If You Only Knew Page 20

  "Exactly," he says.

  I look at him. "So you would rather give me a back rub and take over making dinner a few nights a week, and clean the bathrooms on the weekend, because it'll make you feel more important, and therefore you won't be tempted to sleep with other women?"

  His eyes flicker. "Yes," he lies.

  "Let him be more a part of your world. You don't have to be perfect, Rachel," Laney says.

  That's news to me.

  "Our time is up, but I think we're moving forward," Laney says. "See you next week."

  We get into the car without speaking and head through town, past the old folks' home and the park.

  "Why don't we go out for a drink?" Adam says as we're paused at a stop sign. His voice is tense, but I know he's trying.

  "Sure," I say, because Laney has said to be open to moments of intimacy, and not just sexual intimacy. Plus, I have to show that I'm trying, too.

  "Want to go to Storm King?"

  "Sure." I've never been there; it's for the new breed of Cambry-on-Hudson residents, the hipsters and artists and young PhD students from the university, still straddling the line between adulthood and perpetual student.

  Inside, it's sleek and dark, white leather chairs at glass tables, the bar backlit with blue light. And suddenly, it seems fun. Jenny is babysitting; I text her that we'll be later than we thought, and she texts back, No hurry! We're having a blast. I appreciate the good cheer, because I know she hates Adam these days. I appreciate that, too...the solidarity.

  "Feels like we're playing hooky," Adam says, and though I never did that before, I know what he means.

  Instead of ordering my usual boring white wine, I ask for a dirty martini, very dry, three olives.

  Adam raises an eyebrow. "Same for me," he says. We don't talk, just look around until the waiter brings our drinks. I take a big sip. Dear God, it's disgusting. But I smile at Adam. "Let's not talk about the Situation," I say, which has become our code word for his affair. "And let's not talk about the girls."

  "Deal," he says, offering his hand, and I shake it and laugh. Then I lick my upper lip as if savoring the paint thinner I've just swallowed.

  "I had a dream the other night," Adam says, his eyes on my mouth. "I'm not sure if I should tell you about it, though."

  "Go ahead," I say, taking another swallow of martini.

  "Well...I dreamed I was alone. I wasn't sure if you were away, or if we were divorced, but it was just me and the girls, and as the dream went on, I realized that you weren't coming back. At first I thought you left me. Then I realized it was because you...died."

  He waits for my reaction. "I have those dreams about you all the time," I tell him. "Daydreams, I call them." And I laugh, and Adam gives me a bemused look, then laughs, too.

  "No, you don't," he says.

  "No, I do," I say. "I'm always checking to make sure your life insurance is paid up, because I'm going to be really comfortable. It's all very tragic and noble, because you'll die a horrible death. Also, I might get highlights, go a little blonder." I laugh, quite entertained by this person who speaks her mind in so entertaining a fashion.

  "Jesus, listen to you," he says, but he's laughing, too. "Do you get remarried in this happy fantasy?"

  "I do," I say. "He's wonderful. A firefighter, I think. Very brawny, with a tattoo on one shoulder."

  "Shit. I guess the selfless thing for me to do here is sleep on the train tracks tonight."

  "I'd appreciate that. I'll make sure the girls remember you. Fondly."

  And we're flirting. I don't know how it happens, but we're flirting, and God, he's so attractive, so handsome and sexy, and yes, there are women in the bar looking at him, but he doesn't look away from me, and I suddenly feel like I can do this, I can get past his indiscretion. People get through these things. Our marriage can be better because of it. I'm not so naive anymore. I'm a woman of the world; I'm very European--sure, my husband had an affair, but it's so last month. And soon it will be so last year, and then last decade, and we'll barely remember it, except, ironically, almost as a joke. Remember when you cheated on me? With what's-her-name? and Adam will say, Yeah, my head was really up my ass, wasn't it?

  We don't wait to get home. We do it in the backseat of the car, and it's dirty and fast and amazing, as if we're twenty years old. I come before he even gets his pants down, and I come again when he shoves into me, and the smell of his neck, the sounds he makes are so familiar and wonderful; they're a part of my life, and I don't want to give him away. I want us back. I'll get us back.

  Adam wants porno sex, and he's getting it, by God.

  *

  For the next few days, I feel a little smug. It's easier to be happy, and while I'm not my old self, I'm not a bitter, hateful shrew, either.

