Heart of the Matter (23 page)

The conversation comes to a standstill after that, other than murmurings of how great everything looks and smells, and Frank and Ruby’s discussion of what they do not want on their plates.

Then, about two minutes into dinner, Diane looks at me with alarm and says, “Oh, Tess! Do you know what we forgot?”

I glance around the table, finding nothing amiss, pleased that I remembered to get the rolls out of the warming drawer—which is my usual omission.

“Candles!” Diane says. “We
must
have candles.”

Nick shoots me an irritated look that makes me feel fleetingly connected to him. Like we’re on the same team, in on the same joke.

“I’ll get them,” he offers.

“No. I’ll get them,” I say, feeling sure that he has no idea where we keep such accoutrements. Besides, I know how Connie feels about her men getting up from the table during the meal, for
any
reason.

I return to the kitchen, standing on a stepstool to reach into a high cabinet for a pair of pewter candlesticks, two barely burned candles from last Valentine’s Day still stuck inside. Then I open the drawer next to the stove where we normally house matches. None to be found—which is par for the course these days in our disorganized house. I close my eyes, trying to visualize where I last saw a book of matches, one of those things, like safety pins or paper clips, that you find strewn everywhere unless you need them, and remember that I lit a candle in our bedroom one night last week. I run upstairs, open the drawer of my nightstand, and find a matchbox right where I left it. Out of breath from the biggest burst of exercise I’ve had in days, I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hand over the matchbox cover, reading the pink, distinctive-font inscription:
Amanda & Steve: Love Rules.

Steve was one of Nick’s better friends in medical school, now a dermatologist in L.A., and Amanda the model he met in his office when she came in for laser hair removal.
Love Rules
was the theme of their Hawaiian wedding, the three-day extravaganza Nick and I attended when I was a few months pregnant with Frank. The tagline was written everywhere—on their save-the-date cards, invitations, and Web site, as well as the canvas boat bags, water bottles, and beach towels given to all guests upon our arrival at the resort. The hip declaration was even scrawled across a banner, pulled by an airplane flying overhead on the beach just after the couple exchanged vows. I remember Nick, looking skyward, shading his eyes with amused cynicism, whispering, “Yo. Love rules, dude.”

I had smiled back at him, feeling slightly foolish for being momentarily impressed by the spectacle he was clearly mocking, and simultaneously proud that our wedding had been the opposite of a production. Nick had deferred to me in our plans, but had lodged a strong request for a low-key affair, one that I obliged, in part, because of my embarrassment over my canceled wedding and all the costs our guests accrued; in part because I had seen the light, come to believe that a wedding should be about a feeling between two people, not a show for the masses. As a result, we had a small ceremony at the New York Public Library, followed by an elegant dinner at an Italian restaurant in Gramercy with only our family and closest friends. It was a magical, romantic evening, and although I occasionally wish I had worn a slightly fancier dress, and that Nick and I had danced on our wedding night, I have no real regrets about the way we chose to do things.

Love Rules,
I think now, as I slowly stand, gathering strength for my return trip downstairs, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. Then, just as I’m leaving our room, I spot Nick’s BlackBerry on the top of his dresser and feel seized by the temptation to do something I have always said I would never do.

I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous, that I do not want to be a snooping, paranoid wife, that I have no reason to be suspicious. Then I hear the little voice in my head say,
No reason other than his withdrawn behavior, his long hours, our lack of intimacy.
I shake
my head, dispelling the doubts. Nick isn’t perfect, but he is not a liar. He is
not
a cheater.

And yet, I continue to walk toward his phone, strangely compelled to reach out and touch it. I take it in my hand, scroll through to the mail icon, and see that there is a new text message from a 617 area code, a Boston cell phone number. It is undoubtedly a colleague, I tell myself. A
male
colleague. A work situation that can’t wait until tomorrow—at least not in the estimation of a fellow obsessed surgeon.

I click on it with equal parts guilt and fear and read:

Thinking of you, too. Sorry I missed your call. Will be home around 7 if you want to try again. Until then, have a happy Thanksgiving... PS Of course he doesn’t hate you. How could anyone hate you?

