“What kind?”
“You know, like was it spaghetti, mac and cheese, rotini. I could trace it to a particular night and how long it had been there.”
Lanie laughed. “I love it. And?”
“Rotini. It had been there since Monday night, three long days.”
“Is this what it’s come to?”
“I’m afraid so. But it’s not all bad, is it?” Audrey asked. They looked out at the kids digging in the sand.
“No, it just seems there should be some way to do it all and not go to bed with pasta stuck to your pajamas.”
“Let me know when you come up with it.”
They sat in silence, watching the negotiations play out among the kids over who got to use the dump truck next.
“How’s your sister?” Audrey interrupted the silence. “How’s the kringle business holding up? Nobody’s buying cookies right now with this dismal economy.”
“Business is fine, I think. But more important, there’s a new guy in town.”
“Good for her!” Audrey exclaimed.
“Well, at least, he sort of seems to be a new guy. Ellen invited him to Nantucket.”
“Wow. That’s so, I don’t know, unlike Ellen.”
“Mmm.” Lanie took a sip of her iced tea. “Tell me about it. The funny thing is, at first I didn’t like him, then I did. I think he’s a really nice guy. He’d be good for Ellen. But apparently he’s made himself scarce since we got back. Ellen thinks he freaked out when things started to get serious, that he’s still not completely over his dead wife. Anyway, I just wish she could find somebody she likes for longer than a month. She’s tough to please.”
“Yes, but in a good way,” Audrey offered.
“Sometimes she acts like she’s sixty-five, not forty-five.”
“Well, you age faster in the Midwest,” Audrey teased. “All that cheese, all that cholesterol. My father always told my brothers to marry their women young. Anyway, I’m sure Ellen will figure it out. She’s a smart woman.”
“Too smart for her own good sometimes.” Lanie sighed. “But you’re right. I’m sure they’ll work things out one way or another.”
• • • •
Now she dumped her files and bags on the table by the door and grabbed a juice box for the baby, an apple for herself. She pulled a fleece over his head. When they stepped back outside, the day was settling into itself, the sun slipping to the west. Lanie set Benjamin down and watched while he ambled across the lawn with his arms sticking out behind his back, like a little speed skater. It was nearly twenty steps before he fell, and when he did, he was up in a second, laughing. He stopped to finger a blade of grass, pick up a pebble from the sidewalk, snag a petal from the now-tired impatiens bordering their white fence. Hidden among them was a sole red maple leaf, and he lifted it to twirl between his fingers, a sparkler shooting off bright colors.
Lanie bit into her apple, enjoying the tart flavor, while she followed her boy across the lawn. She thought of her mother, who would have been the first to point out all of the natural wonders to her grandson—the feel of rich soil between his fingers, the smooth surface of a rock, the veiny architecture of a leaf. In fact, she saw a little of Harriet McClarety in her son. His constant wonder at and concentration on all the little treasures around him. It was as if her mother had sent Benjamin to her with a sign around his neck, commanding her in big, bold letters: SLOW DOWN.
And as Benjamin came running up to hand her a new discovery—a leaf, a wrapper, a rock, who knew?—she was seized by the piercing certainty that this was what her life was about. This, she supposed, would be the closest she would get to finding what her mother called grace. It wasn’t the hours logged at the office; the cases won; the dozens of clients she battled for, though certainly that had been important. It was a feeling that nothing more was demanded of her right now than being here with her son, on their front lawn, exploring each new thing. The constellation of her life might be no bigger than her family and a few friends, but it was enough, it was more than enough. She had Rob back, in spirit, body, and mind. She had Benjamin. She had Ellen. She was enormously grateful.
Benjamin stood next to her now, leaf in hand, reaching to be picked up. She lifted him and snuggled him with kisses. How long would he let her do this? she wondered. Till he was three? Five? Twelve? Her toddler was still just a baby. How could she ever think of him as a teenager, let alone as a grown man with a wife and children of his own?
“Up, up, up,” he said now, squirming in her arms.
“You are up.”
“Up,” he said again, pointing to the tree this time.
She walked with him over to the maple, its lowest branches heavy with leaves.
“Tree.” She said and pointed. She’d been trying to get him to say tree for more than a week now. Maybe today would be their lucky day.
“Up.” She walked in farther, till the leaves touched their heads, tickled Benjamin’s face while she held him. Then she watched while he reached up, leaf still in hand. What was he doing? She was amazed when she connected the dots.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered. “You want to give the leaf back to the tree. What a sweet boy you are.”
Benjamin waved his hand and let go of the red-tipped, five-pointed toy, only to watch it twirl to the ground. He pointed to it again. “Up.”
Did she have the patience to keep picking up this leaf and pretending to reattach it to the branch?
Rob would be getting home from work soon. She needed to get the pork chops going, the vegetables steaming. There were stacks of case files awaiting review at some point before Monday.
She tugged at the zipper on her jacket, tucked Benjamin’s fleece collar tightly around his neck. Did she have the patience?
The sky was fading to a dusty pink and headlights flashed by as neighbors turned down the street, traveling home for dinner around their own tables with family. She bent down, the baby suspended in her arms to grab the leaf again.
