by Jane Green
Sylvie had never felt that way. Her husband was also never home, but that’s where the similarity ended. Not that she didn’t feel disappointment in Mark—she was, after all, only human—but she would never have shared it with anyone.
Making love was always wonderful. Where other women joked about Groupon really needing to do some lifelong deals on Viagra, Sylvie kept quiet, for she only had to look at Mark, in his late forties, a certain way to have him instantly hard.
He, in turn, could stroke her arm in a restaurant, and she would catch her breath, crossing her legs, immediately feeling the warm rush as she pictured him on top of her, moving inside her.
She has never experienced this with anyone before. This sexual heat. Not even with Jonathan. Jonathan was like an old, comfortable, familiar bed. She’d adored making love with Jonathan, but it wasn’t hot in the way it is with Mark. It wasn’t … sweaty, dirty, uninhibited, wild. It didn’t make her try things she never thought she’d try, say things she never thought she’d say.
After particularly steamy sessions, Sylvie often laughed to herself at the dichotomy. So loving and tender, they had the ability to get down and dirty, to experiment with each other, to reveal sides of themselves Sylvie didn’t even know existed.
And if ever she doubted … him, if ever she doubted this marriage, which most often happened when he was away, he would come back and lick the edge of her ear, or slip a hand under her skirt as she was wiping down the countertops, and all would be forgotten.
* * *
They sit now, at George’s, a warm breeze playing on their shoulders as a golden sun sets quietly over the Pacific, neither of them talking, both delighting in the extraordinary view, with the overwhelming feeling of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
It doesn’t get any better than this, thinks Sylvie, as contented as a cat, sipping her vodka and lime, her sheer linen tunic threatening to slip off one shoulder as Mark leans forward and plants a kiss at the base of her neck.
She shivers, thinking back to half an hour earlier, the length and strength of her husband, his magical fingers, magical lips, and she is brought out of her lustful coma only by the sound of her husband’s chuckling.
“You are unlike any woman I’ve ever known,” he murmurs when the glow of the sky has muted to pinks and purples, the sun almost gone. “All the guys I know complain their wives never want sex, and here I have a woman who would happily stay in bed with me all day.”
“It’s true. And not just to sleep.” Sylvie reaches over for a plaintain chip. “I can’t help it. It’s you. I was never like this before.”
“It isn’t me.” Mark shakes his head. “It’s us. Our chemistry. All these years, and it hasn’t changed.”
“Did it change with Maggie?” Sylvie doesn’t often ask about Mark’s first wife. Mark is still uncomfortable talking about it. Not because he harbors any feelings. Not because Maggie was the great love of his life, but Mark sees things in black-and-white; once he and Maggie divorced, that was it. Chapter closed. No children, no need to revisit. Done.
He is intensely private. Despite his job in sales, his charm around people, he has a pathological fear of gossip, a hatred of social media. When he went through his divorce, he became the talk of the town, he said, and he couldn’t stand it. His ex was the one who left, but she painted him as the one at fault. He learned very quickly that the vast majority of people he considered friends, weren’t.
Men he had played golf with, metaphorically killed at poker, had over for dinner countless times, disappeared.
Leaving Mark entirely distrustful of pretty much everyone. Despite establishing a community of friends in La Jolla, it has been a slow process, has taken time. When Eve started at school, Mark spent the two evenings before Back to School Night googling all the names in the school directory, much to Sylvie’s amusement.
“Any potential clients?” she kept asking. “Any sworn enemies from childhood?”
“Ha ha,” Mark said. “You may laugh, but this is how I get business. You never know who anyone is, and it’s always better to be prepared.”
In the event, he had a last-minute trip and missed Back to School Night altogether. His distrust of strangers and dislike of online social sites remain. That everyone they know runs, as he calls it, “their own private fan club” on Facebook, collecting comments and responses to status updates in lieu of, he says, fan mail, is anathema to him.
Before they met, Mark was the victim of identity theft. It messed up his life, very nearly lost him his job, and led to his subsequent paranoia, hence his insistence on Eve not posting personal information on her profile.
“But, Pops,” she used to groan, “it’s private. No one sees it except my friends.’
“And their friends, and their friends,” he said. “I know what can happen, and it’s terrible. No photos, no addresses or phone numbers. Trust me.’
Sylvie is something of a technological disaster anyway, not that she particularly cares. Eve has done a great job of convincing her father she has a completely vanilla profile, while running a secret second profile, a secret Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.
If Mark knew, he’d go nuts, which is why Eve’s computer is password-protected; her friends, and her mother, have been sworn to secrecy or a very painful death.
“I still can’t believe you came home early.” Sylvie cannot stop smiling, reaching out to stroke Mark’s arm, his cheek, take his hand. Whatever worries she may have had earlier have gone; she is as loved up tonight as if they were on their first date.
“Where’s Eve tonight? What’s going on with our girl?”
“She’s staying at Jenna’s. She’s good. I’m still worried about her, though. She wants to lose another ten pounds.”
Mark frowns. “I don’t like this. Should we be talking to a doctor? Or some kind of food specialist?”
