She ran her finger over his shoulder and down his arm. He was always the first to fall asleep after they’d made love. She envied him that quick, deep dive into the ocean of dreams. His eyelids fluttered every so often as she imagined the dreams playing out behind them.
Did she still love him?
Yes, she supposed she did. She could feel it as she lay there looking at him.
But people didn’t just stop loving each other, did they? And for all the reasons why they had divorced she had only to look at the folded piece of paper in her bedside table that outlined those very reasons, scribbled down over a year ago. How absurd, how ridiculous that Max was back in her bed again! Lanie would never believe it. No, she wouldn’t want to hear about it. Ellen wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about this night.
She got up and tied on her robe. Her first instinct was to call Henry, say hello, right her world to a position of normalcy. But then she saw that it was one thirty in the morning. She’d startle him if she called so late. And, honestly, what would she say? “Hello, Henry, I just slept with my ex-husband, and I thought you should know.” Crazier things happened in those Lifetime movie specials, but this was her life. She wasn’t a complete idiot.
She brushed her teeth and ran a brush through her hair. She wasn’t going to begrudge herself the fun she’d had with Max tonight. She deserved this much, after such a long dry spell. But in the morning she would make it clear where they stood: it had been an enjoyable night; thanks for the dinner and the memories; have a safe trip back to the island. Simple and straightforward. She owed it to herself, to Max, to Lanie. And in some small way, she hoped she owed it to Henry.
“The child who has had a happy day with simple food, sunlight, and good air, and proper work and play, will slumber well. The angels of good-health and good-will guard his bed.”
—Talks to Mothers (1920)
Lanie dreaded Rob’s work banquets. Supposedly meant to bring everyone together in brotherly love, they were, as far as she could tell, occasions for thinly veiled attempts at hobnobbing and brownnosing. The only thing that made them slightly bearable was that she knew Rob detested them as much as she did, if not more. And to atone for dragging her to this one, he would soon enough be attending a similar function, no doubt, for her firm. On the drive over they agreed to grin and bear it.
“So I’m not going to complain, only pretty please don’t make me talk to that misogynistic jerk who’s been at your firm forever. What’s his name, again?” she turned to Rob in the car.
“I think you’re referring to Earl Norman, one of the most brilliant architects in the tri-state area.” A small smile played across his lips.
“Brilliant, schmilliant. I hate him.”
“Honey!” Rob exclaimed. “He’s not such a bad guy.”
“Oh yeah? How come every time I see him he talks to my breasts? You’d think his wife wasn’t standing right next to him. Then again, she always seems oblivious.”
“I think you’re imagining things.”
“Right.” She knew Rob was trying to make light of Earl’s reputation as a womanizer, an especially ironic moniker seeing as Earl was a portly, balding sixty-five-year-old man, not to mention someone who thought all women still belonged in the kitchen. Lanie always felt a stab of pity for his wife, Eleanor. She usually looked as if she’d been airlifted right out of a 1950s magazine spread, her auburn hair perfectly coiffed in an up-do, her plump body wedged into a shimmery dress that only accentuated her heavy midriff and asymmetrical calves. Lanie had yet to hear her say anything other than “How lovely to see you again, dear.”
She knew she shouldn’t be offended; they were an old-fashioned couple stuck in their old-fashioned ways. Still, it irked her every time she had to stand next to the guy and his wife, nodding her head in agreement to each asinine comment that came out of his mouth. She wanted to grab Eleanor by the elbow and whisper in her ear, “What do you say we go get skunk drunk on appletinis?”
She’d never do it, but the thought made her smile while she looked down into her gin and tonic now, predictably standing next to Rob in a small group that included the Normans, making small talk about the Brewers and the Cubs.
“I remain a Cubs fan, loyal to the bitter end,” one of the young architects was saying. He was cute in a Hugh Grant kind of way, minus the accent. A slight build with floppy hair and a thin nose, he struck Lanie as someone she might have dated in her twenties. But he was probably also the type who courted one-night stands, avoided commitment. She wondered if his date tonight knew that about him. The woman was pretty enough in an understated way: gray suit, brownish hair that fell to her shoulders in loose waves, warm brown eyes. She smiled at Lanie when she glanced her way.
