Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (17 page)

“Make an appointment with a doctor,” she says. “I think we may have caught something out there.” My mother never goes to doctors, so I find it curious that she’s telling me that I need to see one. She was always the one who would forgo the yearly physical and put off going to the doctor until she was so sick she could barely function. I, on the other hand, make my yearly appointments like clockwork, always going in August, a pattern I established back in high school.

“You went to a doctor?” I ask.

“I haven’t been feeling well since I left the Hamptons,” she says. “I went to a doctor and he’s concerned.”

“Concerned?” I ask. The news makes me sit up in my lounge chair. My grandmother does the same, trying to glean what we’re talking about from my body language and my responses to the conversation.

“Yes,” she continues. “He’s run a few tests.”

“What kind of tests?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Tests. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something. Promise me you’ll see a doctor, though? If we caught some strange bacterial thing, I want to make sure you get something for it.”

Even though it makes no sense—I know the chicken salad is innocent in all this—I can’t help but put it down.

Twenty-four

Things are buzzing again in Southampton by Thursday, but the Sugarmans don’t make it out to the beach until Friday afternoon. It takes me until Saturday morning to walk over to his house.

I’m nervous once I get to the door. And not just because of Nate. It’s because I’ve built this house up in my head. In my mind, it’s decorated traditionally, with a touch of whimsy. Warm colors abound, and it has furniture that’s beautiful but also comfortable. It’s the sort of place you want to sit down and kick your shoes off in—take a drink in front of the fireplace and read for hours.

And the family. The family is everything I’ve always dreamed a family could be. Loving, kind, intact. There’s a father and a mother, grandparents and siblings. They all know the intimate details of one another’s lives. They love to spend time together. They share private jokes. I’ve walked by this house countless times, and always imagine what it’s like inside. Can the reality possibly live up to my imagination?

Apparently, yes. The house is even more beautiful than I imagined. The Sugarmans have retained a lot of the original detailing, and the decorating revolves around enhancing the house’s original beauty, not trying to cover it up. The wood floors are refinished, but don’t look new, and the windows are original.

Nate’s mother lets me into the house, and as I walk past the kitchen on my way up the stairs, I notice it’s done as a country kitchen, with couches set up right next to the dining table, and an enormous farmhouse sink. Above the couch, there’s a gigantic photograph of the entire family. Even from far away, I can see their smiling faces as they all hold hands, posing, as the sun hits their faces.

We walk up the steps and there are more family photographs. As I look at each one—Nate as he’s being sworn into the New York State bar, his brother and sister-in-law on their wedding day, his little sister at her college graduation—I’m hit with a familiar feeling. One that I haven’t felt since I was in high school.

Envy.

The photographs tell the story of a perfect family, the sort of family I always longed for. The sort of family that was always just slightly out of my grasp.

“Nate’s door is right there,” his mother says, and I remember what I’m there to do.

“Thank you,” I say to his mother as she walks back downstairs.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Nate, barging into his upstairs bedroom. My tone is angrier than I intended when I first mapped this conversation out in my head.

“Nice to see you, too,” Nate says, and lies down on his bed. He tucks his hands behind his head.

“I said I’m sorry,” I say. He shakes his head and swats at the wind, as if he’s telling me to forget about it. But I continue: “About the way I acted.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Adam,” he says. “I wanted to tell you that I was sorry when I heard.”

My throat closes up at the mere mention of my husband’s name and I have to sit down on the window seat. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Nate has sat down next to me, asking me if I’d like a tissue.

I don’t know why I’m crying. After years of therapy, I’ve dealt with the pain. I’ve come to terms with what happened. With how I have to live my life now. I’m a widow. That’s the box I have to check off now—no longer single, no longer married, widowed. And that’s okay, because there will be many more chapters in my life.

But still the mention of his name does it to me. I’m only human. And now the floodgates are open, and I’m sitting here weeping in front of a man I don’t even like.

“I’m sorry,” Nate says again. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know that I understand. I know you’ve been having a tough time.”

