by Sarah Dunn
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Fifteen Months Later
Epigraph
About the Author
Also by Sarah Dunn
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Dunn
Cover design by Julianna Lee
Cover photograph by plainpicture / Image Source
Author photograph by Lizzie Himmel
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
littlebrown.com
twitter.com/littlebrown
facebook.com/littlebrownandcompany
First ebook edition: March 2017
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
ISBN 978-0-316-30097-1
E3-20170207-NF-DA
For Peter,
the only arrangement
I’ll ever need
Really to sin you have to be serious about it.
—Henrik Ibsen, Peer Gynt
One
You people with your “evolved” marriages, the ones with the fifty-fifty housework and shared earning power, the ones who tell each other everything, always, and don’t believe in secrets? Does that describe your marriage? Show of hands? I have a question for you: How’s that working out for you in the bedroom?
—Constance Waverly
The Be Gathering, Taos, New Mexico
After it was over, all of it, Lucy found herself making the point again and again that it had been a mutual decision. To her aunt Nancy, who was disgusted by the entire business and decided to pretend it never happened. To her sister, Anna, who was fascinated and demanded all the details. To the ladies of Beekman—the quiet few who envied her freedom and her daring, and the bigger, more vocal contingent who would have nothing more to do with her, who wanted her to Stay Away from Their Husbands—Lucy always said it had been a fully conscious and completely mutual decision. Nobody believed her, of course. These things are never mutual. One person always wants it more than the other, one of you is keeping a secret, somebody has a plan. But Lucy always said this about the Arrangement: it was a mutual decision, she and Owen both went into it with eyes wide open, and it had brought certain unfortunate things to light.
It was a Saturday evening early that July. The leaves were bright green and the fireflies were out in force. Lucy and her old friend Victoria were in Lucy’s kitchen prepping food for the grill while their husbands were out on the deck drinking wine, but it could have just as easily been the other way around. Beekman was a town where men cooked at dinner parties. The men of Beekman not only cooked, they made things like pickles and cheese and beer and sauerkraut. They ground their own spices to rub on their pork tenderloins and made their own mayonnaise, just to see if it was worth it (it wasn’t). Even inside Lucy’s head it sounded affected and awful, worse in a lot of ways than the Brooklyn so many of them had lived in before, the Brooklyn they’d either been priced out of or willingly fled, the Brooklyn that Victoria and Thom still called home.
Victoria was painfully thin, and her skin was pale and already crepey under her blue eyes. She teetered around on her trademark vintage heels, which made her look like she might trip and fall straight into late middle age. Thom, with his wild dark curls and two-day stubble that sparkled with flecks of gray, still looked good.
“I called Frank the other day to see if he wanted to go hear this new band with us,” Thom said to Owen—Thom and Victoria still had new bands they went to see, even though they had a five-year-old—“and he couldn’t, because he was going out to Hoboken to learn Japanese rope tying.”
“All I heard was ‘Japanese rope tying,’” Lucy said as she pushed the screen door open with the plate of cheese and grapes she was carrying.
Victoria followed with two bottles of wine. “Oh my God, Thom, are you telling him about Frank and Jim?”
“Frank and Jim?” Lucy asked.
“You met them at our wedding.”
“Your fabulous gay friends.”
“They’re a little less fabulous these days,” said Victoria. “They got married and had two kids and moved to the suburbs.”
“They’re still pretty fabulous,” said Thom.
“I just mean they’re not jetting off to Milan for the weekend anymore. They coach peewee soccer together instead.”
“That’s sweet,” said Lucy.
“Yeah, it is sweet,” said Thom. “What they have is sweet.”
Victoria looked across the table at her husband and rolled her eyes.
“What?” Thom said to her. “What did I say?”
“Thom is a little obsessed with this ‘arrangement’ Frank and Jim have.”
“I wouldn’t call it obsessed,” said Thom. “Okay, yes, I am a little obsessed. I just find it fascinating.”
“Tell us,” said Owen.
Thom reached for the wine and refilled glasses as he spoke. “Okay, so, they’ve been married for about six years. They have two little girls, a cozy house in Larchmont, and a place up in Vermont. Frank is a stay-at-home dad, while Jim commutes into the city every day. Frank is the president of the PTA, Jim is a deacon in their church. It’s like a fifties marriage, really. Dinner is on the table every night, they argue about how much money Frank spends and whether the girls should be forced to learn Mandarin or take violin lessons—”
Victoria cut him off and said, “Except…”
“Except they’re both allowed to sleep with other people.”
