"Would you mind staying with your parents? Or maybe with Marge and Liz? On Friday and Saturday night?"
I could feel my blood pressure spike.
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, Russ. I'm not. Please. I know I'm asking a lot, but I don't want to make things any harder on London than they already are."
Or maybe, I thought, you'd rather it not be any harder on you.
I let the silence crackle between us.
"Yeah," I finally said. "I guess I can ask Marge. My parents are going to be out of town."
"I'd appreciate it."
"Remember that London has dance on Friday night, and then art class on Saturday morning, so you probably won't have time to do yoga."
"I've always put my daughter first, Russ. You know that."
"You've been a great mom," I conceded. "Oh, for art class, you'll need to bring the vase she made last week. This weekend, she'll be painting it."
"Where is it?"
"I put it in the pantry. Top shelf, on the right."
"Got it," she said. "Oh, one last thing."
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if you had time for a late lunch tomorrow. Around one thirty? We need to talk before I have to pick up London from school."
Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat at the thought of sitting across the table from her. Of seeing her.
"Of course," I said. "Where?"
She named a place we both knew, a place we'd eaten many times before. Including, once, on our anniversary.
I hung up the phone, wondering if it was an omen.
"Of course you can stay with us," Marge said into the receiver. I'd just returned from the grocery store and was putting the orange juice into the refrigerator before calling her. "You'll have to promise not to walk around in your droopy underwear or drink your coffee at the table without a shirt on, though. In fact, don't even pack any droopy underwear, okay?"
"Do you even know me?"
"Of course. Why do you think I'm pointing these things out?"
"I promise."
"We won't be around on Saturday, though. You'll be on your own. A friend of ours is having a housewarming party."
No wife, no London, no parents, and now, no sister to see on the weekend. I wondered when the last time was that I was utterly on my own, figuring it had been years since something like that had happened.
"No worries. I have work."
"I'll still call you, just to make sure you're okay. But back to Vivian. Are you sure lunch is such a good idea?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Whenever someone says 'we need to talk,' it's never a good thing."
"Believe me when I say I'm not expecting much."
"I'm glad," she said. "You remember what Liz said, right? She's not going to tell you that she wants to come back."
"Liz told you what we talked about?"
"Of course not," she said. "But I know you, and it's not too hard to figure out what you might ask her. And because I know her, I also know what she told you. It's not as though the two of us haven't had a million discussions about what's going on. It's been a hot topic around the old homestead these days."
"There are better things for the two of you to discuss than my marriage."
"And you'd be right ninety-nine percent of the time," she said. "But lately? We're definitely in that pesky one percent."
"What else are you saying to each other?"
"We talk about how much you're hurting, and that we don't know what to say or do to make it better. You're such a good man, such a good father. It isn't fair."
I couldn't help but choke up a bit. "You don't have to worry about me."
"Of course I do. Big sister, remember?"
I hesitated. "Do you think Vivian is struggling?"
"I'm sure she is. You can't do what she did and not feel at least a little bit of guilt. But I'm not sure she dwells on her feelings the way you do. My sense is that you two are just wired differently."
That made sense. But... "I still care about her," I offered. "She's been a wonderful wife."
Marge breathed into the receiver. "Are you sure about that?"
Vivian had been right about London; when she woke Friday morning, her voice had a raspy edge to it and on our way out the door, she began wiping at her nose. I wondered how long it would take for the medicine to kick in.
After drop-off, I tossed some clothes in a duffel bag and drove to the office. Still no phone calls for the Phoenix Agency, but on the upside, the receptionist was getting used to my presence and had even started saying, "Good morning, Mr. Green."
I spent most of the morning working with my tech guy. Together, we discussed and made decisions on the overall plan, then moved toward discussions of Internet prioritization, targeted banner ads, and a social media campaign. We spent almost three hours together and by the end, I felt like he had more than enough work to keep him busy for a couple of weeks, as did I.
Once that was done, I sent confirmation emails regarding the third commercial I'd film for Taglieri the following Friday, then left a message for the surgeon asking for the names of patients who might be willing to provide on-camera testimonials.
As I worked, I noticed the tension in my shoulders and back seemed to be intensifying, and it dawned on me that I was nervous at the thought of seeing Vivian. Despite her betrayal, despite asking me to make myself scarce all weekend, I wondered if I would meet with a Vivian who was willing to try to work things out. While I knew that Marge and Liz were trying to keep me grounded in reality with what to expect, the heart wants what it wants. Hope might leave me crushed in the end, but losing all hope somehow seemed even worse.
I ended up leaving the office at half past noon, and arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. I'd made reservations and the waiter led me to a table near the window. Most of the other tables were already occupied. I ordered a cocktail, hoping that it would keep me calm. I wanted to approach the lunch in the same way I had the phone call, but as soon as Vivian entered the restaurant, I held my breath, releasing it only when she approached the table.