Why did Lanie always assume the worst about these guys? After all, they were her husband’s colleagues, some would argue among the most eligible bachelors in the city—smart, well educated, articulate, good earners, fully groomed, and washed.
“I second that, buddy,” Rob said and clinked his glass of scotch in camaraderie. “Honey, this is Craig. New to the firm two months ago.”
“Hi, Mrs. Taylor.” His voice gushed with youthful enthusiasm.
Lanie smiled back. Even after all these years, she wasn’t accustomed to being called Mrs. Taylor. “Very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she lied diplomatically.
When the conversation quickly shifted to the even more mundane topics of building permits, she turned to Craig’s girlfriend for an escape.
“So, have you been to a lot of these?”
“No, this is my first, actually.”
“Oh really?” Lanie raised an eyebrow. “Lucky you,” she whispered. “I’m sure you’ll be attending a lot more as Craig’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend.” She laughed and shook her head. “Definitely not his type. I’m his sister.”
“Oh?” Lanie felt double-duped. She would have never guessed it. The two couldn’t have looked more different.
“No worries,” the woman who introduced herself as Jennifer said now. “Happens all the time. We look nothing alike. He got all the looks in the family; I got all the brains.”
Lanie laughed. “I think you’re selling yourself short.”
“So, what do you do?” Jennifer looked at her earnestly, brushing off the compliment.
“Lawyer. One in a million, right?” Lanie twirled the lime in her drink. “Go ahead if you want to share your favorite lawyer joke. I think I’ve heard them all.”
“Actually,” she said under her breath, “I was thinking I could use a few good architect jokes. These guys are a serious bunch, aren’t they?”
Lanie felt herself warming to this woman, and how could she not? At last, a kindred spirit, maybe ten years her junior, but instantly likable.
“Thank goodness you said it and not me. My husband, after all, is one of them,” she quipped, feeling ungenerous as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. She hated it when spouses put down their husbands or wives teasingly, as if all marriages were good fodder for jokes. And here she’d done it with a total stranger.
She leaned in closer to Jennifer. “So are you from Madison?”
“No, Chicago. I’m just visiting for a few days, and Craig asked me if I wanted to come along. He promised free booze and food. It sounded like too good of a deal to pass up.”
“Got to love a practical woman,” Rob said, joining their circle.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean that.” Jennifer’s face colored slightly.
“Don’t worry about offending me.” Rob put his arm around Lanie. She could smell the scotch on his breath, tell he was already on his second or third. “My wife has already given me every gibe in the book.” Lanie smiled.
“Anyway, it’s very nice to meet you.” She suddenly felt the need to escape and get her husband to a place where he couldn’t embarrass them. “Honey, I think I need another drink. Come with me?”
“Nice meeting you,” Je
nnifer said and turned back to her brother.
“What was that all about?” Rob asked.
“Nothing. I just thought we should circulate, not to mention get some food.”
They found the buffet table, laden with vegetable ravioli, beef stroganoff, cheese fondue, and chicken fingers. Lanie helped herself to the ravioli and fondue. Rob dove into the beef stroganoff. Hands full, they made their way to two empty seats at a table near the bar. Lanie set her plate down next to Rob’s and nodded a hello to the familiar faces as well as to a few she didn’t recognize. A wave of good-to-see-yous made its way around the table before Lanie said, “Would you all excuse me, please? I’m just going to refresh my cocktail.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you!” Samantha, the lovely blonde who could double as a model but, damn her, was as smart and capable as she was gorgeous, volunteered a little too loudly. It was clear she’d discovered the bar a few hours ago.