“You mean they’re swingers?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t know the terminology,” said Thom. “They call it an open marriage.”
“Swinging implies, I think, participation,” said Victoria. “Like, watching each other do it or swapping or something. An open marriage is more, um, furtive?”
“Frank told me they don’t talk about it,” said Thom. “He said they each give each other a realm of privacy. He says it works out great.”
“We saw them a few weeks ago. They’re happy. The girls are happy. They’re the most stable couple we know.”
&
nbsp; “How can that be stable?” asked Lucy.
“They’ve got rules,” said Thom. “They don’t let things get emotional. I think they’re only allowed to sleep with a given person a certain number of times. And some people are off-limits. Exes, mutual friends, coworkers, like that. ‘Out of town’ seems to be a bit of a free-for-all. The whole thing is pretty clearly hammered out.”
“Like Elton John and his husband,” said Victoria.
“That was a threesome in a paddling pool filled with olive oil,” Lucy pointed out.
Owen lifted his wineglass. “Allegedly.”
“You gotta hand it to gay men,” Thom said. “They’ve cracked the code.”
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “I bet their kids don’t destroy their furniture either. Or throw up in the middle of the night.”
“They get all this”—and here Thom gestured big, taking in the entire scene: the house, the yard, the wine, the friends, the coziness of domesticity, and the comfort of long, familiar love—“and sex too.”
“Hey,” Lucy said. “I’ve known Victoria for a long time. You get sex.”
“Not the kind of sex those guys get.”
“He’s right,” said Victoria. “He doesn’t.”
“We have sex,” said Thom.
“But it’s always with each other,” Victoria said, laughing. She and Thom clinked glasses and kissed.
The deck extended out from the house, resting on boulders and who knew what else. The bleached wooden planks were beginning to show signs of rot, and there were three areas that sagged if you walked over them. Owen would tell male dinner guests from the city that the deck had “at least two, maybe three winters to go before we have to replace it,” and they would sip their beers and nod, a khaki-clad conspiracy of cluelessness. Still, Lucy found herself thinking, the backyard was beautiful. An acre of rolling grass rose to a jagged (and thus authentic) rock wall, likely erected by cow farmers over a hundred years ago. In Lucy’s mind, the stones held back the dense woods, offering both protection and temptation. It was one of the reasons they’d bought the house.
“Can you please start the coals, Owen?” Lucy said.
“It’s too early.”
“It’s not too early.”
“What’s the rush? We’re conversing. Have some cheese.”
Lucy reached for one of the cheeses, a Rogue River Blue that Thom and Victoria had brought that clocked in at thirteen bucks for a quarter of a pound. Lucy had taken it out of the paper and was reminded of her life in New York, her life before Beekman, a life of paying fifty-two dollars a pound for Oregon cheese.
“It works for them for one reason,” said Owen. “There are no women involved. They’re not married to women, and they don’t step out of their marriage and have sex with women. There’s no craziness. Sex can be just sex.”
“I can have sex be just sex. I used to be able to, at least,” said Victoria. “When I was younger.”
“Me too,” said Lucy.
“I think it’s a huge myth that women can’t have meaningless sex,” said Victoria. “You should see these millennials in my office. All they do is have sex, all the time. The girls, the guys. They’re not worried about getting AIDS or getting pregnant or being called a slut. They’re all vociferously opposed to slut-shaming in any form.”
“Slut-shaming?” Owen asked, rotating the cheese plate and slicing off a hunk of Jasper Hill cheddar.
“Yeah,” said Victoria. “It’s a thing.”
“How many people did you have sex with before you got married?” Victoria asked Lucy.
“I’m not drunk enough to answer that question at a dinner party.”
“This isn’t a dinner party,” said Victoria. “It’s the four of us having dinner on your deck because you couldn’t get a babysitter. How is Wyatt, by the way.”
“Wyatt is Wyatt,” said Lucy. “He’s in our bed with the iPad while we violate all the rules of good parenting.”
“Is he still…” Victoria wrinkled her brow with sympathy.
“It’s not going away, Victoria. Wyatt is who he is,” said Lucy. “How is Flannery?”
“Fine,” said Victoria. “Good.”
“He got into St. Ann’s,” said Thom.
“Have you cut his hair yet?” Owen asked.
“Nope,” said Victoria.
“You gotta cut that kid’s hair,” said Owen. “We put your holiday card on the fridge and Wyatt would not believe me when I said Flannery was a boy. He kept laughing every time I said it.”
