Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
Isn’t our house good enough?
the husband had asked as Savannah considered the dated family photos in ugly gold frames lining the wall above the staircase banister. She’d turned to him with a smile, mentally accepting the fact that the portraits of their bucktoothed, turtleneck-wearing kids would stay.
“Of course it is,” she’d said.
She hadn’t been lying. But couldn’t they see that good enough wouldn’t cut it—that a little extra effort could mean the difference between a sale and a future spent languishing on the market?
She had an innate sense of how far she could push clients, and she knew it was time to let it go. But she began to question her decision as she saw her potential buyers notice the peeling edges of the wallpaper, the wife’s manicured fingernail tracing a seam like it was a scar.
“What year was it built?” the husband asked. His potbelly strained against his blue golf shirt, and he rubbed it like he was trying to conjure good luck from a Buddha. He was probably hungry. Damn. She should’ve gone with freshly baked cookies instead of a scented candle.
“Nineteen eighty-five,” Savannah said.
Smile,
she reminded
herself, making sure to include the wife in her gaze. When Savannah had first opened the door, the wife had looked her up and down, then reached for her husband’s arm. Wives tended to react that way to Savannah.
“Needs a little work,” the husband—Don? Dan? Did it matter?—said. “If you tore down this wall, opened up the kitchen . . . maybe bumped it out in back.”
His wife yawned. She’d said they had young twin daughters; no way would they want to take on the hassle of a renovation along with a move. It all boiled down to maintenance, Savannah had learned. Forget houses with character and potential and quirky charm—people were too busy these days to act on a romantic fantasy of buying a fixer-upper. They wanted something pretty and pleasing, with no major flaws.
“Honey, we’ve got that other place to look at,” the wife said.
“Would you like to leave your e-mail address so I can keep you apprised of new homes that come on the market?” Savannah offered.
“That’s okay,” the wife said, and ten seconds later, they were gone.
Savannah closed the door behind them and leaned back against it, rolling her head in circles to get the kinks out of her neck as she kicked off her three-inch heels. She’d woken up too early this morning, again. She’d known it the instant she saw the weak gray light seeping in around the edges of the window blinds, and the anxiety that gripped her had immediately chased away the possibility of falling back asleep.
For the first thirty-five years of her life, she’d been a world-class sleeper. Nine, ten—even eleven a.m. on the weekends was her routine. On the rare occasions when she did wake early, she’d roll over and spoon against her husband, Gary’s back, soaking in his warmth, until she dozed again.
But for the past two months, their queen-size bed had seemed too big, and the sheets were always cold against her skin.
At some point Savannah would come face-to-face with her husband again to sign divorce papers. Gary had indicated he wouldn’t balk at a fair division of their assets, which surprised her, given how few scruples he’d shown recently. But apparently the selective memory that had caused him to forget the fact that he wore a wedding ring had kicked back in, because he hadn’t objected when Savannah’s lawyer demanded compensation for the years Savannah had spent supporting Gary. She’d been so proud when he could officially add the initials “M.D.” after his name, feeling as though it was their shared triumph. How ironic that an anesthesiologist had caused her the most pain she’d ever felt in her entire life.
But at least she’d be able to keep their pretty home, with its wide front porch and soaking bathtub and kitchen skylights on an eighth-acre of land in Charlotte, North Carolina. Gary would pay monthly alimony that would cover half the mortgage payment plus a thousand for expenses, just as he’d been doing ever since he’d cleared out his closet, packed up the expensive electronics, and taken the barbells he almost never used. She thought of those thousand-dollar checks as her screw-you money. She never spent them on car repairs or the electricity bill. Instead, she treated herself to massages and yoga classes, lacy push-up bras and pedicures, and an injection of Botox for the frown lines that had deepened since she stumbled across those messages on Gary’s BlackBerry.
So she tore through his money, watching her hair become glossier, her clothes nicer, her body fitter. It didn’t help as much as she’d thought it would. Still, Savannah knew she’d never looked better. She’d always been striking, with her hourglass shape and long, wavy hair with streaks of red and gold, and the
sort of full lips most women had to purchase from plastic surgeons. But she’d lost ten pounds after the separation—adultery accomplishing what the Atkins diet and regular kickboxing sessions couldn’t—and now her stomach was almost completely flat, and her already strong jawline seemed more pronounced.
