia’s life, the one she never would have met if she’d stayed with her first husband—some baseball player with the scruples of an alley cat. He sighs, aware that he’s only relating Olivia’s personal history to his own. Otherwise, Theo wouldn’t think twice about Olivia’s personal life, this husband, or her last.

  At the entrance to Bates Hall, Theo’s gaze travels the vast room. Early last spring he accompanied India to the Boston Public Library, where she insisted on its grand room. India was inspired as they walked through the hall with its majestic barrel ceiling and arched grilled windows. “Vintage—we’ll do an Edwardian-era gala and curate period books, original manuscripts for display! The library is the perfect setting. Oh, Theo, your mother will be so pleased!”

  She was. Claire was over the moon about India’s idea. She thought it was brilliant. The grand historic framework is the perfect canvas, just as India had envisioned. A waiter, wearing early-twentieth-century manor house garb bows gracefully, offering flutes of champagne. Theo hands one to Olivia and takes one for himself.

  It appears Take Me to Church Catering has outdone itself with period décor supplied by a theater company. The event’s theme is highlighted by the glass-encased original works of Dickens, Lewis Carroll, the Brownings—Elizabeth and Robert—in addition to Mark Twain and Thoreau. India was in the midst of curating the on-loan literary treasures when she left Theo.

  The air fills with the smell of hors d’oeuvres. India had partially planned the menu, choices that mirrored Edwardian delicacies. Although she did tell Theo that for the sake of authenticity, and in deference to the have-nots the event is meant to benefit, boiled potatoes and stale bread should also be served. India shared this in private after Claire insisted that gamier fare like rabbit and trout be avoided—“Seriously, Theo, the idea is to entice people into writing five- and six-digit checks, after paying $500 for a ticket. You cannot feed them gruel.” He supposes his mother had a point, and Theo sees that India has obeyed. Trays of mini tarts, lollypop lamb chops, and oysters on the half shell are being circulated.

  “Theo, is, um . . . is she here?”

  By asking the question, Olivia has read his mind. But the room is packed and it is impossible to tell at glance. If India is here, chances are she’s wherever the food staging area is located. He does, however, spot Helen, who is talking to a waiter. Theo points with his still-full champagne glass. If there is any chance of seeing India, the last thing he wants to be is drunk. “That’s India sister.”

  “The one with the drug problem?”

  Theo does not like to define Helen by her addiction, but it’s true enough. Besides, if there is one thing he’s learned about Olivia, she does not sugar coat. “Yes. Helen. She looks good.” Theo squints. “Very good, in fact.” Theo and Olivia look in Helen’s direction just as she looks back. Awkwardness washes through like spilled Edwardian-era punch. India’s sister quickly turns away and disappears into the crowd. “They don’t favor each other much.”

  “The way they look?” Olivia asks.

  Theo remembers telling her about India’s red hair. Helen’s is a dull shade of brown, her years of drug use making her frame, which is inches taller than India’s, look like a wilted flower, the bloom hanging on for dear life.

  “Everything about them, really.”

  Olivia nods. “Your mother seems . . . lovely.”

  The sight of Helen has pummeled Theo’s ability to navigate pleasantries. He imagines what running into India will do. He would excuse himself if he were talking to anyone other than Olivia. But she has an uncanny ability to dial into Theo, to know if she should say something or just shut up. “My mother’s in her element. It’ll be brilliantly successful. Something her social circle will gush on about for the next year. It’s all that matters.” Theo changes his mind about this one glass of champagne and guzzles it. When he looks back, Olivia’s blue eyes are staring wide into his. “Sorry. My mother is doing a very good thing here tonight. I didn’t mean to sound so cynical.”

  “It’s not that.” She’s still staring. It’s almost trancelike. Olivia shakes her head and closes her eyes for a moment. “You could have been describing my mother. That and you sounded so . . . like me.” She looks away and downs her champagne faster than Theo did his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Olivia

  It’s difficult not to be further impressed by Claire McAdams. Between her son and her event, I wonder how flawless one woman can be. I observe Claire from a distance. She exudes all the confidence I lack. She glides from guest to guest, appearing to have something meaningful to say to each one. It’s an annual battle with Rob to avoid a holiday party of twenty at the brownstone. My aptitude for party planning and small talk would max out in an elevator.

  Rob and I manage to avoid each other much of the evening, which mirrors the past few days. He took a business trip to Denver and was gone overnight. I thought it within reason to see if Sasha was traveling too. A call to her office and a quick chat with Carly, the receptionist, confirmed Sasha’s busy court calendar. Carly asked if I wanted to leave a message, but I said “Don’t bother” and ended the call abruptly.

  Since then, I have ignored the two messages from Sasha. Neither call was made to the house phone. I don’t know what I might say to her, or if I should say anything at all. I did spend a solid chunk of time talking myself down. If Rob were going to cheat, he’d at least have the courtesy to do it with a stranger.

  Yet, the inexplicable gnaws at me. Rob plainly stated, before leaving for New York, that this was his first stay at a boutique hotel—so the shoe shine cloth couldn’t be from a previous trip. In an effort to explain evidence that Sasha might label circumstantial, I went as far as to concoct a theory by which another woman previously purchased the hobo bag. Then she returned it after one use and one visit to New York where she stayed at The Bed. It’s only coincidence that Sasha then bought the returned purse.

  I keep turning it over in my mind, the reasons ou
r marriage has deteriorated. There are Rob’s money misadventures. There are my imperfections—idiosyncrasies and issues more deeply seated. Any of them would fit fine on an analyst’s couch, not so much in a marriage. But then another point occurred to me, new logic why lifestyles, vacations, and common goals like music endowments aren’t enough to sustain a marriage. Late one night, I Googled statistics on childless couples, curious if the percentage of failed marriages is higher. It’s not something I thought about before walking into Theo’s life.

  Sadly, the facts were not in our favor. Apparently the absence of children can lead to a disconnect, making it markedly easier to walk away. I took our marriage woes one step further: Is it unbelievable that Rob would have an affair? A year ago—yes. But now? Not entirely. It could be that a lack of children was only one less roadblock to an affair.

  It’s Sasha’s motive that’s less explainable, and the safer hope to which I have clung. Sasha’s been my champion in life and in court. She practically threw Rob at my feet. My happiness has always made her happy. But it’s not Sasha’s behavior that I ultimately question. It’s mine. In our relationship, have I been too much of a taker? Perhaps Sasha concluded that she and Rob have suffered enough.

  With an unsure breath, I take another flute of passing champagne. I face the crowd. Rob works the room. He knows a number of people in attendance. If he makes the right connection and ends up saving the Wellesley house, Claire’s event may benefit Boston Public Schools in ways she’ll never know. The clock is ticking. Barring a miracle, the house will be lost, my future music program funding gone. Assuming she does not want take an extended holiday in New Zealand, my mother will be mine. Sipping champagne, I turn back to Rob. He is talking to a state senator—varying degrees of handshaking and backslapping are traded. But Rob stops his conversation abruptly to look at his phone, which must be ringing. I assume it’s an important call because he whirls away from the senator to answer. In the swarm of noise, he plugs one ear with his finger. He keeps moving, heading toward the marble-clad hallway and exit.