He’d spent more than a few nights sleeping on the couch, listening to Coltrane, Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, a cool glass of scotch in hand. God, he loved that music, the way the saxophone ran up and down the scales in “I Cried for You,” or the trill of the piano in “I Wished on the Moon.” His mom first introduced him to jazz as a kid, and he’d thought Holiday’s voice was the most amazing thing he’d ever heard, so ethereal. He used to joke with Lanie that he would have been better suited to an earlier era, the twenties or thirties, frequenting jazz clubs, tipping back whiskey during Prohibition. He’d never had a gift for the piano, like his mom, but he still loved the music. And the lyrics—all about love, betrayal, heartbreak—seemed so right, so true. Ella singing “Summertime” still gave him goose bumps. He thought back to their wedding night, Lanie twirling in his arms to Billie Holiday’s “The Very Thought of You.” She had smiled up at him and whispered, “This is just the beginning, honey.” How little did they know then what lay ahead for them. He certainly never thought he’d find himself in the predicament he was in right now, his wife accusing him of cheating.
He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t mentioned Samantha’s joining the project in the first place. At the time, he didn’t think it a necessary detail. He wouldn’t normally fill Lanie in on the details of who was working on what project. But he got that Samantha was different. Did he also know, if he were being completely honest with himself, that Lanie would be upset? Especially since the project required so many late nights at the office?
So he’d conveniently deleted certain details from his workday life. But, then again, he and Lanie didn’t have a lot of time to talk these days, aside from matters having to do with Benjamin. Rob heard plenty about the baby doldrums from his friends, but Ben was almost one year old now. How much longer did they have to wait till they could resume their normal relationship? Or was this the new normal?
Of course, there was one big detail he’d neglected to mention: Samantha had come on to him, in a manner of speaking. It was as if Lanie had been gifted with a premonition. Two days ago, after the museum board had signed off on the plans with applause and a shower of compliments, a small group of them decided to go out for drinks to celebrate. Rob called Lanie to pass along the good news. “Congratulations,” she’d said icily. “We’ll see you when you get home.”
It was after the blowup over Samantha, before Benjamin had gotten sick. He knew he should go home, but it was the last place he wanted to be. Samantha would be with them, but so would Craig, Eli, Kate, and a few others from the firm; Rob made sure Lanie knew this. Frankly, he was more than a little ticked that his wife couldn’t be happy for him. All those late nights had been worth it! He’d taken Lanie’s icy remove, her accusatory looks and had filed them away with something like resentment. How quickly his disbelief had turned to a simmering anger. He was doing all this work for his family. How dare she accuse him of being disloyal! What he’d assumed would be a fight that would blow over had lasted what felt like an eternity. But he didn’t say anything except, “Okay, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Then one round of shots led to another, and before long they were all singing bad karaoke out of tune. Rob had pulled Rupert Holmes’s “Escape” from the tumbler, and they belted out the chorus line. Before he was done, a very drunk Samantha looped her arm over his shoulder, singing along. When the song finished, he excused himself to the men’s room to “regain my dignity.” As he headed to the restroom, he heard footsteps behind him, a sultry laugh.
When he turned, he saw it was Samantha, looking fabulously drunk. Her blazer was off, revealing a cream blouse with a camisole underneath. Her tight black skirt hugged her in all the right places. And she was still in her pumps, her Jimmy Choo’s. Everyone in the office teased her about her expensive taste in shoes, but she countered that if she got hit by a truck she’d rather be wearing expensive shoes than expensive underwear. A bit provocative, but clever, Rob thought. In short, Samantha was the embodiment of all his vices, something his wife had realized long before him.
She came up to him and rubbed his shoulders. “Someone’s a little tense,” she said. He wondered if she’d picked up on the trouble at home.
“Samantha, you’re drunk. Very drunk.” He could smell the vodka on her, could see her pores in the harsh light. He lifted her hands off his shoulders.
“So?” She tilted her head to the side, as if she couldn’t quite focus on his face. “We worked hard. We deserve a few cocktails.”
“I agree. But you don’t want to go there.” He hoped the innuendo was obvious enough.