Savannah walked into the living room and flopped down on a couch—upholstered in a client-repelling old-lady floral, of course—and pulled her laptop out of her shoulder bag. She’d kill time until the doorbell rang again by buying flannel sheets online, then she needed to book an eyebrow and bikini-line waxing.
She also had to make a decision about Dwight’s invitation.
Dwight,
she thought, as a smile played on her lips. He was such an adorable geek. She was pretty sure he’d had a crush on her in college, since he’d been pathetically eager to help her through her math classes, but she’d never minded the attention. What was the harm in teasing him a little, in leaning over the table to let him glimpse her cleavage, in gently raking her fingernails through his hair as he turned bright red and tried to keep his mind on his stuttered explanations of variables and exponents? She was just giving him a little ammunition for his nocturnal fantasies; it was a form of charity, like dropping a few dollars into the church collection basket.
They’d all known Dwight would become a millionaire—that was as clear as the fact that Tina and Gio would get married right out of college, and that Allie would find the perfect husband, produce two perfect kids, and stay as perfectly adorable as she’d been her freshman year. Savannah wondered if the others had seen her own future as clearly as she’d predicted theirs. Was it obvious that Gary was a user, that he’d unimaginatively dump Savannah for a young, blond nurse, trading up as so many of her real estate clients did?
Savannah had never truly cheated on Gary, but not for the lack of opportunity. She’d flirted with plenty of guys, though, and even kissed a few. But it never went any further than a few hot moments in the darkened basement at a party while everyone else chatted upstairs, or a lingering glance with a stranger at a bar that led to a quick tryst in the hallway outside the bathroom . . . What was the harm in a few kisses, a quick pressing up against an intoxicatingly new man? Flirting made her feel sexy, and when she came home, lifting the covers and whispering, “Wake up, honey,” while she ran a finger under the waistband of Gary’s pajama bottoms, she knew he was the one benefiting from it.
If Gary wanted to have a bit of fun with The Nurse, Savannah would’ve been furious, but she would’ve understood on some level. Guys were like farmers; they felt the need to spread around their seed. She would’ve made Gary sleep on the couch for a few weeks. But then she would have put on his favorite garter belt and black, silky stockings, and strolled into the den to invite him back into their bed. Her message would have been clear: This was what he’d miss if he strayed again.
But Gary hadn’t apologized when she confronted him. He didn’t beg for her forgiveness, or send roses. Instead, he moved in with The Nurse—who wasn’t even that pretty! But she was young; Savannah would give her that. Try to hold on to him for another ten years, though, sweetheart, she thought as she felt her eyes narrow. In another decade, Gary would be richer and more established and he’d still look good. He was tall and lean, and his hair was just starting to turn silver around the temples, which suited him. But The Nurse wouldn’t fare so well; she had the sort of thin, pale skin that would wrinkle quickly and severely, and her pear-shaped figure—which no doubt had been the catalyst for their relationship,
since Gary was an ass man—would eventually lose its battle against gravity.
Savannah wondered if The Nurse wanted kids. Savannah most definitely didn’t; it didn’t even feel like a choice. It was more of a . . .
certainty,
like the fact that she had blue eyes and was highly allergic to shrimp. Gary hadn’t wanted kids, either—at least, the Gary she’d once known hadn’t. He was a stranger now, this man who hummed every time he shaved, who pretended he didn’t read her
People
magazines in the bathroom, who had naturally broad shoulders that she used to love resting her head against.
Savannah forced away the memories and began to search the Internet for new sheets. She was considering a chocolate brown set trimmed in hot pink satin when an e-mail popped into her in-box. Allie.
Have you gotten any special deliveries recently?
Savannah typed back:
Yes, my new vibrator arrived this week. How did you know?
She grinned as she hit Send. Allie was such a good girl; Savannah could almost hear her squeal.
Ha ha!
The messenger came yesterday,
Savannah typed.
Unbelievable!