Dressed in jeans and a red blouse that accentuated her figure, she looked effortlessly chic as always. She propped her sunglasses on her head and offered a quick smile as I stood. When she was close, I wondered whether or not to kiss her on the cheek, but she didn't give me the opportunity.
"Sorry for being late," she said as she sat down. "I had trouble finding a place to park."
"Friday at lunch is always busy here. I think a lot of people are getting an early start to the weekend."
"I'm sure," she said. She pointed to my cocktail, which was nearly finished. "I see you're doing the same thing."
"Why not? I'm a free man this weekend."
"Maybe so, but you still have to drive."
"I know."
She deliberately unfolded her napkin, taking her time, and avoiding my gaze. "How's work?"
"Better. I landed another client. Plastic surgeon."
"I'm glad it's working out for you. Oh, by the way, did you remember to give London some medicine?"
"I did. And orange juice."
"And she knows I'm picking her up today, right?"
"Yes," I said. "And the guest room is ready to go, too."
"Would you care if I slept in the master bedroom? I'll change the sheets first, obviously."
"No, I don't mind. We're still married."
I thought I saw a flash of exasperation but it vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Thanks," she said. "I just want London to have a nice weekend."
"I'm sure she will."
She turned toward the window, taking in the street, then seemed to remember something. Reaching for her handbag, she pulled out her phone and tapped in the code. She tapped a button, used her finger to scroll, and tapped another couple of times. She scrolled some more. In the silence, I took another drink, finishing the cocktail. Finally, setting the phone aside, she offered a pinched smile.
"Sorry. Just checking up on work. I was on the phone for almost the entire drive to Charlotte."
"How was the drive?"
"With the weekend on tap, traffic was heavy. And we didn't get in until late last night. We flew in from Houston, and the night before that, we were in Savannah. I can't tell you how happy I am to have a relaxing weekend on tap."
I tried to ignore the word we. It was better than Walter, but it still stung. I said nothing and Vivian reached for the menu. I couldn't remember a conversation with Vivian that ever felt more stilted.
"Have you decided what you're going to have?" she asked.
"I'll probably just order some soup. I'm not that hungry."
She looked up and for the first time, she seemed to really see me. "You've lost weight," she observed. "Are you still jogging?"
"Every morning. And I'm down almost fifteen pounds." I didn't tell her that much of the weight loss was both recent and due to her, since my appetite was largely nonexistent.
"You can see it in your face," she said. "You were getting some jowls, but they're almost gone now."
It was odd, I thought, how she could offer a compliment while still getting in a dig at the same time. I wondered whether she was still working out with Spannerman, and whether she ever mentioned to him that he had jowls. Probably not.
"Have you decided what you're going to do this weekend with London?" I asked.
"Not really. It's kind of up to her, obviously. I want to spend a lot of time doing what she wants to do." She perused the menu. It didn't take long; even I knew she was going to order a salad and the only question was which one she'd want. Soon after she set the menu aside, the waiter appeared at the table. She ordered an unsweetened iced tea and an Asian salad; I ordered a bowl of the vegetable beef. When the waiter left, Vivian took a sip from her water, then traced her finger through the condensation. Like me, she seemed to be at a loss for words, the elephant in the room being what it was.
"So," I said, finally. "You said you needed to talk to me?"
"It's mainly about London," she said. "I've been worried about her. She isn't used to me being gone so much. I know it's been hard for her."
"She's doing okay."
"She doesn't tell you everything. I just wish there was a way I could be with her more."
I could have pointed out that she could come home, but she probably already knew that. "I can imagine," I offered.
"I've been talking to Walter and given the amount of travel I have ahead of me in the next few months, there's just no way that I can bring her to Atlanta just yet. I'm still out of town three or four nights a week and I haven't even had time to get her room set up or even begin looking for a nanny."
I felt a surge of relief but wanted to make sure I'd heard her right. "So you're saying that you think it's best if London stays with me?"
"Only for a while. I'm not abandoning my daughter. And you and I both know that daughters need their moms."
"They need their dads, too."
"You'll still be able to see her. I'm not the kind of mother who would keep her child from seeing the father. And you and I both know that I was the one who raised her. She's used to me."
Her child. Not, I noticed, our child.
"It's different now. She's in school and you're working."
"Be that as it may," she said, "I wanted to talk to you about what's going on right now, okay? And even though I'm traveling a lot, I still want to be able to see her as much as I possibly can. I wanted to make sure that you didn't have a problem with that."
"Of course not. Why would you think I'd have a problem with it?"
"Because you're angry and hurt, and you might want to try to hurt me back. I mean, you didn't even call to talk to me about canceling the credit cards. You just up and did it. You do know you should have called first, right? So we could discuss it?"
I blinked, thinking about the secret bank account she'd set up.
"Seriously?"
"I'm just saying you could have handled it better."
Her chutzpah was staggering and all I could do was stare at her. The waiter arrived with her iced tea, and as he set it on the table, her phone rang. Checking the screen, she stood from the table.
"I've got to take this."