Indeed, she thought. Most certainly, absolutely, she did.
“Look back, fair reader, and reflect on what you’ve read, A secret ingredient hides in its stead, For if you like capitals first and seven, you’ll quickly see That two teaspoonsful make all the difference in your kringle and tea.”
—The Book of Kringle
It was Wednesday, and Ellen had yet to tell anyone her secret. The longer she waited, the easier it got. When Rob and Lanie got home last night, everyone had been too tired for the kind of bombshell she was about to drop. Now another day had passed.
She was beginning to believe in those mind-body studies that claimed placebos could be just as effective as the real pill. Because ever since she’d found out she was pregnant, the hot flashes had halted and her feet began swelling. When she got home from the shop, she plopped a frozen pizza into the oven, poured herself a glass of milk, and put her feet up.
Too bad the rose water had been a bust this morning. Larry and Erin looked so pleased when they rolled out their creation, but when they all took their first bites, the pastry had been sticky, the taste of rose petals overwhelming. Erin had gone so far as to spit hers out, saying, “I’m really sorry, but that can’t be the secret ingredient. It tastes like soap.”
Larry looked hurt at first but then started laughing. “Agreed. Guess the riddle remains unsolved.” She felt a little sorry for them; she’d been hoping they’d be right.
When the phone rang, Ellen debated picking up; she was that tired. But she hated it when people used voice mail as a replacement for a human voice. She picked up.
“Ellen?” His voice sounded scratchy.
“Henry? Is that you? Are you sick?” She hadn’t been able to bring herself to call him. He hadn’t set foot in the store since the trip. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air. How to explain it? Perhaps the romance on Nantucket had been too intense, made him realize he wasn’t over Charlotte after all? Just when she’d thought their love balloon was taking flight, Henry disappeared.
Reminded her of somebody else. She wasn’t going to waste any more time fretting about what Henry’s intentions might be. Life was short. Under different circumstances, she would have been making herself sick with worry and second-guessing. But now she had other, more important things on her mind. Like a baby.
“Ellen? I was wondering, do you think you could come over?”
“Right now?” She eyed the hot cheese melting into the tomato sauce on the pie she’d just pulled from the oven. “Is everything all right?”
“If you could just come, that would be super.”
He didn’t sound like himself. Had something happened at the nursery? Had a rhododendron pot capsized? Maybe a blight had wiped out his fern crop for the year? Funds embezzled by one of his employees? Something to explain his mysterious disappearance?
“Sure, Henry. I’ll be right there.”
She cursed herself as she slid the pizza back into the cooling oven and got her pocketbook and coat. When would she stop dropping everything to help this man? What was it that made her run to his side, wanting to comfort him? Then again, maybe it was just plain curiosity. Where had the man gone?
She slipped outside into the cool night. As she drove to the other side of town, she realized she’d stepped foot in Henry’s house just once, after their Chinese dinner. It had been a quick stop to pick up a sweater before their nursery tour: From what she could glean in the dim light, the house was a small ranch, the kitchen set off behind the living room with a hallway to the dining room and bedrooms. School pictures of his son and daughters hung on the living room wall, frozen in time. She’d been surprised by how light the house was on greenery; she’d expected hanging plants, rubber trees in every corner. When she put the question to Henry, he said it would be like bringing work home with him.
Now when she pulled into the driveway, he was standing at the front door, the light shining on his pale face. He didn’t look well; in fact, he looked somewhat like he’d just committed a terrible act, a murder maybe, and didn’t know where to hide the body. She hesitated for a moment. What was she getting herself into?
But then Henry opened the screen door, and stepped out, beckoning her in. She had to go inside. She was here after all.
“Henry,” she said. “What on earth is the matter?”
As she stepped into the house, he closed the door behind her and then leaned in to hug her. When she pulled back, she saw that his eyes were red, the tear ducts swollen underneath. The kitchen light shone out from the back; the living room sat in darkness.
“Ellen, you can’t imagine. It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
“Is it your children? Is everyone okay?”
“Yes, yes, they’re fine,” he said hurriedly. Then he took her by the hand and led her down the hall. She noticed pretty little watercolor paintings dotting the walls. They stepped into his bedroom, where a light shone brightly.
Scattered across the navy blue bedspread was a sea of papers and books.
“This is what has happened.” He gestured to the bed, his arm sweeping across as if to explain.
Ellen didn’t understand. “Did someone rob you?” It looked as if the room had been ransacked, but then how to explain the television still sitting on the stand in the corner? She’d never set foot in Henry’s bedroom, and it looked like the room of a lonely man. The taupe curtains were pulled tightly closed. A desk in the corner overflowed with junk: empty bottles, socks, unopened mail, loose change, and catalogs. A pile of unwashed clothes and a half-filled box of books sat on the other side of the bed. It all smelled musty, as if the room had been closed off for too long.
He crossed to the bed and picked up one of the papers. It was an e-mail, she could see that now from the layout of the typed print on the page. Henry handed it to her, tears in his eyes. The creases were well worn, as if the note had been folded and refolded a thousand times. She read in silence.