  I try to put this into words when I'm on the phone with Jenny during the girls' nap time. I'm baking oatmeal raisin cookies, Charlotte's favorite for this week. The girls just finished the Snickerdoodles--Grace's favorite--and next week, I'll go back to chocolate chip for Rose. Oatmeal is my favorite, too, and if there's a smell for love, it's warm oatmeal raisin cookies. Or the girls' heads when they first wake up from naps.

  Or Adam in the morning, slightly salty and sweaty mixed with the smell of sun and fresh air from our line-dried sheets.

  "I guess we turned a corner," I tell my sister.

  "So you're sleeping together again?"

  I feel my cheeks warm. We're fucking, is what we're doing. "Mmm-hmm."

  "Condoms still?"

  "Jenny! Can you give us a break, please?" The residual shame of that doctor's visit makes my stomach curl, and Jenny's reminder makes me both mortified and furious.

  But yes. Just in case.

  I add the raisins to the batter and stir them in. Jenny is still quiet.

  She does this sometimes, just slips under like a submarine diving, following urgent orders for a top secret mission. Whatever she's about to say will be momentous, if it follows her pattern.

  "You ever wonder about Mom and Dad?" she asks quietly.

  "Wonder what?"

  Another pause. "If their marriage was as good as Mom says."

  I frown. "Jenny, we were there. It was good. They were so happy. Why would you even ask that?"

  "It just seems a little too perfect when Mom talks about it."

  "Well, first of all, it was pretty goddamned perfect." New Rachel, who fucks her husband, also swears with great relish. "And secondly, so what if she embellishes the past? That's all she has."

  "She could have the present."

  It's a familiar refrain. Jenny can be too judgmental. I can't count how many times she's told our mother to take a class, a trip, volunteer, get a job. I used to worry about what she'd think of me being a stay-at-home mom, but she's only ever told me how much she admires me for it. She's always seemed sincere.

  "Mom's doing the best she can," I say. "Cut her some slack, Jenny. Her husband was killed in his prime."

  "Twenty-two years ago."

  "I know how long it's been." There's an edge in my voice. New Rachel is allowed to have an edge.

  "Of course you do. I'm sorry. What did the girls do today?"

  "We had Mommy and Me swimming. Rose finally went underwater for real."

  "Hooray! I'll call her later and congratulate her, okay?"

  "You bet. I have to go. Cookies to bake, laundry to fold."

  "Okay, Martha Stewart. Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  I realize the question about the girls was a peace offering. Jenny does adore them, that's for sure.

  My mind goes back to Mommy and Me swimming today. Elle complimented me on my weight loss and asked me which diet I was on. Acid stomach, I wanted to say. You should try it. I can introduce your husband to Emmanuelle if you want.

  Still, the sight of my hip bones is strangely pleasing to me. And to Adam, who bit one last night when we were fucking.

  A sudden wave of grief rocks me on my feet, a hard, fast rogue
wave.

  And then I hear the girls stir over the monitor, and I'm so glad they're awake I run up the stairs.

  *

  A few days later, Jared calls and asks if I can have lunch with him. I arrange for Donna to pick up the girls from nursery school--Mom would, she said wearily when I asked her first, but she hates driving with the girls and can never figure out the car seats, and what if something happened? She is both jealous of Donna and grateful for her.

  I leave the minivan with Donna and take Adam's fortieth birthday present to himself, a two-seat convertible Jaguar--red, of course. We take it on date nights and to country-club functions. I've never driven it, and I don't ask permission to take it today. What's mine is yours, after all.

  I remember the joke someone made at Adam's fortieth--better a sports car than a mistress, ha ha ha.

  New Rachel looks past that. New Rachel doesn't bother telling Adam she's going out to lunch with a male friend.

  It takes me a minute to figure out how to start the car, but I manage. It's a gorgeous May day, and with the top down, I can smell the lilacs and apple blossoms. The minivan smells like apple juice and Goldfish crackers--eau de maternite. At least it no longer smells of vomit. Adam took the car to be detailed after the girls exploded that day.

  I never did tell him about Gus and how he rescued me.

  The truth is, I love having a secret from Adam. Gus and his smiling eyes are hardly Emmanuelle's vagina, but the memory of him is comforting and a tiny bit thrilling.