Are you guys coming? Can Gary get off work?
Savannah’s fingers paused over the keyboard. It would’ve been better if the invitation had come last year, when she and Gary were still together. Or next year, when Savannah could show up with a suitcase full of bikinis and a hot new boyfriend. She’d told her friends in North Carolina, but no one in the group from college knew because for some reason, saying the words—
I’m separated
—seemed almost as hard as actually going through a separation.
Screw it, she thought as she exhaled loudly. She’d pick up a new sarong and get a spray tan with Gary’s next check, and
she’d go to Jamaica. She’d dance barefoot to steel drum music on the beach and take a few windsurfing lessons, and fool around with the instructor, if he was as hot as Savannah imagined a windsurfing instructor was constitutionally required to be. She’d even give Dwight a few free glimpses of cleavage, for old times’ sake.
Wouldn’t miss it,
Savannah typed.
She couldn’t tell Allie about the looming divorce, not now. Allie would immediately phone, asking sympathetic questions in her gentle social worker’s voice, and Savannah would probably do something ridiculous, like burst into tears. And then a good prospect would walk in the door and size everything up—ugly picture frames, bucktoothed children, peeling wallpaper, sobbing real estate agent—and flee.
She’d call Allie later, when she had a glass of good scotch in hand—the expensive, aged scotch Gary splurged on and adored, which Savannah had relocated to under the sink on his moving day.
Yippee!
Allie wrote back.
Savannah could almost see her leaping into the air like the high school cheerleader she’d been. Savannah pictured Allie with her reddish brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her big blue eyes bright, her perfect teeth displayed in a big smile. Since Allie went running almost every day, she’d probably be wearing spandex—but nothing too tight or revealing, which was a shame, because Allie had a cute little body, even if she was flat-chested. Why not show it off while she still could? For that matter, why not just buy a set of better boobs?
I can’t wait!
Allie wrote.
Hugs!
Savannah smiled. Allie’s relentless optimism could grate at times, but maybe it would be contagious on this trip, and Savannah could use a little infusion of joy. Sure, it might feel odd to be the only single one, but Savannah had always felt comfortable
around Gio and Ryan. She’d kicked back with them on the couch many times, shouting orders at the football players on TV and drinking Sam Adams from the bottle, leaving Allie and Tina to gossip in the kitchen. In fact,
Gary
was the one who hadn’t fit in with them; he had no interest in sports.
See you soon, babe,
Savannah typed.
She needed to get used to doing things alone. She needed to feel desirable again. This trip would be a good start.
* * *
You could divide the ten women sitting around the big rectangular table into two equal-size groups, Pauline mused as she reached for the silver coffee service and freshened her cup of French roast.
Group A was composed of the high achievers: the well-connected women who brokered seven- and eight-figure deals and jetted to Tokyo for a day. They wore plain business suits and expensive watches, had short hair—Pauline imagined their schedules were too busy to accommodate blowouts—and frowned while their fingers flew across their BlackBerrys.
Then there was Group B, the ones like her. The spouses.
Pauline had already figured out that the high achievers had joined the board of Children’s Hospital to balance the gritty realities of their day jobs, during which they screwed over employees and fattened the bottom lines of environment-polluting companies. They could tell themselves that they were doing some good—plus, it was a networking opportunity.
The spouses, on the other hand, did it to fill time, because the alternative was to shop, or take another exercise class, or look around for a room to redecorate.
The pot of coffee felt light in Pauline’s hand, and as if he’d sensed her thoughts, Caleb, the house manager, turned to look
at her. She glanced pointedly at the server, and he came over, relieved her of it, and replaced it with a fresh one.
“Anything else, Ms. Glass?” he whispered.
She shook her head, and he stepped back, his movements so smooth and discreet that he seemingly melted away.
Pauline hid a small, satisfied smile. Soon after she and Dwight had gotten married, eighteen months earlier, they’d moved into a home with a library big enough to seat twenty people. She oversaw a staff composed of Caleb, a maid, a gardener, and a part-time driver. Their two-story garage held five cars, including a classic Karmann Ghia, as well as Dwight’s collection of vintage arcade games.