I wipe my nose on the edge of my bathing suit cover-up and look down at the floor. The floor is a very light-colored wood. I wonder if it’s original to the house, too.

“I was at the funeral, you know,” he says. “It was just so crowded, and I didn’t push through all the people quickly enough to tell you how sorry I was.”

I remember what my mother told me that day: when someone young dies, there are lots of people at the funeral. She told me that she hopes there’s only a handful of people at hers. That she’s so old by the time she dies that the only ones there are the few she’s outlived in the natural order of things. Me, a few work colleagues, and maybe a few fans of her work.

“Thank you,” I say to Nate once I’ve stopped crying. “I never knew that you were there.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says, handing me a tissue.

“I know that,” I say, wiping my nose. I look over at him but it’s hard to hold his gaze. “I guess I just got a little emotional.”

“That’s allowed,” Nate says, and smiles. I never really noticed before how nice his smile is. I see that tiny chip on one of his front teeth again and I can’t help wondering where he got it.

“It’s just hard thinking about him sometimes,” I say.

“You don’t ever say his name,” Nate says. “You should say his name.”

“Okay, I think this was enough,” I say, and jump up from the window seat to leave Nate’s room. I walk down the stairs, but barely make it halfway down before Nate is right behind me.

“Hannah, wait,” Nate says, and I see him come flying down the steps. “Come back. Stay for lunch.”

“I can’t,” I murmur as I continue down the stairs. “My grandmother is waiting for me.”

“Wait.”

I turn to face him and there’s a look on his face that I can’t decipher. His face is so open, so honest that I can’t seem to recall why it is that I hate him so much.

I stay for lunch.

*   *   *

Apparently, Saturday lunch is a big deal for the Sugarmans, and everyone comes home for it. Nate mentions something about a family tradition left over from his grandfather’s generation, when they would all stay in and observe the Sabbath. They’re not religious anymore but they still do the big Saturday lunch. Nate’s older brother drives over, wife and three children in tow, from his own summer house, just fifteen minutes away in Water Mill. His younger sister arrives late, still in her tennis whites, with her college roommate, whose parents’ house she’d been visiting all morning.

“Who won?” Nate’s brother asks his sister.

She and her college roommate laugh. “It was a tie,” they say in unison.

“A tie?” Nate’s sister-in-law says. “The Sugarmans don’t believe in ties.”

“We’re going back to Rachel’s house after lunch to fix that,” Nate’s father chimes in, carrying out a tray of food.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask, and Nate shakes his head and motions for me to sit down next to him.

“How sweet of you to ask, dear,” Nate’s mother says. And then, to Nate: “Your last date never offered to help.”

Embarrassed, Nate shrugs his shoulders. I smile at him and he moves his chair a little closer to mine.

“Do you play tennis?” Nate’s sister asks me.

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“Nate will change that,” she says.

“Are you Nate’s
girl
friend?” Nate’s five-year-old nephew asks me. The nieces break into hysterical laughter.

“Would you all leave the poor girl alone?” Nate’s brother bellows over the din. “At the rate we’re going, she’s going to sneak out of here before dessert.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nate’s mother says. And then, to me: “You’re not going to leave before dessert, dear, are you?”

“I don’t plan to,” I say. Being with Nate’s family is like getting a giant, warm hug.

“Okay, enough chattering,” Nate’s dad says. “Let’s eat.”

I steer clear of the chicken salad, seafood salad, and tuna salad, and I don’t get sick after lunch, thankfully—more a product of the fact that I can barely eat, but I’ll take what I can get. The Sugarmans scatter after lunch—Nate’s brother’s family and his mom go into town for a walk, and his father and sister head back to her college roommate’s house to play a round of father-daughter doubles on their grass court. Nate and I go for a swim.

The Sugarmans’ pool is like a little island of its own, far away from the ocean. It’s only when you walk to the end of the backyard that you see the tiny walkway that leads you out onto the beach.

The pool is all stone and granite, and the hot tub is inside a little grotto, off the shallow end of the pool. On the edge of the grotto is an outside bar, and Nate is mixing margaritas.

“Salt?” he asks, and I catch a glimpse of that chipped front tooth.