“Okay,” Lanie tried, for the sake of civility. She actually felt a little sorry for Samantha. Here was a talented young architect trying to fit into a mostly boys’ club; maybe she thought by matching them in drinks she would earn their respect. But Lanie already knew from Rob that Samantha had the respect of the firm’s elders if not also the attentions of the young men at Hobbs & Greenough. She had graduated top of her class from the University of Illinois at Chicago’s College of Architecture and the Arts and had gotten her masters there as well. Every firm in the Midwest wanted her. Somehow Rob’s firm managed to woo her back to Madison, her hometown, where she’d been her high school’s valedictorian.
She saw Rob cast a worried glance at Samantha, and Lanie whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got her back.” He nodded when she rested her hand on Samantha’s shoulder and guided her toward the bar, wondering how she’d convince her to switch to ice water.
As they navigated the tables and waiters with full trays, Samantha started talking over her shoulder. “Your husband,” she began, and Lanie couldn’t help notice the way Samantha’s sleek gold dress clung to every curve of her body. Surely every man in the room had taken note and commented on it by now. “Is the coolest,” she finished, when they reached the bar, slurring her words at the end.
“I’m glad you think so.” Lanie ordered a gin and tonic and a scotch.
“Definitely. He’s so great. How did you ever shag him?”
Lanie stopped short, then realized she had misheard shag for snag. She wasn’t sure if an insult was intended but she decided to let it slide and shrugged. “Pure luck, I guess.”
It was an entirely inappropriate conversation for Samantha to be having and if she remembered any of it in the morning, the poor girl would be mortified. But Lanie could feel the gin working on her own brain cells, and she didn’t really care. Screw etiquette.
“Seriously, though, he’s been such a great mentor to me,” Samantha continued. “I don’t think I would have lasted a week without his reassuring me that I have some talent.”
Lanie nodded, thinking it odd that Rob had never mentioned how he was “mentoring” Samantha. But she also knew the only reason she cared was because of the incontrovertible evidence before her: Samantha was gorgeous. What guy could look at her and not think about the architecture of her body?
“Please tell him. Be sure he knows, okay, like how grateful I am.” She leaned on Lanie now, fresh wine sloshing out of her glass. “I’d be embarrassed to tell him, but he should know, you know?”
“Sure, honey, I’ll do that.” One thing Lanie had on this woman was the wisdom of her years—not to mention relative sobriety. Right now she just wanted to make sure she got Samantha back to their table without her stumbling and making a complete ass of herself.
When they returned, the discussion had turned to the recent volatility in the stock market. Samantha clumsily lowered herself into her seat, and Lanie began devouring her ravioli, not realizing how much she’d been starving. When she looked up a few minutes later, Samantha was staring blankly into her plate of food, her wine glass drained. As someone pontificated on international markets, Samantha let a half-hiccup, half-burp escape. She covered her mouth and giggled.
“Excuse me, I think I’d better use the ladies’ room.” She pushed herself up from the table.
Rob looked at Lanie, as if to say, “Should you do something?”
But Lanie just shrugged this time. Samantha was a grown woman; she could take care of herself. Funny how she’d been dreading this dinner. It had actually turned out to be quite entertaining. Earl Norman was climbing up on stage to say a few words when Samantha returned to the table, her eye makeup slightly smudged, her hair tousled. She wiped at the corners of her mouth and smoothed her dress, seemingly more composed.
But then Rob whispered in Lanie’s ear. “Honey, help.” He nodded toward Samantha.
In turning to look at the stage, Samantha had fallen partly out of her halter dress—and had yet to notice that fact herself. There was her young breast in full bloom, beautifully shaped with a perfect pink aureole at its tip. Lanie took a quick inventory of the table. Only a few of the wives, mouths agape, appeared to have caught on; their husbands’ eyes still focused on Earl Norman. But she could feel the wave of nudges starting to make its way around the table.
Samantha was too far out of reach for Lanie to help. She couldn’t exactly walk over and tuck the girl’s boob back in without the rest of the banquet hall noticing.
“Samantha!” she whispered loudly.
She looked over, doe-eyed.
