Chương 8
Eric stood.
“Stop interrogating me like I’m one of your contractors.”
“You preferred it when I was your wife?”
“I prefer when you speak to me like a human being.”
I stared at him.
He looked ashamed almost immediately.
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out exactly as you said it.”
“I’m angry.”
“At me.”
“At everyone.”
“You hit Paul.”
“Yes.”
“Did that help?”
“No.”
“Then try not to hit anyone else.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
“That answer is too cheap.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth without making me request each piece.”
He looked toward the window.
Outside, a neighbor’s lawn service moved slowly along the street. The mower rose and fell in volume as it passed behind the houses.
Eric sat again.
“Natalie kissed me first,” he said.
I waited.
“It was after your father’s birthday dinner. We were in the library. She said I looked miserable.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of us.”
I folded my arms.
“She asked whether I ever got tired of being careful around you.”
“What did that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew enough to answer.”
“I said yes.”
The lawn mower stopped.
Eric looked down at his wedding ring.
“She said you made people feel weak for needing things.”
I felt the statement in my throat.
“Do I?”
“Sometimes.”
There were honest answers that freed people and honest answers that simply arrived too late to be useful.
I sat in the chair beside the dresser.
“Go on.”
“She said I deserved to be wanted without having to earn it.”
“And you believed her.”
“I wanted to.”
“Did you sleep with her that night?”
“No. We kissed. Your mother walked in.”
I thought of Mother standing in the powder room with blood on the tissue.
“What happened next?”
“I told Natalie it couldn’t happen again.”
“But it did.”
“Three weeks later.”
“At the hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Whose idea?”
“Mine.”
That answer cost him something. I could see it.
“Why?”
“I had spent three weeks thinking about it.”
“You understand that doesn’t improve it.”
“I’m not trying to improve it.”
“Keep going.”
He described the affair without unnecessary detail. There were lunches I had believed were client meetings, two evenings he said he was at the gym, the weekend at Paul’s lake house. After each encounter, he told Natalie it had to stop. After each declaration, she withdrew, and he returned when her silence felt like rejection.
In June, she told him she was pregnant.
“She said the timing was right,” he said. “She said there was no one else.”
“And you believed her.”
“I wanted the baby to be mine.”
The sentence entered the room and changed its temperature.
I looked at the embryo photograph in my lap.
Eric followed my gaze.
His mouth tightened.
“Mara.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not yet.”
“I never wanted to hurt you about that.”
“But you wanted her baby.”
He did not answer.
The silence was answer enough.
I slid the embryo photograph back into its envelope.
“I need you to leave the room while I pack.”
“This is your house.”
“I know.”
“You should stay.”
“I’m going to my parents’ guest cottage.”
His head lifted. “Why there?”
“Because it’s empty.”
“Your mother knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going there?”
“I’m not asking her permission.”
“You could stay here. I’ll get a hotel.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
His expression folded inward.
“Is there any chance—”
“Do not ask me that today.”
“When can I?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need something.”
“That has been the theme.”
He looked as if I had slapped him.
For a moment, satisfaction moved through me.
It was ugly and immediate.
Then it was gone, leaving shame behind.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He stared.
“I’m not apologizing for leaving. I’m apologizing for using the worst thing I could find because I wanted to hurt you.”
“You’re allowed.”
“No. I’m capable. That isn’t the same.”
He removed his wedding ring.
My breath stopped.
He placed it on the dresser beside the fertility clinic envelope.
“I don’t know what else to do with it.”
“Put it back on.”
He looked at me.
“Until we decide, you are still married.”
He slid the ring onto his finger.
I finished packing.
The guest cottage stood behind my parents’ mansion, beyond a row of boxwoods and an old stone wall. My grandmother had lived there during the last three years of her life, though she insisted on calling it the little house as if naming it smaller made her less dependent.
Father had stocked the refrigerator before I arrived.
There was milk, bread, eggs, cheese, blueberries, and three bottles of tonic water. He had also left a package of coffee filters that did not fit the coffee maker.
I found him outside attempting to force one into the basket.
“These are too big,” I said.
“I can see that.”
“You’re folding it like a napkin.”
“It’s paper.”
“That isn’t how filters work.”
“Your grandmother used these.”
“She had a different machine.”
He looked offended by the machine rather than his memory.
I found a box of the correct filters in the cabinet.
Father watched me make coffee.
“You always liked it too strong.”
“You always make it too weak.”
“Your mother says strong coffee is bad for your stomach.”
“Mother says cold water is bad for your stomach.”
“She may be right about that.”
I poured two cups.
We sat at the small kitchen table.
Father had changed from his reception suit into khakis and an old university sweatshirt. His fingers remained tense around the cup.
“Linda stayed here last night,” he said.
“Where?”
“In the main house. Your mother gave her the blue room.”
“Where did Paul go?”
“Hotel.”
“Did he speak to Linda?”
“He tried. She locked the door.”
I stirred my coffee though I had not added anything.
May you like
“How is she?”
“She asked me whether everyone knew except her.”