I stare at the words, trying to determine who they could be from,
who
doesn’t hate Nick, reassuring myself that there is a logical, benign explanation behind them, even for the “thinking of you, too” portion of the message. And yet, my head spins and heart pounds with worrisome possibilities, worst-case scenarios. I read the text twice more, hearing a woman’s voice, seeing the vague outline of her face, a young version of Diane. I close my eyes, swallow back the panic rising in my throat, and tell myself to stop the madness. Then I mark the message as unread, slip his phone back on the dresser, and return to the table, candlesticks and matches in hand.

“Here we are!” I say, smiling brightly as I flank the autumnal centerpiece with the candles, lighting them one at a time, doing my best to steady my hands. Then I sit and eat in virtual silence, other than to remind the kids of their manners and occasionally fuel Diane and Connie’s babble.

All the while, I replay the text in my head, stealing glances at Nick, and wondering if I could ever hate him.

24

Valerie

She
and Charlie spend Thanksgiving at Jason’s, along with his boyfriend, Hank, and Rosemary. Although the day is quiet and low-key, it still feels like something of a test and a benchmark, as Hank marks the first official contact Charlie has had with anyone other than family or hospital personnel. Hank handles the interaction perfectly, earning Valerie’s affection every time he looks Charlie directly in the eye, and without treating him with kid gloves, asks him questions about his mask, his surgeries and physical therapy, and how he feels about his upcoming return to school.

Meanwhile, Valerie neatly avoids being alone with her brother, ignoring his long stares and pointed remarks, until late in the day when he finally manages to corner her in the kitchen while the others are eating their second helping of pumpkin pie.

“Start talking,” he says, casting furtive glances at the door, safeguarding her privacy, even from their mother.
Especially
from their mother.

“It’s not what you think,” she says, still buzzing from the text message she read in the powder room right before dinner. It was from Nick—his third of the day—asking if Jason hates him, telling her he is thinking of her. She wrote him back, saying she was thinking of him, too—although
obsessing
was
more the word for it. She dreamed about him all last night, and he has not left her mind once all day.

“So you’re not getting busy with the doc?” he probes, under his breath.

“No,” she says, as a vision of him weakens her knees.

“So he always makes house calls? Late at night? Unannounced? Wearing cologne?” Jason rattles off the questions.

“He wasn’t wearing cologne,” she replies a little too quickly, then attempts to cover up her intimate knowledge with a sidebar about how she has never trusted guys who wear cologne. “Lion wore cologne,” she finishes.

“Aha!” he says, as if this is all the evidence he needs. Why else would she compare a man to Lion—the love of her life so far? Which isn’t saying much. But still.

“Don’t
aha
me,” she says as Rosemary walks into the kitchen.

“What are you two all whispery about now?” she asks, opening the refrigerator.

“Nothing,” they say in unison, clearly hiding something.

Rosemary shakes her head, as if she doesn’t believe them but doesn’t much care, returning to the family room with a container of Cool Whip and a large serving spoon.

“Carry on,” she says over her shoulder.

Which Jason does, switching tactics, slipping into his straight-shooting mode. “Val. Just tell me. Is something going on?” She hesitates, making a split-second decision that she does not want to layer a lie on top of everything else.

“Yes,” she finally says. “But it’s not. . . physical.”

She thinks of their embrace last night, as intimate as any moment in her life, but decides that she is still telling the truth. Technically.

“Are you falling in
love
with him?” he asks.

She gives him a bashful smile that is more telling than anything she could say.

Jason whistles. “Wow. Okay . . . He
is
married, correct?”

She nods.

“Separated?”

“No,” she says, answering questions the way she instructs her clients—as simply as possible, offering no extra information. “Not to my knowledge,” she adds, entertaining the hopeful thought that this
could
be the case.

“And . . . ?” he says.

“And nothing,” she says.

