The Good House: A Novel (14 page)

She was sobbing. I was conscious of the fact that I was standing way too close to the road with an unconcealed bottle of wine, so I said, “Rebecca dear, come in the house. Turn off your car and come in the house.”

I hadn’t had company in a while. I guess in the year since rehab, I had only had a couple of close friends stop by, and Tess and Emily on the rare occasion, of course. So, when we walked into the house, I was a little self-conscious. I looked at my home, suddenly, through Rebecca’s eyes—being a broker, it’s second nature for me to do this—and I saw the solitary pair of rain boots next to the front door, the dogs’ leashes dangling above them. We passed through the living room and I wondered if it was obvious that nobody had sat in that room in over a year. In the kitchen, in a drying rack next to the sink, were a single coffee mug and a single wineglass. I just washed them out by hand each day. I rarely cooked, grabbing take-out Japanese on my way home, and I ate that on a paper plate in front of the TV in the den. Did the house look as desperately quiet and solitary as it had become? I fluttered about and turned on some lights, but when I glanced at Rebecca, I could see that she wasn’t paying any attention to my house. She was too upset. The dogs were beside themselves with delight at having a visitor. When Rebecca knelt down to pet them, even cranky Babs licked at her teary face.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked her. Then, looking at the bottle that I was clutching, I said, “A glass of wine?”

“A glass of wine would be great, Hildy. Thanks so much. I feel awful just showing up. I was just driving by when I saw you.…” She was sort of laughing through her tears, the way she had done that first day I met her, when she was all bent out of shape about the stolen foal.

So I took two glasses from my cupboard.
Two wineglasses.
A warm sense of joyful relief washed over me as I poured the wine into the two glasses. I was a person of the world again. A social drinker. Rebecca clearly had no idea that she was about to engage in something dark and forbidden with me. I handed her one of the wineglasses. I watched her put it to her lovely lips. Then we both had a long sip of our wine and Rebecca smiled at me. I smiled back and, grabbing the bottle, said, “Come into the other room. I was about to make a fire.”

Rebecca and I finished that bottle of wine and then we finished the better part of another. She kept saying, “No, really, I should go,” but holding her glass up for me to fill it at the same time. I knew Rebecca was a kindred spirit. I can often tell when I first meet a person if they have the same relationship with alcohol that I have. They can be so fragile when sober, and I saw that in Rebecca that first day up at the farm. I don’t care what alchemy the Peter Newbolds of the world are peddling these days, there’s only one cure that suits us, really.

It was when we finished the first bottle and I headed out for the second that I confessed my little Hazelden history to Rebecca. She was completely unfazed. Many of her friends from prep school and college had been to rehab. They all drank now. I blinked at her in disbelief. There were tears in my eyes. It was as if somebody had revealed to me that there was a whole race of people who were exactly like me. I wasn’t a freak. We were everywhere.

My confession, my little secret, must have given her the courage to explain what had her so upset that night. She had had a fight with Brian. They were supposed to go to Palm Beach for the weekend to visit his parents, but they’d had a doozy of a fight and it was determined that Brian would go with the boys and she’d stay home. Now he was gone. She had set out in her car to seek the solace of a friend, but the friend wasn’t home. Then, driving past my place, she had seen me in the driveway.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, filling her glass. “What’s the problem with Brian?”

Rebecca took a deep breath. Then she said, “Well, the fight was about something trivial. I criticized him about something and he lost it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, it sounds like it’s something you’ll work out.…”

“I guess,” she replied. Then she said, just a tad too soon, “Oh, by the way, I wanted to clear up something I said the other night. The night you were at my house.”

“Yes?”

“I made it sound like Peter Newbold was my psychiatrist or something. Really, I just consulted with him once or twice. He’s not my doctor.…”

Rebecca’s very bright, and if she hadn’t had so much wine, I doubt she would have let that pronouncement pop up in the middle of our discussion of her marital woes. She fed me a thought then. I recalled her delight when she’d shown me her paintings, especially the one that was of the view from Peter’s house, and also her little fib about never having been in his house. Her newfound appetite, her sudden burst of creativity—it wasn’t the medication. Rebecca was in love.

