Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (28 page)

So I do nothing at all but listen to errant dogs barking and the occasional car rolling down the street.

This close to him, I take note of the rhythm of his heart.

And the heat of his tears on my neck.

“She’s going to get the kids, you know.”

“Shhhhh,”
I whisper, as if he’s Mickey fretting over monsters in his closet and just hearing this from me will give him all the assurance he needs to stand free of his fear, to see things in perspective.

But he is not Mickey, and DeeDee is not a monster.

She’s just a mom, like me, who wants her kids with her always.

That’s why I can’t hate her.

I know he doesn’t either. I know he loves her.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “for being here for me.”

It is an innate reflex, one we mothers have, to brush our lips on the forehead we are comforting. I don’t realize until it’s too late that I’ve just done that to Harry.

Of course, immediately I pull away.

At first he doesn’t react. But then he does what I hope—what I fear—he’ll do:

He finds my lips in the dark.

The kiss is gentle at first. When it turns hungry, I can’t help but give in, let him probe my mouth with his tongue for a little compassion—

Then I realize what I’m doing, and it hits me that Harry may wake up tomorrow and not remember that any of this happened.

Or worse yet, he’ll wake up and hate himself even more, because it did.

And despise me too. He doesn’t need the complication.

And I don’t want us to prove Ted right.

I shove him off with both hands. He knows better than to fight me. Instead, he rises unsteadily to his feet. “You’re right! You’re right. I . . . aw, hell, I fully and completely apologize. Lyssa, I’m sorry—”

“Forget about it, please!” I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see how red my face is right now. “It’s getting late. Let’s round up your kids so I can take you home in your rental car and walk back.”

I ignore his outstretched hand to help me up because I know that, if I take it, I’ll never want to let go again.

“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.”

—Henry David Thoreau

Friday, 13 Dec., 10:24 a.m.

P
sssst!
Lyssa, it’s Colleen!” my old friend whispers frantically in my ear.

I remove the cucumber slice from one eye before addressing her. “Colleen, FYI: despite being banished from the Coven—I mean, the board—I still recognize your voice.”

Lucky, lucky me, I’ve chosen the same day and time as the Coven to get a facial at the Heights of Beauty.

Thus far everyone’s been civil; that is to say, I’ve yet to be pierced by Tammy’s, Margot’s, or Isabelle’s daggered glances.

“Oh! Good. . . . What did you say? ‘Coven’?”

Her stare has the innocence of a lamb’s. For a second I debate whether I should tell her that, outside Margot’s very exclusive clique, her cluelessness has earned her a nickname she may actually appreciate: Glinda, the Good Witch. “Nope, sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“Listen, before Margot and the others come out of their massages, I just want to say that I’m sorry, and—well, that I miss you.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Colleen. Really, I’m touched.” For someone like her, it takes guts to break ranks.

“If there’s anything you ever need, I’m here for you, Lyssa. Covertly, of course.”

I stick the cucumber back over my eye in the hope that she will take the hint.

“I mean it. That goes for Harry, too.”

I lift the slice again. “Well, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Covertly, of course.”

“You know, Lyssa, he’s the only straight man I’ve known who didn’t look right through me. Or specifically at my breasts. He actually talked to my face. It was . . . nice.”

I think about this for a moment. “Yeah, Harry keeps it real.”

“When I thought about it, I wasn’t really upset that he didn’t like my casseroles. It’s just that I wanted to endear him to me. I never felt I offered anything that was a fair trade for his friendship.”

I envision Colleen’s bland, gooey concoctions and frown. “I don’t get you.”

She puckers her lips in thought. “With Brooke he could play tennis, while Margot gave him power and connections, and Isabelle watched his back—at least, until he crossed her at the basketball game. And . . . well, you know Tammy.”

I pretend to be intrigued by my new nail color. “What about Tammy? What do you think she offered him?”

Colleen breaks into a nervous giggle, then remembers where she is and with whom, and covers her mouth. “Gee, Lyssa, how naïve can you be? I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

“Just say it, Colleen.”

“She wanted to jump his bones! Gosh, I thought everyone knew that.”