As she read, she blushed to see that the words gushed with feeling, excitement, with breathlessness. “I miss you desperately . . . meet me at noon on the terrace.” It was signed, “Love always, Me.” It was addressed to Charlotte, though the sender’s address had been blacked out.
“I take it this isn’t from you.”
Henry shook his head and collapsed on the bed. “None of these is,” he gestured to the mess.
“Oh, Henry.” She knew she shouldn’t be reading a dead woman’s electronic missives. But she was also deeply embarrassed for Henry, devoted husband that he was and continued to be, carrying a torch for a wife who’d left him too soon and who’d left him, apparently, a cuckold at that.
“I had no idea. None whatsoever. How is that possible?” Henry whispered.
He handed her another page when she sat down beside him. She didn’t particularly want to read more, but she couldn’t help herself. Henry looked over her shoulder, reading it, she could only imagine, for the fiftieth time. As the e-mails piled up beside her, she struggled to make some sense of the story unfolding in her hands.
For one thing, the affair seemed to be short-lived, only a few months in length. There were eight printed e-mails all together. The first, if it was the first, bore a date of May 2, the last August 14. “That one was written the day before she died,” he whispered.
“Where did you find these?”
“You won’t believe it, but I was finally packing up some of her things. Nantucket was the impetus,” he paused. “So I started pulling the books off her bedside table. And with the first one I picked up, The Grapes of Wrath, out fell an e-mail.”
“Oh, Henry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.” She paused. “I always hated that book.”
He nodded absentmindedly.
“I read the e-mail and couldn’t believe it, but as I continued looking, I started to realize that a few, no several, books had a note. This was all I found.” He gestured to the papers around him. “Who knows how many more there were?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, I’m sure this is it. There couldn’t be more.” She took his hand and squeezed it tight. She didn’t know what else to do. She thought she felt the baby turn.
“All this time I was thinking we had this great love affair for twenty years. I used to call her my sweet Iris. That was her middle name.” He sniffled. “It seemed fitting that her middle name was a flower, something beautiful.” He sighed. “And here she was having an affair right under my nose. I never had a clue.”
Ellen stacked the papers into a neat pile, the first lying on top, as if to tidy up the mess that had fallen into their laps.
“That’s the thing about affairs, Henry. They’re clandestine. The other person doesn’t know, until, that is, he finds out, and they always do, you know, just like in the movies—and then it’s hurtful to everyone involved. I’m sure Charlotte was a lovely woman; she just lost her way. We all do in our own way.”
He turned to look at her. “What are you saying? That I was an adulterer, too?”
“No, no. Of course not. Just that no one’s perfect.”
“Well this is pretty damn far from perfect.” His cheeks were flushed, his ears red at the tips. She could feel the heat radiating off his back through his shirt. His hands opened and closed into big fists.
“Do you think,” he paused, “she was in love?” How hard it must have been for him to ask such a question. And how much harder to answer.
From the tone of the e-mails, it was clear to Ellen that both lovers had been smitten. Charlotte’s suitor wrote how he longed to see her, thought of her every waking moment, couldn’t get enough of the smell of her shampoo, the smooth peaks and valleys of her skin. It was treacly stuff, but then what did Ellen know about love? She didn’t want to break Henry’s heart all over again.
“It’s hard to say. Probably not. She was probably just looking for someone to love her.”
“But I did love her. I told her every day.”
“Who knows what makes us do the crazy things we do?” She was surprised to find herself
defending this woman, adulteress that she appeared to be. But Ellen also recognized that if she hadn’t done one particularly nutty thing in her lifetime, she wouldn’t have a baby growing inside her.
Perhaps, too, she was bothered to see Henry so upset by the revelation all these months later. She could understand how the discovery of the e-mails would strike a devastating blow at first—such a large untruth knitted into a marriage he thought was nothing but a string of pearls. But had he really loved this woman so much that he now had to mourn her all over again, the woman he’d apparently not known very well? Where was his anger? Why wasn’t he furious?
She read the first e-mail again, taking in the over-the-top language, and before she could stop herself, she laughed.
“What’s so funny,” he asked, his eyes rimmed with red and wonder.
“Oh, nothing.” She brushed it off. “It’s just funny, isn’t it, how you’d think lovers would find original ways to express their feelings, but somehow they all sound like clichès.”
“Yeah.” Henry sighed. “I don’t think this guy was exactly a poet. Who knows what she saw in him. What on earth did he have that I didn’t have?”
He looked at her so beseechingly that Ellen wished she held the answer.
“He wasn’t you, Henry,” she said finally and patted his knee. “That’s all. He wasn’t better, or more interesting, or any of the other stuff you might be thinking. He was an escape from the life that she knew.”
“He wasn’t me,” he repeated, softly. “I think you might be right about that.”
They sat for a while longer. Then Ellen got up, took the stack of letters and stuck them in the top left-hand drawer of his desk. “Unless you want me to take them, get them out of the house completely,” she offered.
“No, leave them for now, please.”
“All right. But I don’t think it’s healthy to keep rereading them.”
“Agreed.”
She paused, wiped her hands on her jeans, looked around the room. He sat on the bed, looking forlorn.
Three Good Things Page 18