Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (25 page)

“What? I don’t get it. You say I’m breaking some rule?”

“Section 14, paragraph A-6: ‘Behavior deemed unbecoming an officer or an officer-elect is reason for termination. This includes, but is not limited to, any action that may be construed as illegal, indecent, lascivious, lecherous, salacious, obscene, wanton, or libidinous.’”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” To my disappointment, her words are sobering me up. “When have I been
any
of those things?”

“That’s a good question, Lyssa.” Tammy looks me straight in the eye.

“Just what
are
you inferring, Tammy?”

“Oh, come on! Cut the Little Miss Innocent act. You and Harry Wilder are in each other’s company at all hours of the day and night. Well, of course people are going to talk—”

“‘People?’” I can’t help but laugh out loud. “Listen to yourself! You’re the only one who thinks anything is going on between Harry and me!”

“Oh yeah?” She scans the room. “Let’s see a show of hands: how many of you think that Lyssa and Harry are too cozy?”

Of course Margot’s hand shoots up. Isabelle’s is not far behind. Colleen raises hers guiltily. I look over at Brooke. Her eyes plead for my forgiveness, but slowly she lifts her arm too.

Et tu, Bruta?

Brooke tears up. “Look, Lys, you’re among friends here. All we’re trying to do is help, before you—well, before you do something that you regret.”

Tammy smothers a smirk. “You mean, if she hasn’t already.”

“I regret nothing! Harry and I are just friends.”

Isabelle snorts. “Don’t you mean ‘friends with benefits’?”

“No, of course not! How dare you!” She’s lucky I’m not within spitting distance. I’m not one to hock loogies, but I can make an
exception—

“Lyssa, Harry is cute and sweet and kind and fun to be around. We get it, believe me, we do. So it’s got to be tempting.” Colleen looks me in the eye. “Be honest, not with us but with yourself: aren’t you tempted, even a little?”

It would be so easy for me to proclaim my immunity to Harry’s numerous charms. . . .

But I’d be lying.

And unlike pecan pies, that is not one of my many talents.

“I would never be unfaithful to Ted.” It comes out as a whisper. That’s what happens when you’ve had the wind knocked out of you by your supposed BFFs.

Brooke gently pats my arm. “Honey, no one is saying you’ve slept with Harry. We know you too well. That’s exactly the point we’re trying to make here. You see, if the relationship looks, well,
awkward,
to us who know you best, how can it look to others?”

“Frankly, I don’t care.”

“Great. Fine. Then let me ask you this: what does Ted think about your new boyfriend?”

I open my mouth to say something, but then close it just as quickly.

Tammy, the bitch, mouths
I told you so
to Margot.

Colleen picks up the baton. “Lyssa, even if nothing is going on, none of us can even
look
like a floozy. Or we get kicked out of the club. Isn’t that what the rule means, Margot?”

“To put it somewhat bluntly, yes.” Margot’s eyes narrow even as she bares her teeth. “In this case, I think we’ve made it clear that your behavior can easily be, and I quote, construed as both ‘wanton’
and
‘libidinous.’”

Isabelle furrows a brow. “No, Margot, I beg to differ. It was the ‘lascivious’ part that rang true to me.”

“Yeah, but hey, what nails it is ‘behavior unbecoming an officer or an officer-elect.’ I mean, am I right? Not to mince words, or
anything.” Tammy looks over at Brooke for support.

“You guys, don’t be so silly!” Colleen’s lashes flutter in distress. “This isn’t an inquisition! It’s an
intervention
, remember?”

“An intervention?” I close my eyes in disbelief. “Oh, brother! And I thought I’d heard it all!”

Suddenly everyone is talking at once. Margot raises her hand to silence us all. “No, now, Lyssa is right to feel put out. We’re all jumping on her for something that is completely innocent”—

My heart palpitations begin to slow.

—“which is why she’ll drop Harry immediately. She knows she has too much to lose.” Margot has the smile of someone who is used to being obeyed. “Am I right, Lyssa?”

Yes, she is right. We both know it.

If I stay, I have too much to lose.

And I have so much to gain by leaving.

“Go to hell,” I say as I head for the door.

I’m almost down the block when I hear someone panting after me. It’s Brooke. I’ve never seen her move so fast, especially in heels. It’s impressive enough for me to cut her some slack and slow down. “What is it?”

“You know, he wouldn’t want you to do it.”