Maybe this is the recipe for a happy life—not thinking about anything too hard, just going where the day takes you, trying to enjoy yourself, instead of analyzing every second.

“No, thanks,” I say, and Nate reaches down under the counter to pull out two margarita glasses.

“This is very festive,” I say.

“I’m hoping that if I get you liquored up on tequila, you won’t start a fight with me.”

I can’t help but laugh. Why had I been so intent on fighting with him?

“Cheers,” I say, and we touch our glasses. Since the margarita glasses are plastic, they barely make a sound. I take a sip, but instantly feel my stomach lurch from the smell of the tequila, so I place my glass back onto the bar.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg,” I call out as I walk to the pool, and dive in. Nate jumps in right behind me.

“That shouldn’t count,” he says, swimming up toward me. “I didn’t have fair warning.”

“It still counts,” I say, smiling. I smooth out my hair with a wet hand. We’re about five feet away from each other, treading water.

“So, if I try to apologize again, will you start crying?”

“No,” I say. “But I’d like to apologize, too. You’re not at all what I thought you were.”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

“I thought you were a rich, entitled brat, but I think I may have been wrong.”

“So,” Nate says, swimming closer, “you’ve changed your opinion of me?”

“No,” I say, splashing some water in his direction, “I still think you’re rich and entitled. Just not a brat. You’re not as bad as I thought.”

“And you’re worse than I thought,” he says. His voice is deeper, stronger.

And then he’s kissing me. And I’m kissing him back. We’re laughing and kissing and trying to stay afloat in the pool. Nate motions to the shallow end of the pool and we swim over, grabbing for each other as we swim. We get to the edge of the shallow end, where we can stand, and Nate grabs me and presses me against the wall. He grabs my face and then slides his hands through my hair, and then down my shoulders. His hands are rough. I love the way they feel on my skin.

“When’s your family coming home?” I ask in between kisses, and we both laugh. He leads me over to the grotto, which can’t be seen from the house, and we resume kissing. This time with more urgency. I don’t want him to stop.

He kisses me all over, taking my bikini top off, and I throw a quick glance at the house, to make sure no one is coming. Nate catches me and laughs. He promises me that no one will be home for hours.

We’re acting like children, like two teenagers afraid of getting caught. It is exactly what I need. I lean back and enjoy Nate’s hands, lips, all over my body. In one sweeping motion, he grabs me and picks me up, one arm below my shoulder blades, the other below my knees, and brings me over to a couch that’s set up inside the grotto. It feels good to give in, to be in the moment.

“Do you want to … um,” Nate begins to stammer. I look up at his face and smile. I cannot believe that I am out here making out shamelessly with Nate Sugarman. “Should we go up to my bedroom?” And that I’m about to do a lot more with Nate Sugarman.

We’re laughing and kissing all the way through the house, and when we get to his room, tumble into bed. We’re still soaking wet, and it’s difficult to peel the rest of our wet clothes off, but we manage.

His lips are all over my body, his hands, and I don’t want him to stop. I try to memorize this moment, his every freckle, the way his lips feel when they brush my skin, the roughness of his hands. I run my hands down his arms, over his back, and pull him tighter.

His breath is warm on my skin. Everywhere his hands touch, I’m set on fire. All I can think is: more.

“Hannah,” he whispers. He cups my face in his hands, and I know what he’s asking me.

“Yes,” I say.

Then we’re making love, and he’s gentle and passionate and sweet and fervent and it’s everything I want it to be. We fall asleep in each other’s arms and I can’t remember the last time I felt so comfortable. So at home.

It’s around six o’clock when we hear stirring in the house.

“Do you hear that?” I say, shaking Nate’s shoulder to wake him up. He opens his eyes and smiles broadly at me.

“Everyone’s home to get ready for their dinner plans,” Nate whispers. I jump out of his bed and cover myself with a sheet.

“We’re thirty-four years old, Hannah,” he says. “We’re allowed to do whatever we want.”

I laugh, but can’t help wondering what Nate’s mother would think of my being upstairs alone with her son.