“Did she succeed?” Does she hear the waver in my voice?

“The way she turned on him, are you kidding?” She snickers. “Nah. Harry’s true blue.”

“I know. Despite all DeeDee’s done to him, he still loves her.”

“No, silly! Not to DeeDee. To
you.
”

“What?” I jerk up so fast that I’ve cracked my lavender mud mask. “But we aren’t—we haven’t—believe me, Colleen—”

“Lyssa, don’t worry! All I mean is that he’s got a crush on you. Everyone knows that.”

If my face heats up, I’ll have an avalanche of purple goop in my lap, so I try to keep cool. “But we’re just friends. It’s all very innocent—”

“Oh, I know you and Harry aren’t having some sort of lurid affair.” She looks over her shoulder, then whispers, “So please don’t think I’m the one spreading the rumors. Remember, you didn’t hear this from me. . . .”

3:30 p.m.

“What’s your favorite Christmas cookie: gingerbread, sugar, or macaroons?” Harry’s voice sounds hangover-raspy, but he’s trying to keep things casual.

Of course, he doesn’t mention last night’s kiss at all.

I wonder if he even remembers it.

Okay, I’ll play it cool, too. “You had me at gingerbread.”

“Ha! I could have guessed as much. So, what are you doing right now?”

“Folding laundry. It is the bane of my existence.”

“Temple and I would like to offer you what I’m sure you’ll agree is a more delightful alternative. How about you and Olivia coming over and making Christmas cookies with us? It’s going to be our new old tradition. Cursing our mistakes should lead to some great father-daughter bonding, don’t you agree?”

I do, totally. I love the fact that Ted, too, has created one great tradition with our kids: sports movie marathons. “It’s all about the team and the dream,” he explains to them. At the start of baseball season, they watch
The Lou Gehrig Story
and
Field of Dreams.
Of course, at the beginning of basketball season, there’s
Hoosiers, Hoop Dreams,
and
The Air Up There.
And when the football season rolls around,
there is
Brian’s Song, Remember the Titans,
and the ultimate sports movie tearjerker of them all,
Rudy.

On those nights, watching Ted and the kids snuggle on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn, I realize we are Ted’s team.

We are Ted’s dream.

I’m so happy for Harry that he is creating this for his own family.

Even if Harry and Temple’s cookies come out like cardboard, the effort will have been worth it. My laughter tells him so. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. Maybe the cookies will actually be good. But today may not be good for me. I have to pick Mickey up from soccer practice by four-thirty—”

“Oh, heck, the cookies will be long-burnt by then, along with the rest of the house—unless you come on over and save us from ourselves. What do you say?”

Of course I say yes.

There’s a lot about Harry I find hard to refuse.

By the time we get there, Harry has already placed all the ingredients and a large mixing bowl on his kitchen’s marble-topped island. I’ve brought with us some things I know Harry and Temple will appreciate: a rolling pin and a box filled with cookie cutters shaped like men in various poses. Immediately the girls take turns divvying them up.

“Wow! Sharing! I hate to admit it, but there’s a concept I rarely see in practice in the Harper household.” I shake my head in wonder.

“Hey, join the club. I guess the boys need to go back to Miss Judith’s for refresher classes.”

The girls are in charge of adding ingredients. Soon the flour, sugar, and baking powder have been sifted together, then cut with Crisco and molasses. Harry divides this bounty into two large balls of cookie dough and places one in front of each of our girls. I watch Olivia as she carefully rolls out her dough, pushing out from the middle, like I’ve taught her.

Temple is watching too, fascinated. “Daddy, is this how they do it
at the store?”

“No, sweetheart. They buy their cookies from a bakery, then sell them to us.”

This gives her pause. “Maybe that can be your new job, Daddy! Making pretty cookies for the store.”

Harry’s game face slips for just a moment before he catches himself. “That’s a thought. But don’t you worry about Daddy. He has lots of irons in the fire.”

We make small talk as our daughters line their baking trays with ginger people. When they are done, they run off to play in the den until the cookies have finished baking and have cooled enough to be embellished with generous squirts of colored icing.