“Ted and I have already had this discussion.”

“I’m not talking about Ted. I’m talking about Harry.”

This stops me cold. “Why do you say that?”

“I know him too, remember?” She smiles. “And I know that the last thing he’d want is to be the reason why you’re suddenly an outcast from the rest of us.”

“No, you don’t know him. If you did, you’d realize he doesn’t see it that way. And guess what?
I
don’t see it that way, either. I consider it expanding my horizons. There’s a whole big world out here, Brooke. Don’t be afraid to step outside of Margot’s concentration camp.”

She backs away. Without thinking, she gives me a tiny wave good-bye. “Okay, have it your way. He’s the king of the Undesirables, and you’re now his queen. I hope he’s truly as good a friend as you think he is.”

“The best proof of love is trust.”

—Joyce Brothers

Saturday, 7 Dec., 3:41 p.m.

Hey, I like your new haircut. It’s kind of sexy.”

This is the first compliment Ted has paid me in over a week, since our fight on Thanksgiving.

In fact, it’s his first attempt at any real conversation at all.

Don’t think I haven’t tried in the meantime to make amends. Yes, I’ll admit that it took me a few days to come around. But let’s face it, being in a marriage is a lot like being a thin-skinned fruit: you get bruised easily, but in the end you go all soft anyway.

Ain’t love grand?

So I reward him with a shy smile. He reaches over and squeezes my hand, which I regard as his way of saying
I’m sorry for being such an ass, for doubting you.

“Yea, yea, yea! Mommy and Daddy love each other again!” Unlike Ted and me, Olivia, who is wedged between her brothers in the backseat, is not too proud to sing it loud, sing it proud. He and I exchange glances heavy with shame. How many reminders do we parents need that every emotion is transparent to our children?

Today of all days we should be happy. We are on our way to our favorite Christmas tree farm in Santa Cruz, where we’ll cut down the Douglas fir that will be the focal point of our entry foyer, and our lives, for the next four-plus weeks.

We started this tradition the year Tanner was born. I remember Ted traipsing up and down the rows while I followed at a slower pace, trying to maneuver Tanner’s state-of-the-art stroller around loose pebbles and protruding roots. The second year I got smarter about the whole thing and carried my little guy in a sling. Only three years ago, when Olivia was almost three, was I freed from the position of pack mom.

Now I huff and puff after the kids, who scatter through this planned forest. Finding the perfect tree is the equivalent of taking down the great white whale. It must have a thick petticoat of branches rising from the base, its layers coquettishly shorter albeit in proportion all the way up to its needled crown. As if projecting his own fears of a thinning pate, Ted cannot tolerate bald spots between layers. I, on the other hand, abhor crooked bases. Between three rambunctious kiddies and a clumsy dog the size of a Shetland pony, our tree can’t have the posture of a Tilt-a-Whirl. The one thing we both agree on is that it must stand at least thirteen feet tall, so that it will not be dwarfed by the double height of our entryway, the place of honor.

The search for the tree is a highly charged competition. The winner is the first to be photographed with it. The picture is then mounted on the first page of this year’s Christmas photo album, validating a full year of bragging rights.

Tanner is old enough to carry the bowed safety saw, while Mickey drags the tall PVC pole that is marked as a measuring stick. Every now and then he attempts to vault from one row to another. Olivia is charged with holding the twine that Ted will use to tie the tree to the sleigh he’ll use to haul it back to the cashier, who will ply our children with Christmas cookies, candy canes, and warmed cider while I peruse the wreaths on display. Eventually I’ll settle on three: one for the front gate, and two for our double-wide front door.

“Mommy, why not this one? Or this one?” Olivia loses all sense of discretion when she’s within sniffing distance of gingerbread men.

“No, sweetie. That one is not tall enough, and the other is much too bare on the back side.”

“Hey, Mom! MOM! OVER HERE!” For this task, Mickey has always had a great sense of focus that consistently leads him to the right tree. When he was younger, it frustrated him to lose to his brother. Ted’s way of mitigating it was to lead our younger son to a potential winning candidate. Now that Mickey’s developed a connoisseur’s eye, Ted no longer has to do that.

The tree Mickey has spotted for us has all the necessary criteria. Ted whistles for Tanner to trot on over with the saw, but Tanner tries for an end run. “Wait, wait . . . what about this one over here? It’s hella taller.”