  My hair whips around, so I shove my sunglasses on my head to keep the strands out of my face. Very New Rachel of me, driving the Jag. I pass Bliss, whose windows glow with the beauty of my sister's work. The latest display dress is a blush ball gown covered in tiny sparkles, and it looks as though it could float away, it's so light and airy.

  The shop is the jewel of the downtown shopping district, the newspaper article said, and at the time, I felt a pang of jealousy. My sister's been here for a month, and already people are flocking to Bliss, standing in front of the windows. Rumor at Mommy and Me said that a Roosevelt descendent is going to have Jenny make her dress. She hadn't mentioned that to me.

  In some ways, Jenny belongs to Cambry-on-Hudson more than I do. She knows the baristas at Blessed Bean by name, went to a gallery opening one night, joined a Zumba class at the rather gritty YMCA. One day when we went for a walk with the girls, she was called by name by the old black gentlemen who sit in front of the barbershop every day. I've never talked to them, which made me feel racist at that moment. But Jenny's always been like that, able to make friends just by walking into a room and saying hello. I also say hello, but my stupid, unavoidable shyness keeps me from actually making the kind of connection Jenny does.

  I know the other moms. I know some of our old classmates, I know the country-club crowd. I know the children's librarian, but not the other adults who work there, even though I go in at least once a week.

  It occurs to me that I'd like to have more friends.

  I'll stop by Bliss after lunch, if I have time. Or not. I might do something else. Get a facial, maybe, at Vous, the day spa around the corner. Maybe I'll buy some new shoes, the kind that Jenny wears. Not flats. No way.

  Or I'll just go home and plant the pansies the girls and I picked out the other day. That's what the old Rachel wants to do. But maybe it'd be good to have some true Me Time.

  I go into Hudson's, the sweet little tavern that was formerly a dark and sticky bar patronized by hardcore alcoholics. There's Jared, waiting for me, a smile on his face. "Hey, Rach!" he says, and we sit down, getting a table by the window so we can admire the mighty river.

  "Thanks for meeting me," he says.

  "Of course!" I say. As always, Jared reminds me of the dogs his family used to have--Golden retrievers, always happy, always wagging. Jared is like his dad, who's the minister of our church. Not like his mother, who has never once invited me to call her by her first name, never once acted happy to see me in town or at the club.

  Jared makes up for it. He's one of the few people I feel really comfortable with.

  "Got any new pictures of the girls?" he asks, and I comply, whipping out my phone so he can admire. The girls worship him; they call him Uncle Jared, and he always manages to find strange and wonderful presents at holidays and their birthday. "God, they're so cute!" he says. "Look at Charlotte. She looks just like you. And Grace is the spitting image of Adam, isn't she? Aw, look at Rose! Bet she enjoyed that... What is she eating, anyway? Mud?"

  "Actually, no, Jared. It's pudding. Believe it or not, we don't feed the girls mud."

  He grins, and we order lunch--a huge burger for him, fries and a milkshake; he's as skinny as can be, always has been. A salad with dressing on the side for me, so I can keep my hip bones. When the food comes, he reveals the true nature of this lunch. "So, Rach," he says, "Kimber was wondering if you'd be in our wedding. Bridesmaid. What do you think?"

  "Really? Of course! I'd love to." I take a sip of my water. "But, um, why didn't she ask me herself?"

  "She was afraid you'd say no."

  "Why would I do that? I mean, I'm a little old to be a bridesmaid, but it's a huge honor."

  "I'm a little old to be getting married for the first time," he says, grinning.

  "Nah. It just took you a while to find the right woman."

  "She's great, isn't she?"

  "I really like her. She's very...sincere."

  "Yes! That's a perfect word for her." His smile drops a little. "The thing is, Rach, my mom kind of hates her. And Kimber's having a tough time. She had a really different upbringing than I did, and Mom's making sure she knows it. Kimber wants to fit in and stuff, but you can see she's not..."

  "Typical."

  "Exactly. Which is why I love her."

  "Maybe she and Jenny and I can go out sometime."

  He smiles hugely. "I was hoping you'd say that. You're the best, Rach. Hey, she's meeting me at the office at two. We have to do something wedding-related. Cake-tasting or something. Want to come and say hi? She'll be so happy you said yes to being in the wedding."