There is something soothing about the aroma of spice and molasses. Even Harry now feels comfortable enough to ask the one question I’d hoped he’d never broach:

“When are you going to listen to Ted and dump me?”

“Why should I? Just because he’s jealous? I have a right to choose my own friends.” So that I won’t have to face him, I busy myself cleaning up the baking paraphernalia.

It’s certainly much easier than tidying up the mess I’ve made of my life.

“If I were him, I’d be jealous too.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d know better. You’re more trusting.”

“If I ‘knew better,’ I wouldn’t be going through a divorce right now. Before DeeDee fell in love with someone else, she had to fall out of love with me.”

“Not necessarily.” That just slips out.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well . . . she may not have been in love with you in the first place.”

I wasn’t with Ted.

The weight of this theory staggers Harry to the point that he sits
down hard on one of the plush barstools that butt up against the island. “That’s cruel. Lyssa. Wow. Why would you say something like that?”

I could put his mind at ease and explain that I’m talking about myself, but I don’t, because he’s the one in mourning, not me. His marriage is dead, not mine.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“It happens a lot. You know, people marrying for the wrong reasons.” I take the dish towel I’ve been knotting through my fingers and fold it into a little square, just so that I don’t have to look him in the eye. “They do it because it’s the safest bet. But I guess that’s better than falling out of love.”

“You’ll never have to worry about that. Ted is still very much in love with you.”

I laugh at that. I mean, really, what am I supposed to say to him? That Ted only loves me when other men threaten his hold on me? That I didn’t find out until it was too late that Ted never loved me to begin with?

That I’d never have married him had I known this?

DeeDee would certainly understand. She told me so herself.

Okay, not me exactly, but her Nordstrom shopgirl.

But Harry would never understand that, not in a million years.

Because he still loves DeeDee, despite the fact that she left him. He won’t admit it to himself, let alone to me, but he wears his wedding ring in the hope that the last couple of months have all been just a bad dream—

For the first time, I notice Harry isn’t wearing his wedding ring.

Harry’s eyes seek out mine, as if he might find the answer to DeeDee’s desertion there after all.

Okay, Harry, if you really want to know the truth, here it is—

But DeeDee’s confession-by-proxy will have to wait, because Harry’s cell is moaning. “Aw, hell, it’s Edwin.” As he flips it open, he turns his back to me. “Yes? . . . WHAT? Today? . . . Well, why didn’t
your office call to tell me? Who . . . JAKE?”

He rushes to the refrigerator and scans the pieces of paper stuck behind the multitude of magnets there. “No, he left me no note. Look, stall as long as you can. I’ll leave right now.”

He slams down his phone and grabs his coat from the hook. “They’re in court now. One of my asshole partners let on to Bethany about my dismissal. She got the hearing moved up to this afternoon by telling the judge that my erratic behavior is stressing out the kids ‘in the same way it stressed DeeDee.’ They’re making an end run on the kids, the house—”

“Go! Go
on
! I’ll be here with the kids. Just GO!”

He hauls out through the house, to the front door. He doesn’t even bother to shut it on the way out.

I follow and watch him peel down the street.

“Mommy! The cookies are burning!” Olivia is screeching at the top of her lungs.

I rush back to the kitchen and pull the hot tray out of the oven. The girls stare at their handiwork. Temple reaches for one of them, but Olivia slaps her hand back. She knows better. If you reach out to these sad, hard men, you may get burned.

She is smarter than her mother.

“Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo,
but what you want is someone who will take the
bus with you when the limo breaks down.”

—Oprah Winfrey

8:30 p.m.

I say you sue everybody! Your ex, your partners, even your damn lawyer. Hit me again, Cal.” Pete is all talk. That’s because it’s poker night, and he’s feeling flush.

And that’s only because I’m letting him win.

Because he’s still too stunned from his court appearance this afternoon, Harry is sitting this one out. To busy himself, he’s been doling out plates of the leftover meat loaf. “Ground turkey. Eat up! Bought fifty pounds of the stuff at Costco for next to nothing, and I’m not leaving any of it in the freezer for DeeDee. She can buy her own damn ground turkey.”