Ted looks down at his cell phone for the time. “Nope, we’ve got to call it a day. Warriors and Lakers tonight, remember?”

“Wait—aren’t we going to decorate the tree when we get home?” Mickey’s look is incredulous. We all look over at Ted.

He knows he’s outnumbered. He smiles weakly. “Sure! Of course! It’s our tradition, right?”

As we head back to the cashier with our find, I give him a kiss on the cheek. He stops short in order to draw me to him and give me a real kiss, the kind that should melt away any lingering doubts about love and fidelity.

His doubts, not mine.

5:10 p.m.

“I didn’t know Margot’s big shindig was tonight.” Ted murmurs this just loudly enough for me to hear.

I wince, then nod nonchalantly. It took us so long to patch up our spat that I’ve yet to tell him about my resignation from the board. Now isn’t exactly the time, either. “Yeah. No biggie. I need a break from her anyway.”

Stupid me! I’d asked Ted to stop by the Paradise Heights Market
on our way home, and that means going by Margot’s place, which is lit up like the aurora borealis. An overflow crowd is milling around her front door.

Her Christmas party always takes place the first weekend in December, which naturally positions it as the very first party of the holiday season. This is done on purpose; in her mind, it is the equivalent of the Queen of England’s appearance at Ascot, heralding the first leg of Britain’s Slayer’s Cup.

“Huh,” he says, looking over at me after my breezy dismissal of Margot’s big night. It’s dark enough now that I’m in silhouette, so he can’t read my face. “When does your term as president kick in, anyway?”

Ah, hell. Busted.

I take a deep breath before answering. “Well, it doesn’t, exactly. I resigned from the board.”

“What?” He stops short. I can hear the tree sliding forward on top of the car. “What the hell happened?”

“Seriously, it’s no big deal! I just figured out that it takes up too much of my time.”

He lets loose with a loud guffaw and shakes his head. “What else do you have to do?”

“Just what do you mean by that?” I’m trying to keep the anger out of my voice, but I already feel as if I’m on the defensive. In the back of the car, the kids have quit their jabbering. All ears are tuned to us as they hear the rising tension in our voices.

“Look, I know you’ve got a lot happening here.” Ted, too, is aware of the little-pitchers-have-big-ears situation. “I just mean that the league has always been your—you know, your release. Something to do to catch up with your girlfriends.”

We’ve reached our driveway just in time. The kids tumble out of the car and swarm into the house for phase two of our grand adventure: decorating the tree. I work in tandem with Ted to untie the twine that holds the tree to the roof of our car. “It’s truly annoying how
cruel they can be sometimes.”

“To you?”

I gulp before answering, “No, not necessarily.”

“To him.” He stops to gauge my reaction.

“Yeah, okay. It’s the principle of the thing. I don’t like what they say about Harry.”

“You mean, about Harry and you.” He yanks the tree onto the ground, stands it up, and shakes it, too violently. Loose needles rain onto the ground. He bites his lower lip.

Damn it, here we go again. “Why should we care? Why should
you
care? Ted, whatever they think, you and I know it’s not true.”

“No, Lyssa, I don’t know.” He holds my gaze. “I want to believe you, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. What is it between you and this guy, anyway? Tell me the truth!”

“Ted, you know the truth! I would never—my God, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation!” I slam the car door shut. “Let me ask you a question, Ted. Would you, if you were me?”

“What? I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“Just answer the question. If you were in my shoes, would you be tempted to make a play for a nice guy who just so happened to be cute too?”

He gives me a strange look. “Get real. I can’t think like a woman.”

“Sure you can. You just did. That’s why you don’t trust me. So tell me: Why is that? Do you perceive I have any reason to want to be—you know, that way, with Harry?”

He knows what I mean. I can tell by the way he hesitates. “If I weren’t happy, yeah, I’d make a play for him. Or I’d fall for any play he’d make on me.”

He moves in close. “So, you want to play truth or dare? Okay, I’ve got one for you: Has he made his move yet?”

That’s just it. He hasn’t.

And that’s what hurts most.

I start to say something, but my hesitation is all Ted needs to
presume he’s right. “You’re in over your head, Lyssa. That guy is poison. Everyone but you sees it.” He lifts the tree with one hand and heads for the door. “You’re going to be his rebound lay, don’t you see it? Drop him now, before it’s too late.”