“Oh,” I said. Then, just to test the waters, I added, “I’m sure Peter’s a wonderful doctor. He’s such a nice man. I feel for him sometimes. I get the sense that he’s lonely.”

It was like feeding candy to a baby.

“Really?” Rebecca leaned forward in her chair. “In what way?”

We were seated across from each other, in front of the crackling fire in the two red leather club chairs that Scott had found in Brimfield one year. Just the way her whole body shifted toward me when I spoke his name, the way she studied my face; her eyes, now deep green in the reflected glow of the fire, searched mine with such intense longing. I suddenly had a sense of what it must have felt like to be Peter Newbold in those sessions that she was trying to deny they had shared. I could see her eyes quite clearly, it was a perfect setup for a reading, and wine always floods my spirit with mischief, so I decided to have a little go at it.

“Rebecca,” I said, “I know you’re involved with Peter. I know you’re romantically involved.”

She was completely silent, but, like I said, the fire was illuminating her face, so I saw that I was correct.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know these things.”

Rebecca smiled then and said, “I remember your ESP show at Wendy’s party. I don’t believe in any of that.”

“I don’t, either,” I said. “But, if you’ll let me, I’m going to see if I can tell you exactly what’s happened between you and Peter.”

“Well, nothing has happened, so this should be interesting,” she laughed. “What should I do? Go into some kind of trance or something?”

“No, just look at me. Don’t nod or do anything with your eyes that might give anything away. You don’t have to tell me if I’m right or wrong. You don’t ever have to tell me, if you don’t want. It’s just an experiment.”

“Sounds like fun,” Rebecca said, and then she leaned in closer and stared into my eyes. A glimmer of amusement twinkled in hers.

“I know from what you told me that you saw him a few times when you were depressed and that he gave you medication and that you improved.”

“That’s right.”

“And then you went back for a session—no, maybe a few more sessions, and you talked about your childhood. Your mother … you never felt your mother’s love. And your father was unfaithful to her and that made you feel that he was unfaithful to you, as well. They separated when you were in early adolescence.”

“Not bad. But anybody could know that from Googling my father. There’s been plenty written about him.”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe that’s how I know that stuff. So you were working this all out with Peter. You had some grief. Did your father die around the time that you were going through the adoption process with one of the boys? Ben maybe? No, it was Liam.”

Rebecca said nothing but maintained eye contact. You’d think people would be harder to read when they’re tipsy, but they’re easier because they’ve loosened their natural defenses a little. Of course, I’m not as sharp sometimes when I try to read after a few too many, but that night I found myself rather on fire with Rebecca.

“You started thinking that Peter was attractive during these sessions.”

“Well, that’s not difficult to guess. Peter is extremely attractive.”

I nodded and tried not to smile. Most people wouldn’t think that Peter Newbold was the most attractive guy around. Especially compared to Rebecca’s own Brian, who had, just the year prior, been voted one of the sexiest men in Boston by
Boston
magazine. Well, he did own the magazine. But still.

“This was late in the summer, now, and you started running into him all over town, and each time it was a bit of a shock,” I said, “like seeing a teacher outside of a classroom. It seemed like … fate. Almost like magic, the way you kept bumping into each other. There were some very strange coincidences.”

Rebecca was now intrigued. This felt to her like I was indeed seeing into her past. How did I know this very specific thing about her and Peter? This is the key. This is how my aunt made her living, how astrologers can do readings that appear to be so accurate. We’re all so alike, yet we all think we’re so unique. Most new lovers think that they’re surrounded by magical coincidences, that they keep being brought together by fate. This is new crush magical thinking. Most women do it.

“Did you start playing tennis together?” I continued.

This was an outright cheat. I had been told by my friend Lindsey Wright that Peter and Rebecca had been partners in a mixed-doubles tournament at the Anawam Beach Club, but I felt that I needed to turn up the volume a little, and it worked.

“Okay, this is just WILD,” said Rebecca. Her cheeks were flaming and she was smiling brightly. “It WAS weird how I kept running into him. There were some strange coincidences, and the strangest was when Nancy Cheever called me because they needed a fourth for a mixed-doubles game, and when I arrived, guess who my partner was?”