I watched her walk from the table and head outside; from my seat, I could see her, though I forced myself to look away. I munched a couple of ice cubes until the waiter came by with a basket of bread and some butter. I nibbled on that, absently listening to the drone of conversations around me. In time, Vivian returned to the table.
"Sorry," she said. "That was work."
Whatever, I thought. I didn't bother responding.
The waiter brought our food, and she dressed her salad before dicing it into bite-sized portions. The aroma of the soup was tantalizing, but my stomach had locked down. The small amount of bread had taken up all the room. I nonetheless forced myself to take a bite.
"There's something else I think we need to discuss," she said finally.
"What's that?"
"What we're going to say to London. I was thinking that we should probably sit down with her on Sunday, before I leave."
"Why?"
"Because she needs to know what's going on, but in a way that she can understand. We need to keep it as simple as possible."
"I don't know what that even means."
She sighed. "We tell her that because of my job, I'll have to live in Atlanta and that she's going to stay with you for a while. We explain that no matter what happens, we both love her. It's not really necessary to go into long explanations, and I don't think that's a good idea anyway."
You mean like explaining that you're in love with another man?
"I can talk to Liz. She might be able to give me some dos and don'ts."
"That's fine, but be careful."
"Why?"
"She's not your therapist. She's your sister's partner. I assume she's taken your side in all this, and wants you to believe that I'm the bad guy."
But you are the bad guy!
"She wouldn't do that."
"Just make sure," she warned. "I also don't think it's a good idea to tell her what's happening between you and me. It would be better if she gets used to the two of us being apart first. Then it won't come as such a shock when we do tell her."
"Tell her what?"
"That we're getting divorced."
I set my spoon aside. Though I suspected she'd say the word eventually, in the here and now, it still shocked me to hear it aloud.
"Before we start talking about divorce, don't you think it might be a good idea for the two of us to talk to a therapist? To see if there's any way to salvage what we have?"
"Keep your voice down. This isn't the time or place to talk about this."
"I am keeping my voice down," I said.
"No you're not. You can't hear yourself when you get angry. You're always loud."
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. "All right," I said, forcing myself to speak even more quietly. "Don't you want to even try to make it work?" I could barely hear myself above the din of the lunch crowd.
"You don't have to whisper," she retorted. "I was just asking you to keep your voice down. People could hear you."
"I got it," I said. "Stop changing the subject."
"Russ..."
"I still love you. I'll always love you."
"And I just told you that this isn't the time or place for this! Right now, we're here to talk about London and why she should probably stay here for the time being and what we are going to say to her on Sunday night. We're not here to talk about us."
"Don't you want to talk about us?"
"I can see that trying to have a normal conversation with you wasn't a good idea. Why can't we discuss things like adults?"
"I am trying to talk to you."
She took a bite of her salad--she'd barely eaten any to that point--and then placed her napkin on the table. "But you never listen! How
many times do I have to tell you that this isn't the time or place to talk about you and me? I said it nicely, I thought I was being clear, but I guess you had other ideas. So for now, I think it's best if I probably leave before you start yelling at me, okay? I just want to have a pleasant weekend with my daughter."
"Please," I said. "You don't have to leave. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to upset you."
"I'm not the one who's upset," she said. "You are."
With that, Vivian rose from the table and strode for the exit. When she was gone, I sat in shock for a couple of minutes before finally signaling for the waiter to bring the check. Rehashing the conversation, I wondered whether I really had been too loud, or whether it had been an easy excuse for Vivian to bring the lunch to an early conclusion.
There was, after all, no reason for her to stay.
Not only was she in love with another man, as far as the weekend went, she'd gotten everything she'd wanted from me.
CHAPTER 16
The Sun Also Rises
I liked Liz as soon as I met her, but I'll admit that I was amazed that my parents felt the same way. While they accepted the fact that Marge was gay, I often sensed that they weren't exactly comfortable with the women Marge dated. There was a generational aspect to it--they'd both grown up in an era in which alternative lifestyles were typically kept in the closet--but it also had to do with the kind of women that Marge originally seemed to favor. They struck me as a bit on the rough side and were often prone to profanity in casual conversation, which had a tendency to make both my mom and dad go red in the face.
Marge told me that she'd met Liz at work. Accounting offices, I think most would agree, aren't your usual pickup joints, but Liz had recently joined a new practice and was in need of an accountant. Marge happened to have an opening in her afternoon schedule, and by the time Liz left the office, they'd made arrangements to meet for a glass of wine before dropping by an art opening in Asheville.
"You're going to an art gallery?" I remember asking Marge. We'd met at a bar after work, the kind of place with neon beer signs and the slightly rancid smell of too many spilled drinks. At the time, it was one of Marge's favorite watering holes.
"Why wouldn't I go to an art gallery?"
"Maybe because you don't like art?"
"Who says I don't like art?"
"You did. When I tried to show you some pictures of Emily's art, you said--and I quote--'I don't like art.'"
"Maybe I've matured in the past few years."