“I have. They all say it may be something that passes, but if it isn’t, we can’t bring her in without her wanting to come. She refuses to acknowledge she might be overly obsessed.”
“God,” he exhales. “I hope it does pass. I can’t stand the thought of her being at school and us not being able to keep an eye on her.”
“I know. That’s what terrifies me.”
“Which is why I want her to go to USC. This thing she has for going to school on the East Coast is just crazy. It’s too far from us, particularly with this going on.”
“Maybe we should tell her that? If she loses any more weight, she’ll have to go to school here. Maybe that would make her eat.”
“But then she’d expect to go to NYU, and I guarantee it’s the wrong school for her, and her being on her own in New York City just isn’t something I’m comfortable with.”
“She wouldn’t exactly be on her own.”
“I mean without her mother. Without a support system.”
“But don’t your friends at college become that support system? That’s how it was for me.”
“Maybe, but with these concerns we have, I couldn’t let her go to school so far away.”
“How would we even tell her that?”
“Simple,” Mark laughs. “It all comes down to a question of finances. We just can’t afford it.”
“Unless, of course, my candle business takes off and I become the Martha Stewart of candles.”
“True. Then I’d be really stuck. But perhaps you ought to try making a candle before dreaming about world domination,” he warns affectionately.
“Don’t you worry. The wax and wicks are on their way.”
Mark leans back, shaking his head in amazement at his wife.
“What?” She grins.
“You just amaze me,” he says. “You’re so creative, and you’re never frightened of doing anything. It’s one of the things I love most about you. That you’re a … doer. You have an idea, and instead of doing what most people do, talking about it but not doing anything, you don’t talk about it. Instead you just get on and do it
.”
“What else do you love about me?” Sylvie teases.
Mark laughs. “I love how relaxed you are, that you so rarely get amped out over anything. You’re a free spirit, which I adore. I love that you’re comfortable in your skin, that you never try to impress anyone, or worry what other people think of you, or change the way you dress in order to fit in.”
Sylvie’s eyes widen for a second. “Is there something wrong with the way I dress?”
“God no! I love it. It’s bohemian but chic. That’s exactly it! You’re so unaware of how amazing you are, but not in an insecure way, in this accepting way, where you just live your life. Really live your life. With joy.”
Sylvie is quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t feel like that anymore,” she says quietly. “I used to feel that joy, but it seems to have gone.”
Mark’s face falls. “Gone? What are you trying to tell me? Is there something wrong with us?”
“God no! It’s just that I feel … untethered.” She frowns. “I always knew what my purpose was, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, and it’s unsettling. I can’t even put my finger on it, but it’s like I’m entering the second part of my life, and I have no idea who I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s why you want to do the candles?”
“Not necessarily the candles, but something. I just don’t know what it is. It’s like … before I had Eve, I used to know who I was, but I kind of lost myself in marriage, and motherhood, and now that she’s going, I have no idea who I am anymore.”
“You’re still someone’s wife and mother.” Mark takes her hand. “As you will always be. I understand how you’ve lost a part of yourself while raising Eve, but even that isn’t lost. It’s just been … I don’t know, dormant. This is the most exciting time for you. You can reinvent yourself, do whatever you want. Go back into textile design if you want.”
Sylvie grimaces.
“I don’t mean necessarily go work for some crazy designer who steals all your ideas and gives you none of the credit. I just mean you have time to express your creativity in whatever way you want. You may not know who you are right now, but you’ll find out.”
Sylvie sighs. “I guess. It just all feels a little overwhelming. It would be easier if you were home more.”
“You’ve never asked me for that before,” Mark says. “You’ve always said you were okay with us having so much time apart. You know I’m trying, but this is new for me too.”
“I get it,” Sylvie says. “But things were different before. I had Eve. I don’t want to be an empty nester with a husband who’s never home.”
“I’m working on it.” Mark strokes her thumb. “I promise. Don’t let’s fight. I don’t want to spoil a beautiful evening.”
Sylvie nods. He’s right. Neither does she.
8
Sylvie
Eve is huddled in a sweater, despite the warmth outside.
“Aren’t you hot?” Sylvie walks into the living room, her dark hair flowing over a beaded orange caftan, pauses before opening a closet and reaching down to pull out thick turquoise wrapping paper for Angie’s gift.
“I’m freezing.” Eve shivers. “Can we turn the air-conditioning off?”
“It is off,” Sylvie says. “Evie, I’m really worried about you. I think you’re cold because there’s nothing to keep you warm.”
“What are you talking about?” Eve is almost sneering as Sylvie mentally backs down.
“I just think you might feel better if you ate something. Where’s Papa?”
Eve shrugs, filling the kettle with water and placing it on the stove, before pulling a lemon out of the fridge and carefully cutting off a wedge. This is what she has had for two days now. One day was easy. So easy, why not make it two, she thought.
“He said he had to run into town.”
“What are you going to do for dinner?”
“Oh God, Mom! Why is it always about food!” Eve’s voice is a shout.
“It’s not, okay?” Sylvie deliberately keeps her voice calm. “I was just worried we didn’t have anything.”