“Go where?” She smirked. “Hey, your tie doesn’t match.”
At that moment, Kate walked up. “Looks like someone didn’t make it to the girls’ room. C’mon. I’ll go with you.” She took Sam by the arm and whispered to Rob, “Someone’s had a little too much.”
“Thanks,” was all he could get out.
In the bathroom, he stood at the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. What the hell was he doing? Had he led Samantha on somehow? Was he sending her subtle signals even he wasn’t aware of?
He looked like crap. Then he laughed. Of course, he did. They’d been working like maniacs to get the final drawings done. But what on earth was he doing? He loved his wife. He loved Benjamin. Then it dawned on him: He’d really fucked up by coming out tonight. What kind of idiot goes out to celebrate with the woman his wife suspects him of having an affair with? Even if she had no evidence that he’d been cheating, Lanie didn’t trust him. He could feel it. He needed to get that trust back somehow.
There was no point mentioning Samantha’s hallway escapades to Lanie now. Nothing had happened. His wife would just read layers and layers of subtext into a little shoulder rub.
Still, one thought plagued him: Did a lascivious thought a cheater make?
• • • •
He hoped he and Lanie could get back to normal, whatever that was. In just a few more hours, he’d have to go into work. Lanie had already called in sick after the night’s escapades with the baby. He heard the buzz of her electric toothbrush in the bathroom and moved to go downstairs, catch a few hours of sleep on the couch before his alarm woke him. But on his way down, he heard her voice.
“Honey?”
He turned, pillow in hand.
“Come to bed.” She held out her hand. “I want you to be close to us. Just in case Benjamin needs anything.”
It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but Rob reminded himself he didn’t need forgiveness. Whatever it was, he’d take it.
He followed her soft footsteps down the hall and fell into bed next to his wife, his girl.
“Lemon betwixt buttery layers makes for an unbeatable combination. For summertime, think tart, light, fresh.”
—The Book of Kringle
Ellen, Lanie, and Benjamin sat under the big oak tree on the Union Terrace, eating overstuffed crepes from the Golden Pan. It was a warm day in early June, and the trees danced with bright greens and yellows. Orange, red, and yellow chairs bedecked the terrace, like colorful piñatas stretching out to the lake. She and Lanie were planning the details of Benjamin’s first birthday party to be hosted in a few weeks at The Singular Kringle. As they talked, Lanie broke off small pieces of her ham and cheese for the baby, who sat buckled in his stroller.
“I can’t believe you’re almost one, baby!” Ellen tickled his toes while Benjamin kicked and cooed.
“I like the Winnie-the-Pooh theme. You’re sure you don’t mind being on cake duty?”
“Not at all. I want to,” Ellen said. She hummed a few bars of the Winnie-the-Pooh theme song and Benjamin smiled in recognition. “It’s so funny that he knows that already. He’s like a little sponge.”
“Hmm . . .” Lanie said in mid-swallow. “So true. So, I was hoping to keep the party small. You know, just close friends and family. Will you bring Henry?”
Ellen grinned. “I suppose I should. You could finally meet him. Might not be such a b
ad thing.”
“I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist, kind of like Snuffle-upagus.”
Ellen laughed. “Oh, he most definitely exists. You just don’t hang out in the cool corners of town.”
“Well, bring him. We’d love to meet him.”
“And you and Rob? Things better on that front?” She couldn’t help herself. She needed to know. Just the other day Lanie had divulged her suspicions that Rob was having an affair. With Samantha. At the office. Go figure. This was before Benjamin’s fever had given them all a good scare.
Ellen had tried to talk Lanie down off the ledge: “No way is Rob having an affair. He’s way too busy and exhausted to pull it off practically, let alone emotionally.”
Ellen couldn’t fathom it. As far as she could tell, the only incriminating evidence Lanie had was that this woman answered the phone in Rob’s office on a Friday night. But they were work partners. A late night wasn’t so unusual, was it? She supposed the failure to mention it to Lanie in the first place was Rob’s biggest mistake in the whole mess.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. He still denies it. Maybe it was just a one-night stand, maybe it was nothing. Maybe my imagination is getting the best of me. It’s almost beside the point, though. He was spending all this time with Samantha—work or otherwise—and he felt the need to hide it from me. Isn’t that saying something?”
