Karen turned in her seat and looked at the yellow and red leaves of the large maple tree in their front yard. She had walked under the tree on her way in—in fact, her car was parked beside it—but she hadn’t noticed it, even though, now, it was impossible not to notice. Karen turned back to face Sharon. “Yes,” Karen said, making a note of the leaves, “they are.”
“I rarely took the time to see things like that tree before I got diagnosed with cancer,” Sharon said. “I was always too busy with whatever I was doing, lugging in groceries, doing laundry, hurrying the girls into the car, to notice a street lined with trees bursting with color. I know how important that tree is now, and that’s why I asked you to come.”
Louis returned with two glasses of water. He handed a glass to his wife, who smiled and thanked him, then handed the other to Karen. Sharon took a sip of water before she set the glass on the table next to her chair. She tucked one foot up underneath her. “What I’m going to say is going to sound so trite. It’s all been said a million times before. But this is the first time for me, and it’s important for me to say it.” Karen nodded. “Life is so sweet and so short. There’s really no time to do things that don’t matter to us. And in saying that, I’m not trying to say that since buying groceries, folding laundry, and running errands don’t matter in the grand scheme of things they aren’t important. They are all mundane tasks that have their place. Do you have children, Karen?”
“Rebecca is eleven and a half, and Robert is nine.”
“Okay,” said Sharon, reaching for her glass. “So you know that feeding them nutritious meals is important. You know that taking them to dance class or music lessons or karate after school is important for their growth, both physically and mentally. Running around town in a car after school is no mother’s favorite pastime, but most of us—if we stop and look at it objectively—can see the value in it.”
“Most days,” said Karen, allowing herself a smile.
“Spoken like a true carpool warrior.” Sharon paused. “There is value in these tasks because they make the most interesting parts of our lives that much sweeter. They give us perspective, even though we curse their existence. If only we didn’t have to do chores; if only we could do exactly what we wanted to do every minute of the day, then we would be happy. Right?” Sharon sipped her water. “Would we? I don’t think so. I don’t think vacations would mean much if we didn’t have to work for them. I don’t think a Saturday evening spent with friends would mean as much if we dined with them every day of the week.” Sharon closed her eyes and took a quick breath. “That’s lesson number one,” she said, opening her eyes again. “Work hard for life’s rewards, big and small. Lesson number two comes from there.” Karen wrote as quickly as she could, writing her observations as well as Sharon’s words. “Once you’ve worked hard, make sure you do what you want with your spare time. Make sure you’re spending it with the people who are important to you. If you don’t really enjoy your friends, make new ones whose company you do enjoy. If you don’t like your marriage, change it or get out of it. If you don’t like where you live, move. Whatever it is, make sure you take definitive steps. Don’t spend your life wishing for another one.”
They talked for another few minutes before Sharon told Karen she’d had enough. Louis, she said, could fill in the rest, which he did with Karen standing next to her car. Sharon had a few weeks to live. She didn’t want to leave Louis or her daughters. She had little use for her ex-husband, whom she divorced three years ago for not appreciating her for ten years. His lack of appreciation had eventually manifested itself into something namable, his first affair, with Sharon’s best friend, which led to several other affairs and then a string of one-night stands. He was, in Louis’s words, an incorrigible lout. Sharon wished she had left him years before she finally had the courage to pack up herself and her children, leaving a good-bye note on their king-size bed. More than anything, she wished she had more time.
Karen drove slowly back to the office, focusing on the road’s central yellow lines as a means to control her thoughts in the car. She didn’t allow herself to unleash everything Sharon had said until she was back behind her desk. It was when Karen was seated in front of her computer with her fingers on the keyboard, notebook open next to her, that Karen released the rush of Sharon’s words, a dammed river set free. Floating on its surface instead of struggling in its depths, Sharon Oriano had mastered life’s currents, discovered that the secret of happiness was internal. The Record readers, Karen decided as she typed the first sentence of the article, could have the benefit of Sharon’s knowledge, her insight for the price of a newspaper subscription, a single newspaper even. Dressed comfortably in jeans and a clean sweatshirt, Sharon Oriano does not look like a queen. And yet, the wisdom she imparts from the chair in her living room is not unlike an edict from the throne of a sagacious monarch. Karen wrote the entire story, some sixty-five inches, without stopping. She wrote about Sharon’s cancer. She wrote about Sharon’s family. She wrote about the tree in front of Sharon’s house. As soon as Karen was done, she sent the article to Nick, who, without changing a word, put it on the front page the following day, where it received unprecedented attention. The morning after it appeared, the newsroom phone rang all day with people wanting to talk to Karen. They were calling to tell her that they had clipped the story from the newspaper and put it on their refrigerators, or they had photocopied and mailed it to their friends and relatives in distant cities and states. A few people called in tears. The editors of two newspapers in neighboring towns called Karen with job offers. The praise she valued the most, however, came from Sharon, who said the story was just what she hoped for, and from Nick, who told her it was the best story he’d ever read. “Let’s go out tonight and celebrate,” he said.
“What?”
“Celebrate your new celebrity. I’ll take you out to dinner. That’s the least I can do. Can you get a sitter for your kids?”