“So I’ll go grab a pizza at Sammy’s.”
Please do, thinks Sylvie. Please, please let that happen. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
Eve shrugs again. “I might go hang out at the beach. A group of people are going down there. Maybe,” she says sarcastically, “we’ll make s’mores!”
“That sounds great.” Sylvie doesn’t take the bait, busying herself with wrapping the scarf she has painted for Angie, not dissimilar to an Alexander McQueen one Angie had been obsessed with a few months ago, a pale gray chiffon that looks almost floral, until you look closely and realize the flowers are in fact intertwined skulls. Sylvie changed the design slightly, adding flowers, and even she is delighted with the result.
The side door slams as Mark walks into the kitchen. “Hey, guys! You look beautiful,” he murmurs to Sylvie, planting a kiss on the top of Eve’s head. “How’s it going, kid?” Eve, flicking through a magazine, barely looks up.
“I ran into town to get some wine to bring,” Mark said. “Simon’s such a wine snob, I thought I’d better get something special. And guess what?” He turns to Eve. “Girard was about to close, but I persuaded them to let me in for this.” He brandishes a paper bag from behind his back with a grin.
“An almond croissant?” Eve says, the conflict evident in her eyes.
“A Girard almond croissant. Here.” He tosses it on the table nonchalantly, as if it were no big deal, pretending not to notice when Eve slowly opens the bag and smells.
Sylvie grabs her wrap, trying not to look as Eve takes one slivered almond from the top and places it on her tongue, then suppresses a smile as Eve grabs the whole croissant out of the bag and takes a huge bite.
“Told you!” Mark whispers, referring to Sylvie doubting him when he told her of his plan.
Sylvie bends down to place a kiss on the top of Eve’s head. “Slow down!” She laughs. “You don’t want to choke!”
A levity settles around Sylvie as they climb in the car and wind down the valley on the way to Angie’s house.
“That was amazing.” Sylvie turns to Mark with a smile. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen her eat in days.”
“I have far more up my sleeve.” Mark grins some more. “Chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, for starters.”
Sylvie laughs. “Remember how she used to love them when she was little? The smiley faces?”
“Damn!” He slaps his thigh. “I thought I was so clever in remembering the strawberries, but I forgot the whipped cream. Don’t let me forget to pick some up on the way.”
They keep smiling at each other, each blissfully unaware that at that precise moment, Eve is on her knees in front of the toilet, three fingers reaching for the back of her throat, retching and gasping until finally, finally, the croissant, barely chewed, has entirely left her body.
* * *
The women are chatting away on the sofa, the men standing at the other end of the room admiring the view, an occasional burst of laughter drifting across the room.
Angie’s house is the diametric opposite of Sylvie’s. Despite the concrete and glass; the clean, simple lines; Sylvie, sipping her champagne and listening to the chatter, feels as comfortable there as she does in her own home.
Admittedly, she wouldn’t want to live there full-time, does not understand how Angie’s daughter can live there so neatly and tidily, or their nonchalance at entire walls made of glass, affording neighbors multiple and constant views of their lives, but each time she walks up the glass staircase and into the giant room that serves as kitchen, living room, family room, and study, Sylvie is instantly calm.
Angie tells everyone she is hopeless at anything to do with the home, cannot cook to save her life, could not choose a fabric if her life depended on it, but looking around at this room, Sylvie knows that isn’t true.
Angie may have paid Lars Berna
l, decorator to the stars, to furnish the house, but she also gave him a stack of photographs torn from magazines, homes she wanted to emulate, rooms she admired, showing him exactly what sort of design would work for her.
Lars found the low-slung Balinese daybeds, big enough for a dozen people, covered in soft white pillows, but Angie was the one who e-mailed him pictures she took on vacation at Parrot Cay, with a note telling him these daybeds were exactly what she wanted.
Lars found the huge stone Buddha, who now casts a benevolent eye over the room from his perch in front of the windows, but only after Angie sent him a picture of a similar one. Angie found the hand-tinted black-and-white photographs above the modern fireplace, itself a simple rectangle in the wall, and guided Lars to replace the gas fire logs with polished river stones.
Obsessed by candles, Angie’s current fixation is Bamboo by NEST, the soothing smells of which arise from every corner, creating a haven of peace and tranquillity that slightly offsets the whirlwind that is Angie.
“Okay!” Angie raises a hand, casting an eye over to the coffee table, where the gifts are currently piled. “I know the polite thing to do is to wait to open gifts, but I’m a gift whore. Can I open them now? Please!”
“Would you?” Kirsty says in mock exasperation. “I didn’t want to say anything, but frankly I was about to take it home.”
“Can I squeal if I love it?” Angie reaches for a gift with a big grin as Simon comes over to refill their glasses.
“Uh-oh,” he says. “Girl time. I think I’ll take the men downstairs to do manly stuff.”
“Manly stuff?” Sylvie snorts. “Are you going hunting, shooting, and fishing?”
“We would if we were in Montana,” Simon says. “Speaking of which, I thought the four of us were going to go to that dude ranch? What-ever happened to that?”