“I heard from the children today,” I say, because hearing from Ansley and Ethan, now in their mid-twenties and working in different cities, is always a treat and because I’m determined not to pick a fight before Nate leaves town.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Ethan thought the interview for the new sales position went really well.”
“Like father, like son.” He nods approvingly as he tucks the last few items into his suitcase.
“And Ansley and Hannah have picked a date over Labor Day weekend.”
Nate’s shoulders stiffen, but he makes no comment. I’m happy that our daughter has found someone to love and share her life with. Nate can’t quite accept that Ansley is in love with and wants to marry a woman.
I’m proud of both our kids. Thrilled that they’re happy in the paths they’ve chosen. That’s a parent’s job, isn’t it? To help prepare their children to stand on their own two feet. Wherever those feet lead them.
It’s not their fault that that independence has left me in the cheering section of their lives without a game of my own.
“Are we ready for the McCall dinner on the Thursday after I get back?” He zips the suitcase and lifts it from the bed. “And the cocktail reception at the club?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You’re the best, Jude,” he says as he turns and walks toward me to drop a kiss on the top of my head. A friendly pat on the back follows. The kind you might give a teammate. Or the family dog. “I can’t imagine how I’d survive without you.”
I follow him to the foyer, my smile frozen at the compliment that still somehow manages to be all about him. As he glances out the double glass doors to the black car waiting in the driveway, I swallow back the hurt and anger.
Nate is going to Europe where he’ll be on the run, surrounded by people, and fully occupied doing business while I . . . another swallow of unpleasant reality . . . I’ll be filling my time with tennis and yoga and lunch with friends. Extra volunteer shifts. Unneeded mani-pedis. Finishing the book we’ll be discussing at our January book club.
“Well, then.” I swallow one last time. “Have a good trip.”
“Thanks.” He gives me a peck on the cheek and reaches for the doorknob. But then he hesitates.
“You know what?” He turns, and my heart picks up a beat. Maybe he’s going to come back and give me a real kiss. Or maybe he’s going to tell me to throw some things in a suitcase and come with him—because there are plenty of shops in Paris and Rome. Or perhaps he’ll invite me to join him when the meetings are over so that we can have a few days together.
“What?” Hope surges in my veins as I look into the eyes that used to spark with love and adoration.
“I have dinners every night, and the time difference is always a pain. So, I’ll just text you in the mornings to organize a convenient time to speak, okay?”
My mini fantasy, and the hope it fueled, evaporates.
“Yes. Of course.” I smooth my face into a pleasant, unperturbed mask even as I wonder if he’s expecting some sort of thank-you for fitting me in to his day. “Whatever works best for you.”
The sarcasm flies right over his head as he walks through the door, eager to go forth and conquer. While I remain behind. Like a faithful hound you leave off at the kennel on your way out of town.
* * *
• • •
After Nate leaves, I drink a couple glasses of wine to smooth out the angry edges, then watch HGTV reruns until it’s late enough to get in bed without feeling completely pathetic. There I sit up watching The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, then Late Night with Seth Meyers, mostly so that the house doesn’t feel so big and quiet and because I’m angry in a way that’s new and unfamiliar and that keeps me from falling into a real sleep.
Tired and grumpy, I down a first cup of coffee in the silent kitchen the next morning, then carry a second into the bathroom, where I shower in an effort to wake all the way up. Wiping steam off the mirror, I stare at my reflection and wish someone would hurry up and invent a way to apply makeup with your eyes closed. I actually google this, but so far no one appears to have attempted it. I am left to dry my hair and trowel on the makeup with my eyes wide open.
I putter around the house until it’s finally time to dress for my early lunch at Rumi’s Kitchen with Meena, but no matter how many times I check, the only message from Nate is a brief text announcing his safe arrival. There’s nothing from the kids, either, though I don’t necessarily expect daily communication. I have discovered that sometimes no news is the very best news of all. But this does not apply to husbands.
I’m the first to arrive at Rumi’s, which is named after a thirteenth-century Persian poet, and I’m shown to a table for two in the center of the rapidly filling restaurant. I’m sitting down when Meena, who has a tendency for tardiness, texts that she’s almost there.
Meena and Stan and Nate and I used to hang out together. We moved into the neighborhood around the same time and had children who were about the same age. Stan and Nate played golf together. Meena and I carpooled, made a fair doubles team in tennis, and often drove to book club together. The kids were in and out of our houses. Not long after we became empty nesters, Stan and Meena downsized to a two-thousand-square-foot condo in a Buckhead high-rise. We stayed put.
It turns out it’s hard to hide from each other and each other’s annoying habits in that kind of square footage. (Which is undoubtedly why even the least-expensive homes in the Atlanta suburbs are so massive.)
They separated just over a year ago. Stan and Nate still play golf. Meena and I still get together, and see each other at book club, but she’s become a little less available now that Stan is out of the picture. They’re not the subject of gossip they were when news of their split surfaced, but it’s generally assumed that although Stan was always a bit of a jerk and a cheater, Meena, now single in her fifties, must be miserable.
This is the first time we’ll be together since their divorce became final two and a half months ago. I’m braced for anger and/or unhappiness and prepared to offer sympathy. A bottle of pinot noir sits open and breathing on the table, and I’ve instructed the hostess that the bill is to come to me. But when Meena arrives, there is nothing pitiful about her.
“Wow! You . . . you look great!”
“Thanks.” Her smile takes up most of her face. “I feel great.”
I study her. She’s lost weight and her face is . . . it’s not just the smile.
Meena laughs. “You’re trying to figure out if I’ve had something done.”
“Maybe.”
Another laugh. “I may have had a little tightening around the eyes. A filler or two.”