Nick rang the doorbell at six forty-five. Karen was upstairs changing into a third outfit behind a closed door, so Rebecca responded to the bell. “Hi,” he said when she opened the door. “I’m Nick Fleming. You must be Rebecca.”
“I am,” she said, her head tilted sideways to study him, as if she were trying to comprehend his presence.
He had heard several stories about Rebecca from Karen and knew he needed to choose his words carefully, that she would take in everything. She was older than his oldest by just a few years, but he could see that she was much more mature, poised. “Did you read your mom’s story?”
“I did,” said Rebecca, still blocking the doorway. “It was quite good.”
“You’re not the only one who thinks that.” He smiled at her. “May I come in?”
“Yes,” she said, slowly backing up. And then she inhaled before asking, “As the editor of the local newspaper, what do you think about the results of the presidential election?”
Nick smiled at her. “You have an interest in national politics?”
Rebecca nodded her head. “In an election year, yes.”
“Who would you have voted for if you were of age?”
“Kerry,” said Rebecca without hesitation. “I think our foreign policy is totally screwed up. My dad says we need to get out of Iraq.”
“I agree.”
“Too bad he’s not here so you could talk about it.”
And then she quickly turned and ran up the stairs, calling on her way, “I’ll get my mom.” Down the hallway and into her parents’ bedroom, she found her mother in the bathroom applying lipstick. Rebecca sat on the toilet seat and watched her for a moment without speaking. “Your date’s here,” she finally said.
Karen reddened. “It’s not a date, honey. It’s a work dinner.”
“Are other people from the newspaper going?”
“No,” said Karen, looking back at the mirror and putting her earrings in.
“Then it’s a date.”
Karen looked at her watch. She bent dow
n and kissed Rebecca on the cheek. “Is Jamie here?”
“Yes. She’s in the basement playing with Robert.”
“What are you going to do?” Rebecca shrugged. “Well, I’ll check on you when I get home. I won’t be late.”
Nick and Karen talked easily in the car as they moved from one residential neighborhood to another. Nick talked about “Sharon’s Story,” telling Karen again how proud he was of her. She complimented him on his editing of the story, a joke between them. After less than ten minutes in the car, Nick drove into the driveway alongside a large Queen Anne Victorian and stopped the car. Karen looked at the giant sage green structure lit by the headlights and then at Nick. She squinted at him. “Where are we?”
“My house,” said Nick, turning off the car and opening his door. “I thought it would be fun to make you dinner.” He walked around the front of the car and opened the door for Karen, who was making mental connections between the man in the newsroom and the mansion in front of her. “You’re disappointed.”
“No, no, no.” Karen lifted herself out of her seat. “I’m delighted.”
“Well, good. My girls are at Dawn’s house for dinner and a movie, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Karen followed Nick up the slate pathway to the front door. Inside, they lingered in the carved walnut foyer. On one side, two slim bookcases housing hardcover books with faded spines flanked a window seat with an embroidered cushion. On the other, a large oil painting of a middle-aged man in uniform on a horse hung on the wall in an ornate gilded frame. Nick took Karen’s coat and hung it behind the portrait in a hidden closet that appeared from and disappeared into the wall. A grand staircase with Oriental carpeting ran from the far end of the foyer up half a story to a landing before it turned upon itself underneath a leaded stained-glass window and continued up to the second floor. “This is the most wonderful, extraordinary room I’ve ever seen.”
Nick smiled. “You’ll like the rest of the house then.”
He led her through a narrow passageway that emptied into a large formal dining room. Again, dark wood dominated the space, from the heavy table and chairs to the antique sideboard to the carved china cupboard in the corner. The walls were butter-colored, and the windows at the far end of the room were dressed in lace. A dimly glowing brass chandelier hung above the table, casting a fireplace-like glow throughout the room. They walked through another narrow hallway into the commodious kitchen. Large terra-cotta tiles covered the floor and a light moss green color covered the walls. The cabinets matched the color of the walls, except they were a shade or two darker. Granite and burnished stainless steel were everywhere. A weathered farm table sat in the center of the room. In the back of the kitchen, underneath three large windows, were a variety of planters filled with both flowering plants and herbs. “This,” said Nick, washing his hands in the porcelain sink, “is my favorite room.”
“I can see why.”
“Let me get you something to drink, and I’ll start dinner.”
Nick poured Karen a glass of white wine and told her she was not to help, either with preparing the dinner or cleaning up afterward. It was a celebration for her, after all. He pulled a chair out from underneath the table for her and then poured himself a glass of wine. They talked about upcoming story ideas while he sautéed, boiled, and baked the contents of several bowls he had retrieved from the fridge. Karen could quickly see that Nick was not a man who made dinner for his wife once a year on Mother’s Day. “You’re very comfortable with this, aren’t you?”