“I know who it was,” I said. “It was Peter.”

“Go on, go on,” Rebecca said.

“You encountered him one time that felt … electrifying. Yes. You were inside—no, wait, you were outside and you were close to your house, you were up on the rise. Were you gardening?… No, it wasn’t right at your house. You were riding Betty. Yes, you were riding Betty and you ran into Peter. He was running. He likes to run up Wendover Rise, but you didn’t know that and it felt again like fate when you encountered him.”

“Oh my God, yes. I was at the top of the hill and I could barely make out who this guy was, but as he got closer, I could see that it was Peter. When he got to the top of the hill,” Rebecca continued, “he was all out of breath, but he was completely amazed to see me. He reached out his hand to pat Betty on the neck, and I said, ‘Watch it—she’ll bite you,’ and I had to whip her head around with the rein to keep her from taking a chunk out of him. Then Betty just stood there stomping her foot and twitching her tail. You know she hates men. I really think Frank Getchell mistreated her.”

“Frank didn’t mistreat her,” I said, angrily. “Betty’s a witch.”

This made Rebecca laugh with delight.

I chuckled, too, about Betty’s wretchedness, but it did worry me that she’d said such a thing about Frank. It’s not as horsey around here as it was when I was a kid. But everybody has dogs, at least, and many people, including myself, think that animal abuse is as heinous as child abuse. You really wouldn’t want people saying that about you. Frank wouldn’t abuse any living thing.

“Go on. What else?” asked Rebecca.

“The next time you encountered each other was on the beach, in front of Peter’s house.”

“It was the following week,” she said. “I had no idea where the Newbolds’ house was, but I had driven down Wind Point Road before and knew it was a place where I could park close to a beach. So I took Harry down there and some watercolors and paper. Sometimes I use watercolors and then later make the thing an oil painting if I like it, when I get back to the studio. So I’m sitting on a piece of driftwood and painting, and I suddenly hear Peter Newbold saying, ‘Rebecca?’ We were both astounded. I was right in front of his house.”

That’s actually a private beach down there at the end of Wind Point Road. There’s a big sign that says so. Signs like this don’t register with people like Rebecca—people who come from money—and I’m sure she saw it, then strode right past.

“After that you started meeting on the beach regularly. Not every day … not every day, no, but a few times a week. You both made it seem like a coincidence the first few times, but then it got to the point that if one of you was late or missed this chance meeting, you would apologize.”

Rebecca was transfixed.

“Peter was very interested in your painting. He would ask you, if he had missed seeing you for a few days, ‘What did you paint?’ He was so interested in your art, in your desire to paint his beach, his view of the sea. He was interested in your art in a way that Brian never was.”

“Hildy, it’s true, but that’s because Peter is really an artist himself. He’s always been interested in photography, and one day he brought out some prints of photos he had taken in the evening, his favorite time on the beach, because of the light. They were so beautiful. He really loves light and color in the way that an artist does,” she said. “Did you know that about him, that he always wanted to be an artist?”

“No,” I said. “I really don’t know Peter that well.” Which wasn’t altogether true. I’d always thought I knew Peter pretty well, but now I was getting to know him a little better.

“Tell me what else,” said Rebecca. “Tell me everything else you know.”

“He wants to retire,” I announced. “He’s dying to. He’s burned-out. And his marriage has been dead for years. He wants to finish writing his book, and then travel the world.…”

Now there were tears in Rebecca’s eyes. “This is unbelievable. I know Peter’s never told anybody this but me. It’s all true.”

God. People and their romantic idiocy. Of course it was true. True for Peter and for most men having midlife affairs. Here’s the key again: Nobody wants to believe the obvious and visible reality that we are all quite the same. Most would rather believe in the invisible and the improbable—that fate is determined by the alignment of stars, that there is a spiritual entity rooting for them, for unique and wonderful them, that humans can read minds, that their destiny can be foretold and possibly altered. The simple truth is this: Most humans are very much alike. The simple and obvious truth is that there are very few variables to what a person might do, think, fear, or desire in any given situation.