Ellen thought about it, took another bite. Her stomach churned. Lately, she’d been having indigestion and something that felt a lot like how she imagined hot flashes feeling. It was hell getting old. “I suppose if I hadn’t known Rob for six years and loved him like a brother,” she began, “I’d agree. But, I just can’t imagine him doing anything so seedy. He probably didn’t mention it because he assumed you’d get mad, or worse, jealous.”
“Which I would have.” Lanie paused. “Which I am.”
“See?”
“So what’s your point? I’m in the wrong here? I swear, Ellen, if it weren’t for Benjamin, I would have kicked him out of the house that night.”
“Of course not. It’s just that I don’t think you have anything to worry about. At a certain point, you have to take your husband’s word for it. Unless, of course, you’re planning to become Samantha’s stalker.”
“Don’t count me out,” Lanie said sternly, then started to laugh. “God, now who sounds ridiculous? I think I’ve lost my mind.” She crumpled up the rest of her crepe and tossed it into the trash barrel next to them. “It’s so weird. I’ve gone from being completely pissed, to denying it, to being plain sad about it all. How could we have become such a clichè? Husband goes off and has a fling after his wife gets fat and has a baby.”
Ellen almost spit her water out. “First of all, you don’t get to call yourself fat around me. Got it?” Lanie shrugged. “Second of all, you guys have had a lot going on lately. You’re both working long hours, you’ve got a new baby—it takes a toll.”
Benjamin banged his stroller tray, as if in agreement.
“It’s all about balance, honey,” Ellen tried again. “Just like in a good kringle, no one ingredient should overwhelm another.”
“I don’t know.” Lanie sighed. “Maybe we just need a break, a vacation or something. Work has been so incredibly stressful. Something’s got to give. The other week I lost out on a restraining order for a guy who I know is going to keep stalking his ex-wife. And I feel personally responsible. That takes a toll, too.”
Ellen held Benjamin’s juice cup and looked at Lanie.
“What? Why are you smirking at me like that?”
“Henry and I were just talking about that very thing—vacation, that is, not restraining orders.”
Lanie shot her a look. “I’ve always wanted to go back to Nantucket and Henry’s never been . . .”
“But I’ve never even met him!”
“What? You don’t trust my taste in men?” She regretted the question instantly; Lanie had never been a fan of Max’s.
“I’m not going to answer that. Suffice it to say I don’t think you should be traveling across the country with a man I’ve never met. What if he’s a mass murderer?”
“If Henry is a mass murderer, we’re all pretty safe.”
Benjamin started to fuss in his stroller. Ellen set down his cup and pulled him out, perching him on her lap. Melted cheese stuck out on tufts of his hair. Lanie dabbed her napkin on her water bottle and wiped his hands clean, then tried her best to pull the sticky mess out of his brown curls. She dug the pacifier out of her purse and plopped it into his mouth. Benjamin happily sucked away.
“Wow. I wish I had a body like that.” Lanie nodded toward a lithe girl in cut-off shorts and a bright pink tube top walking by with a beer in hand. Her body was toned and tanned, muscular in all the right places.
“But you do!”
“Hah.” Lanie grabbed at her belly. “My mommy tummy has yet to go away, and my thighs were mommy thighs before the baby.” They both took in the young coeds walking around them. It was too discouraging. Ellen wanted to get back to the vacation.
“If you’re so worried about Henry and me, why don’t you all come along?”
“So now you’re definitely going with Henry?”
“I’m just saying, think it over. It could be fun.”
“And what would your date think if you brought your sister and her husband and her toddler along? Kind of a buzz kill, if you ask me.”
“Who cares what Henry thinks? If he wants me as his tour guide, he’ll have to accept it. Besides, it’ll be more fun if you’re there.”
Ellen stopped herself. Maybe she was selling Henry short. She liked him, didn’t she? Why else would she be talking about a long weekend in Nantucket? Things seemed to be moving in the right direction, ever since the night of their first awkward kiss. In fact, Henry had slept over at Ellen’s place a few nights in the guestroom. And over dinner, when the talk turned to places they’d like to visit before they died, Henry mentioned Nantucket.