“I love this,” he said, turning from the stove to face her. “If I didn’t love journalism more, I’d do this for a living.” Nick poured Karen another glass, then set the table. He took the plates to the stove, where he portioned out the pasta dish he had been creating for close to an hour, then put them into the oven. He lit the taper candles on the table and turned a dimmer switch until the flame-shaped bulbs of the iron wheel chandelier simulated candlelight. The result was a magical setting more romantic and alluring than the exclusive Coral Club, Karen and Bob’s honeymoon destination. The time and attention Nick put into this evening made Karen think differently about their relationship. She thought about several conversations they’d recently had, wondering if her words had indicated what she was beginning to feel. Just before Nick retrieved the plates from the oven, he picked a remote control up from the counter and pushed a button, classical music the result. He set the warmed plates on the table, poured himself more wine, and sat down across from Karen. Like her daughter at the house earlier, she studied him anew, took in his liquid brown eyes, boylike hair that had been wet when he picked her up but was now dry and straight like soft straw, his smooth-skinned hands with deft, sinuous fingers and clean, trimmed nails. She surprised herself by momentarily imagining those fingers touching her. “To you,” said Nick, raising his glass. “Thank you for your incredible writing ability. Thank you for working your way into my life.” Karen blushed for the second time that evening. “I mean it. You’re the best reporter I’ve ever had.”
CHAPTER 15
NOVEMBER 2004
For days, Karen didn’t tell anyone about her dinner with Nick, and she fervently hoped Rebecca would forget about it by the time Bob got home. The problem was Rebecca had such a good memory, one of the reasons she was so good at spelling and math; Karen knew she would have to lie about her evening to make it seem uneventful. When Rebecca asked about it the next day, Karen told her it was kind of boring, one of Rebecca’s favorite words. She told her they went to the restaurant inside the bowling alley, where it was hard to talk over the crash of balls hitting pins twenty yards away. And, as it turned out, Nick, or Mr. Fleming, as Karen referred to him, had asked several reporters to join them, as a surprise. It was sweet of him, Karen explained, but the additional people made for an even noisier evening. In the end, however, she was grateful for the attention and the knowledge that Nick thought enough of her story to submit it for a national journalism award. If the story didn’t win, there would be other opportunities. For the most part, she said he told the group, we don’t write for awards; we write for our readers and ourselves.
The last part of it was true. Nick had submitted “Sharon’s Story” for an award. He told Karen he was going to keep this news a secret, but changed his mind after their evening together. He realized, over the course of their two-hour dinner, what a lovely person she was and that he thought her knowing she was up for an award would be as pleasing for her as winning it. Karen thanked him for his faith in her. At that point, Nick took his eyes off the road for just an instant, to turn his head to her and say, “It’s more than faith.” Later, Karen played the moment over and over in her mind, ending it with kissing scenarios. While she obviously didn’t share this line of thinking with her daughter, who, Karen was satisfied, believed her fabricated story, she did share it with Sarah.
Vincent spent many Saturdays at his lab. Sarah had protested his weekend absences when the kids were younger, when they were in her care all day, every day. But it was easier now. And, as it turned out, their days were often more enjoyable with Vincent somewhere else. He was not the kind of father who wanted to take the kids apple picking, tobogganing, or fishing. When he was home, he was on his laptop anyway. And as the children aged, Sarah had more time to herself. She had been able to leave them for short periods of time since Britney turned ten. Now that Britney was twelve, Sarah left them for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings to get groceries and run other errands. Then, if the children had no other plans, they spent the afternoon doing a group-chosen activity.
Knowing Bob was away for an extended trip, Sarah called Karen the Saturday after her date with Nick and asked if they were free for lunch. Karen eagerly agreed to come at noon and was subsequently treated to homemade chicken salad, cut-up fruit, and frosted brownies. Robert said eating at the Keyworths’ house was better than McDonald’s. Rebecca, an increasingly grumpy and finicky eater, cleaned her plate. After lunch, the boys bui
lt Lego Transformers on the small heated sun porch and the girls went upstairs to Britney’s bedroom. Karen and Sarah sat, hands wrapped around warm mugs of tea, in the living room, where, in the afternoon quiet and with the knowledge that the kids were occupied and were not likely to disturb them, Karen shared her story. Sarah listened to her without interruption, without asking a single question. When Karen was done, Sarah lowered her mug to her lap and hesitated a few seconds before asking her friend if she wanted to have an affair. “Of all the things you could ask, why do you ask that?” Karen asked.
“Because that’s the question you need to answer first.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s exactly where this relationship is going.”
Karen sipped her tea. “You don’t think we can be friends?”
“No.”
An affair: such a fancy word for what it really was for unsatisfied wives and husbands; it was sex with someone new, someone other than the snoring, heavier than the dating days, or stretch-marked and gas-emitting body that shared the bed. They all started the same way, affairs did, with meaningful, connecting glances and earnest, empathetic conversation, with throbbing chests and unexpected perspiration. But a lot of them ended badly, after the sneaking around, deception, motel rooms, and guilt were no longer worth the effort, after one or both in the partnership lost interest. But what about the affairs that turned out to be the real thing? The people who were meant to be with each other, but didn’t meet until after they were married to another? “What if it’s more than the typical affair?” Karen asked her friend.
Sarah refilled their mugs from the pot on the side table. “Tell me what you mean.”
A Changing Marriage Page 24