  "Sure," I say. "That'd be nice." I pause, struck by a horrible thought. "Who else is in the wedding? Anyone I know? Anyone from work?" In a flash, I see myself posing for pictures with Emmanuelle. Maybe they're friends. Jared likes everyone, after all.

  "No one from work. Her cousin, a couple of friends. They all have tattoos. My mother is dying a thousand deaths." He keeps talking, a lot more informed than Adam was when we got married.

  Since I found out about Emmanuelle, I've wanted to ask Jared about her. But I can't. It would give her legitimacy, somehow, if I had to tap my oldest friend for insider information. And to be honest, I was afraid Jared would know why I was asking, and our lifelong friendship would be tainted by pity. And then Adam's work relationship would suffer, because it's always been clear that while Jared and Adam get long just fine, Jared is my friend.

  What you don't realize when your husband has an affair is how much lying you'll do, too. In the past month, I've lied to my mother for the first time. To my in-laws--thank God they live in Arizona. To Adam's sister, who lives in Portugal but emails often and sends the girls lovely gifts from her travels. I've lied to the nursery school teacher when she asked if everything was okay, and I've lied to my book club friends. I've even lied to Jenny. Lying has become a reflex. I don't even think about it anymore.

  When we leave the restaurant, I get into the Jag. Jared grins. "Can't say I've ever seen you drive that thing," he says.

  "Because I never have," I say. He gets into his BMW, and we head to Triple B. Kimber is waiting in the foyer, wearing a peasant blouse, rainbow skirt and leather vest. She has on dozens of bracelets that jingle and chime when she jumps up. Her face flushes pink at the sight of her honey.

  "Hi, you guys," she says. "How was lunch and stuff?"

  "It was great," I say. "Thank you so much for asking me to be in the wedding, Kimber! I can't wait."

/>   "Seriously? Oh, Rachel, thanks! Really! I mean, like, of course you're Jared's oldest friend and stuff. I'm just so happy you'll do it." She gives me a sudden hug. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure. Hey, I was saying to Jared that maybe you'd like to go out for drinks with my sister and me."

  "Totally!" she exclaims.

  "I'll call you, then." Her eagerness makes me happy, makes me feel like myself. My old self.

  "Well, we have cake to eat," Jared says. "Shall we go, babe? Bye, Rachel. Thanks again." He gives me a kiss on the cheek, waves to Lydia, the receptionist, and off they go into the sunshine.

  I hope they stay happy. I can't imagine Jared ever cheating on her. He's so loyal... I mean, who stays friends with the shy girl who rode the bus with you, even though you've met a thousand people since? Loyal people, that's who.

  "Guess you want to see Adam, huh?" Lydia asks.

  "What? Oh, yes. Yes, please."

  She picks up the phone to let him know I'm here. "I'll just go, Lydia," I say. "No need to buzz him."

  Because I have that feeling again, that prickling, sickening feeling in my knees and elbows. I walk down the hall, fast and quietly, hoping not to get pulled into a chat with any of the other lawyers, and get to Adam's office.

  The door is closed.

  I open it, fast, and there they are, kissing.

  They leap apart. Emmanuelle's eye makeup is smeared, her lipstick is gone.

  "Babe," Adam says, and I just stand there, frozen.

  At least my outfit is better today. That's my first thought. Last time, I looked like a child. Today, I look pretty hot. Not as hot as she does, granted, but hot for me. Today, her dress is a very tight red knit with a slit in the front, a wide neckline, long sleeves. She's one of those women whose sexiness comes from what she doesn't show, not from what she does, apparently. Her red hair is in a high ponytail, and I remember a comment from Jake Golden at a country-club function once--redhead in a red dress equals instant erection. Jake Golden is an ass. That being said, yes, Adam seems to have an erection.

  I should go. Clearly, this is the moment when the wife walks out, proudly, head high, shoulders back, and goes...um...where? Where does the wife go? Well, hey, I'm in a big-ass law firm. I should go to one of the family law attorneys, right? Or Jared. I could go to Jared's office--much bigger than Adam's, much more prestigious--but no, he's out tasting cakes. If my father were still alive, I'd go to him and cry on his shoulder till I was all cried out. Jenny's. I'll go to Jenny. Or home. Except the girls will sense I'm upset, and they'll act up because of it. Happens every time.