Lanie gestured madly to her top. When Samantha looked down, she gasped and covered the blooming breast with her hand. Then she discreetly leaned over and tucked it back in. She flipped her hair and looked up, eyes trained on Lanie.
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
“You’re welcome,” Lanie mouthed back. How could the girl not be fazed by what had just happened? If it were her, Lanie would have crawled under the table, made some excuse to leave. Perhaps the alcohol had sufficiently dulled Samantha’s common sense? It all seemed a little too easy to Lanie, but then she supposed Samantha was one of those people for whom everything in life was easy.
Which was why Lanie couldn’t help but notice with some satisfaction, as her husband patted her knee, that Samantha’s beautiful breasts, while fully-sheathed, now sat oddly lopsided in her halter with a smear of something—was it vomit?—on the top of her right breast.
“Lars, an old man on his deathbed, said to his wife, ‘Get me some kringle before I die. That way I can go to heaven a happy man.’ His wife turned to him and said, ‘Sorry, honey, but we’re saving it for your funeral.’ ”
—The Book of Kringle, recounting a kringle folktale
“Come.” He held out his hand.
Ellen followed Henry through the rows of arching, fragrant greenery. Lush pink, orange, and purple blooms spilled over into the aisles. She was trying to absorb the sweet scents and delicious calm around them, but it had been a tougher week than most. In the span of a few days, she had managed to break a crown on her tooth, flatten a tire, and crack the garage door window with a broom handle. Now the tooth was re-cemented, the tire patched, the window taped. But it was just like Max: wherever he showed up, a tsunami was sure to follow.
When her sister called, it was all Ellen could do not to spill the beans about her ex’s surprise appearance. But she didn’t trust herself. Once she revealed Max had stopped by the store, she’d be a short skip from disclosing the night that followed. And true to her resolution, she’d said good-bye to Max that morning. Perhaps it wasn’t as final a good-bye as she’d planned (Max’s words: “Hope to see you soon”), but she made the point that there was no way she could leave her shop now. He seemed to understand that reasoning, take it less personally. How she really felt about Max, well, apparently she still needed to work through that; but she was pretty sure it had been a one-night stand. Nothing more, nothing less.
And now here she was on what was supposed to be a private showing of Henry’s
greenhouse, with a tour by the owner himself, and her mind was spinning with thoughts . . . of her ex-husband’s soft skin.
They’d just come from dinner at Henry’s favorite Chinese restaurant downtown, and Ellen could feel the sweet-and-sour chicken sitting in her stomach. She wore a silk halter top, black capris, and the same strappy sandals she’d worn the first night Henry came over, but she couldn’t help think she should be in flowing white linens, her hair done up with braided flowers. She was better dressed for a night at a cheap dance club than a nursery tour.
“That’s a honeysuckle. And this is an anemone.” Henry said, interrupting her thoughts. “They’re ostentatious flowers.” He plucked a big pink flower that looked like a daisy and handed it to her. She liked that he called flowers ostentatious. “They bloom best in August and September. This one’s early.”
She twirled the flower in her hand. “You know, I used to think forsythia were called ForCynthia,” she conceded. “I’d think to myself, how nice that all the Cynthias in the world have a beautiful yellow spring flower named after them. What a dummy, huh?”
He stopped and smiled at her. “That would be better, wouldn’t it? Maybe you should go into the business of naming flowers like those guys who come up with names for cars: Highlander; Cross-Country; Autumn Breeze. I hear they get paid a bundle.”
She laughed. “I’m pretty sure there’s no car named Autumn Breeze, but you’re right that it would make a nice name for a flower—or a drink, for that matter.” They turned down another row, past hyssops, long purple summer stalks that reminded her of salvia but gave off a strong, sweet licorice smell. “Mmm, that smells delicious.”
“It’s a good one. Butterflies love it, too.” At the end of one row, somewhere around the hostas, he stopped.
“Stand right here. . . .” he said, grabbing her hips all of a sudden and moving her into place. She felt a small shiver of anticipation. “Now look up.”
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