“We’re your friends,” said Lucy. “We wouldn’t bring it up otherwise.”
“I love Flannery’s hair,” said Victoria.
“I’m starting to think we should cut it,” said Thom.
“We’re not going to cut it.”
“He has a girl’s name and girl’s hair,” said Lucy. “Don’t you think that’s gonna be hard for him?”
“Nobody ever forgets him,” said Victoria. “It’s his thing.”
“It’s your thing,” said Thom.
“It’s my thing that is now his thing and that’s how motherhood works.”
“Could you please start the coals, honey?” Lucy asked.
“The coals heat up very fast.”
“People come to our house for dinner, they want to eat before eleven o’clock at night. It makes it hard to sleep.”
“I’m the grill master. I know my coals,” Owen said.
Lucy pointed at Victoria and said, “You are my witness. I am on record as saying that we should have started the coals already.”
“The coals take ten minutes to heat up, tops,” Owen said.
“That is not true, but I’m silent on this subject from here on out,” Lucy said, and then she reached across the table and helped herself to more wine.
“You want the truth?” Lucy said, leaning against the avocado-colored kitchen cabinet. Lucy and Owen had planned on installing new cabinets since the day they set eyes on the house. Instead, they’d pretended for each other that they’d grown used to them.
“Yes,” Victoria said.
“I’ll only say if you will too.”
“I’ll say, I don’t mind,” said Victoria. She was dressing the salad while Lucy watched. “Fourteen.”
“That’s a good number,” said Lucy.
“I feel pretty happy with it,” said Victoria.
Lucy pointed both of her thumbs at herself and announced, “Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven?” said Victoria. “Seriously?”
“I was a bit promiscuous. In college,” said Lucy. “And after college.”
“She whored it up, my wife did,” said Owen, who was kneeling in front of his wine fridge and studying the bottles.
“Don’t slut-shame me,” said Lucy.
“No slut-shaming!” agreed Victoria. “What about you, Owen? How many women did you sleep with before you met dear Lucy here.”
“I don’t know,” said Owen, getting to his feet with two bottles of Ridge zinfandel.
“You don’t know?” said Victoria.
“Nope,” said Owen. “No idea.”
“It was a lot,” said Lucy. “A lot a lot.”
“Yeah,” said Victoria. “Thom too.”
“I think I’ll start the coals.”
“I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be around fire, honey.”
“I’ll help him.”
“Great,” said Victoria. “Now they’ll both go up in flames.”
Everyone loved Owen’s marinade. There were lots and lots of compliments on the marinade as they sat on the deck and ate dinner with linen napkins and the Laguiole steak knives with rosewood handles Lucy’s cousin had given them as a wedding present. God, men and their marinades, thought Lucy. You’d think they’d figured out how to split the atom when all they did was put some Worcestershire and soy sauce into a Ziploc bag.
“I’m at the age when women start to go crazy,” said Victoria. “My girlfriends are all going nuts. If their husbands knew half
of what was going on, their heads would never stop spinning.”
“Why?” Owen asked. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you. This is a secret all of us are keeping from all of you.”
“Give us one example,” said Owen.
“Okay, I have a friend, who I will not name, who is married,” said Victoria. “And she makes out with people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like at a bar, she’ll make out with someone,” said Victoria. “She does it at least once a week.”
“Who goes to bars?” asked Lucy. “Who has time for things like that?”
“She makes the time,” said Victoria.
“Do I know her?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“That means I know her.”
“You do.”
“Spill it.”
“Perfect Jen.”
“Perfect Jen makes out with strangers at bars?”
“She does.”
“Who is Perfect Jen?” Owen asked.
“This annoying mother I used to know when Wyatt was little,” explained Lucy. “She made her own organic baby food and she ate it herself for dinner every night so she could stay super-skinny.”
“I shouldn’t have told you who it was, but I did it to make a very particular point,” Victoria said, “which is that this woman who we know and who appears to be happy and perfect and has two kids and seems normal—”
“She’s not normal—”
“She’s reasonably normal on the surface,” Victoria said. “This semi-normal woman is, in fact, like a grenade with the pin pulled out.”
“Do you think she’d make out with me?” asked Owen.
“Probably! She probably would! She’s not picky.”
“I read somewhere that women tend to have affairs before their children are born, and men have them after,” Owen said. “Men are like, My work here is done.”
“Then it’s too late for us,” Lucy said to Victoria.
“But not for us!” Thom said to Owen.
Owen opened another bottle of wine.