“But I love Nantucket!” Ellen had said. “I worked there one summer in college.”
“Well, then, what better thing for two lost souls than to spend a few days on Nantucket?” he’d joked. But when she asked him the next day if he were serious, he’d said absolutely. So serious that he had already looked into possible plane fares and ferry times in August.
“He’s a good man. I think you’ll like him,” she said now in his defense.
“Maybe a vacation is a good idea. I could really use a break. Besides, if Rob is having an affair, he won’t want to go away with us.”
“How’s that?”
“He wouldn’t want to be apart from Samantha. Or maybe we could bring the slut with us. She could be our nanny!” Lanie giggled.
“Glad to have my sister back.” Ellen handed the baby to her. “Now stop with this affair craziness, would you? Come to Nantucket. I’m telling Henry that we’re going and you’re coming, too.”
Ellen looked into Benjamin’s big eyes. “Can you say Nantucket, baby?” She pulled out his paci. He lifted his arms in a “So Big!” response and said, “Dah.”
“Close enough.” Ellen smiled at her sister. “Close enough, sweet boy.”
Summer
“[The] art of kringle-making demands a fine sense of balance. No one element—whether dough, filling, or topping—should overwhelm another.”
—The Book of Kringle
The cape roses were in full bloom. All along the roadside, vibrant pink blossoms dotted green bouquets, like fuchsia butterflies aloft in the air. Ellen hadn’t been back this way since college, when she had worked one summer on Nantucket for a cleaning company that readied rental homes between tenants. Her father liked to joke that it was the one job that had instilled a work ethic in her. She knew what it meant to have dirt underneath her nails, knew what it felt like to have her knees rubbed so raw from scrubbing floors that only thick aloe creams could soothe the burn. She remembered the smell of suntan lotion, left over from Sunda
ys on the beach, mixed in with the ammonia of cleaning emollients on Mondays. How hard it had been to make those eight o’clock morning shifts back then, clearing out the detritus of one family and making room for the next, due to arrive that very afternoon on the ferry.
She was always surprised by how messy rich people could be. They left behind, after just a week, old magazines and newspapers, too many beer bottles and wine decanters to count, energy bar wrappers, broken plastic pails and shovels, abandoned suntan lotion, flip-flops, a trail of sand through the house, and discarded shells that evidently hadn’t made the final cut for the trip back to Boston or New York or D.C.
It was the bathrooms she hated the most, though. Apparently, the wealthy never cleaned out their tubs. Inevitably, a big swath of dyed blond hair would be pooling in the drain. Ellen would pick it up with her rubber gloves and discard it quickly, imagining the older woman from whose head it had come. Naturally thin, her wrinkles Botoxed, her unnaturally white teeth dazzling.
It was funny to think that now she was here on the flip side of things, coming to Nantucket as a consumer, not a cleaner, as clientele as opposed to the help. It was nicer this way. As fun as those booze-filled, sun-drenched summers had been, there’d never been a love interest, at least not more than a fleeting one. Back then she had been filled with dreams of where life would take her. Would she fly to Paris to live with her friend Julia, who had stayed on after spending sophomore year abroad? Would she go back to Boston and find a job in the advertising industry? Or, would the pull of her childhood home be too great to resist? There was nothing quite like Midwestern hospitality, especially when she held it up against the more austere East Coast veneer. This was before her father had been felled by his heart, her choices suddenly narrowed to one.
She and Max had never traveled out east. Odd, she thought to herself now, as she dragged her suitcase on wheels over the cobblestoned street. Not once in ten years. For all his big dreams, he rarely ventured farther than a two-hundred-mile radius of their town. In fact, come to think of it, she wasn’t sure he had ever left the Midwest when they were married. Once, when he was selling pharmaceuticals out of a suitcase, a job that lasted a brief two months before he got fired for siphoning off extra pills to friends, he traveled every few months to the Twin Cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul. But he never invited Ellen to join him. It was as if they had shared an unspoken rule that business and pleasure couldn’t mix.
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