She has thought about his wife a thousand times, of course, wondering about her, their marriage. What does she look like? What is
she
like? Why did Nick fall in love with her? And more important, why has he fallen out? Or maybe he hasn’t. Maybe this is only about the two of them, the feelings they share, the uncontrollable force bringing them together—and nothing else.

Valerie doesn’t know which scenario she prefers, whether she wants to be a reaction to something that has already soured or to be something that has taken him by storm, out of the blue, overriding his contented existence with an offer of something more. Something better. All she knows for sure is that he isn’t the kind of man who has done this before. She would swear anything on it.

Valerie sticks to the facts now. “He’s married with two kids . . . And he’s Charlie’s doctor. It’s an all-around big problem,” she says succinctly.

“Okay,” Jason says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I thought maybe it was just me.”

“No. It’s not just you. I am perfectly aware that there is nothing about this situation that is right,” she whispers resignedly. “And for the record, he knows it’s wrong, too. But. . .”

“But you’re not going to stop seeing him?” Jason says in the voice of a brother, a best friend, a therapist, all rolled into one. “Are you?”

“No,” she says. “I can’t

Tessa

That
night, shortly after Nick’s parents leave for home and my dad and Diane depart for Fifteen Beacon, their favorite hotel in Boston and where they always stay when they come to town, Nick pokes his head into the kids’ bathroom where I am stripping off their clothes and corralling them into the tub.

“I’m going to run out. Be back in a few,” he says.

“For what?” I ask, my heart sinking as I glance at my watch and note that it is nearly seven o’clock.

“Cherry Coke,” he says.

Nick has always insisted that cherry Coke is more effective than Tylenol in curing headaches, which he claims to have tonight. And maybe he does. I desperately hope that he does, hope that he is on the brink of the worst migraine ever. “You want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I say, frowning as I adjust the temperature of the bathwater. I add more liquid soap, and a hill of bubbles appear as Ruby climbs in and I heave a squirming, giggling Frank over the edge. I sit on a stepstool, watching my children play, admiring their perfect pink bodies—their potbellies, their round, little bottoms, their stick-figure limbs. As Nick turns to leave the bathroom, I keep my eyes fixed on my children, telling myself that he would never do anything to hurt them or jeopardize our family.

Yet, the second I hear the garage door open, I race to our bedroom and, with a heavy heart, confirm what I already knew: Nick’s phone is gone from the dresser. I tell myself that it’s natural to take your phone, even on a short errand, yet I can’t shake the image of my husband, in his car, speed-dialing another woman’s number.

***

“I think Nick might be having an affair,” I tell Cate the next day, when I finally get a hold of her after four tries. I am sitting on the floor amid three piles of dirty laundry—although it should be more like five if I weren’t prepared to overstuff the washing machine. “Or at least contemplating one.”

The second the words are out, I feel intense relief, almost as if confronting my fears and saying them aloud makes them less likely to be true.

“No way,” Cate says, as I knew she would. Which is, subconsciously, why I probably called her in the first place, choosing her over the other candidates: Rachel, my brother, April, or my mother, somehow knowing that Rachel and Dex would be too worried, April too likely to break my confidence, my mother too cynical. “Why do you think that?”

I share with her all my evidence—the late nights at the office, the text message, and the cherry Coke excursion that lasted close to thirty-eight minutes.

“Come on, Tess. That’s a crazy conclusion to draw,” she says. “He might have wanted to get out of the house for a few minutes. Shirk his bedtime duties with a little alone time. But that doesn’t add up to an affair.”

“What about the text?” I ask. “The ‘thinking of you’ . . . ?”

“So what? So he’s thinking of someone . . . That doesn’t mean he’s thinking of
undressing
someone.”

“Well, who could it be from?” I say, realizing that the very thing that gives me greatest pause—that Nick has so few friends, so seldom makes new connections—is the thing that simultaneously reassures me.

“It could be from anyone. It could be a coworker who is getting a divorce and alone for Thanksgiving. It could be from an old friend . . . a cousin. It could be from a patient’s mother or father. A former patient. . . Bottom line, Nick is not the affair type.”