Best Day Ever

  “A type?” What does that mean?

  “May I clear your salad?” our waiter asks Mia, rudely interrupting when she was clearly trying to say something, something about me or about us, I’m not sure.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m finished. No dessert for either of us, right, Paul?”

  “Correct. The veal was perfect,” I say to the waiter, who ignores me.

  “Coffee?” he asks Mia.

  “Please,” she says.

  “No,” I say at the same time. He will bring her coffee, I know, even though she knows I hate sitting through a coffee. When a meal is finished, it’s finished. I don’t like to linger at the table. I think you know why now: green beans.

  “My family and friends couldn’t believe how fast I fell for you, how quickly we became engaged, just six months after our first date,” Mia says. “That’s really fast. I would kill Mikey or Sam if they did that. And then, bam. I was pregnant. It was all such a whirlwind.”

  “But it was right,” I say. “I didn’t consider it too fast. Is there a rule about pre-engagement, honey? I don’t think so. When it’s right, it just is.”

  “You’d had a chance to experience the world, move around, live on your own. I basically went from my parents, to college, to you.”

  Yes, that’s what made you so perfect, I think but don’t say. I roll my head from shoulder to shoulder and hear a pop on the left side of my neck. What is she poking around at the past for? It is what it is. It led us here. It’s why I selected her. “Yes, I suppose you did. But that’s a path many women choose to walk, a lovely path.”

  “Even when I discovered you’d been unfaithful, during our engagement,” she says as the waiter delivers her coffee cup and begins to pour the hot black liquid. The smell reminds me of morning, of the office, of Caroline. I know I’m scowling. The waiter hates me even more now. Why is Mia airing our past in front of this ice-eyed stranger?

  “Sugar? Cream?” he asks. The way he says it has me imagining that he is saying to her, “Date, tonight?”

  “No, thank you,” she says. After he bows and leaves, she glances at me and blushes. She must know I’m fuming, the fire starting.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Paul. It’s just that this time together, well actually, the past few months, I’ve been thinking a lot.” I don’t like it when Mia is thinking a lot. I just want her busy at home, taking care of the children, the house, keeping her parents happy and sending cash. She just needs to stop thinking, and stop talking to nosy neighbors like Doris and Buck.

  “Honey, there’s nothing to think about,” I say. I shake my head intently, hoping she’ll just drink her damn coffee. Why is she rehashing a meaningless one-night stand from a decade ago?

  It’s like she doesn’t hear me. “We’d already sent the wedding invitations out, the ceremony was days away when I found out about her. Someone at the office left that note in my desk drawer: Your fiancé is having a fling with a client. I still remember holding the index card the note was written on. My hands were shaking but even as I read it, I knew it was true. I’d watched you flirt with the woman at the office. I saw how she looked at you.

  “I was too ashamed to call it off. But you knew that would be the case, didn’t you? That’s why you admitted it to me when I showed you the note. It was a power play. You proved you could do whatever you wanted and I’d marry you, stay with you. All those years ago, you’d already won.”

  Yes, I always win. But still, I realize I’m clenching my jaw. The past is just that. If she wants to dwell on it, she can do it on her own time. I don’t feel guilty about my fling with that woman client. It was a last hurrah before the old ball and chain. Plenty of guys do it. But I do wish I could remember her name. It seems to me she moved to Michigan or something. Oh, well.

  “Mia, has that really been bothering you all this time? As I told you, it was a mistake. I wanted to confess to you myself, to start our marriage in honesty and trust. I’m not proud that someone else got to you first and remember, I apologized on bended knee.” I think back to that awkward moment in her office. I’d instantly decided to admit my culpability while blaming it on the client, and begged for Mia’s forgiveness. It had worked perfectly. I’m good at thinking on my feet, a smooth pivot.

  “Remember, honey, she came on to me, that client. You saw it yourself. My only crime was a lapse in judgment. I wanted to land the account too much. It was stupid and as you know, it has never happened again. And of course, our wedding went off without a hitch. Everything worked out, right?” I say. But I don’t want to hear her response right now, so I add: “I’m glad. Look at us—we’re perfect together. We have two amazing sons, and the best life. I love you. Happy best day ever.”

  Mia takes a sip of her coffee, stares at me over the cup. After a moment, she returns the cup to the saucer, breaking our eye contact. “That’s right, the best day ever. What else is on your agenda for us tonight?”

  “I have a few more things up my sleeve,” I say, remembering the cigarettes in my briefcase, the matches in my pocket. The surprise in my glove box. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ll ask for the check,” Mia says, knowing she can attract our waiter.

  “I’ll need you to give him a credit card. I, um, forgot to make that transfer,” I say. I know my face is full of love, and happiness. I reach for her hand across the table. She ignores the gesture.

  “Yes, I figured,” Mia says, smiling a fake smile and tilting her head awkwardly. We must look like some freaky couple from a 1950s advertisement for the good life, all stilted and perfect. Except the guy would be paying, I know.

  “It’s all going to work out, don’t worry,” I say.

  She shakes her head before she removes her purse from the back of the chair, opens it and extracts a platinum American Express card, one I have never seen before.

  “I got this for emergencies. Thank goodness I did,” she says as the waiter appears and she slips the card into his hand.

  “This is hardly an emergency, Mia,” I tell her, crossing my arms across my chest. “It’s a temporary setback, like every challenge in life, honey.”

  “Oh, it is, is it? How exactly do you plan to solve our financial situation, Paul?” she asks.

  Fortunately, before I have to formulate an answer, the waiter returns with the receipt in a black leather folder. I watch as Mia opens the folder, reclaims her platinum card and adds a 25 percent tip for her guard dog before scribbling her signature: M. Pilmer.

  9:30 p.m.

  18

  It’s official. That was the longest dinner I’ve suffered through since the green bean fiasco, I realize as we stand outside the restaurant waiting for my car to be pulled around. I wonder if Mia purposefully stretched it out, our time together here—but why would she? The parking lot is almost empty but not quite. There are actually people suffering through a longer dinner than I had. Remarkable.

  “The stars are beautiful here,” she says, looking up at the sky. “It’s one of my favorite things about being up here at the lake. The city lights can’t drown them out. They shine full force.” She pulls out her phone, and I watch as she uses her stargazer app to name the constellations. It is such a childish pursuit, but I smile despite myself.

  “Oh, look, it’s Orion,” she says, holding her phone screen up in the air so that now all she sees is the screen, not the stars. Ridiculous. “The hunter.” She drops the phone to her side, looks at me, and then looks back up to the sky.

  “What’s he hunting?” I ask. The parking lot is eerily quiet, just the two of us. The few diners still left inside the restaurant are barely visible inside, tiny dots of heads through the windows.

  “Don’t you remember your Greek mythology? You took that class in college your senior year, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, yes I did, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay muc
h attention to the professor,” I say, staring at my wife. I had other things, like Lois, on my mind. But she doesn’t know that.

  “Orion is sort of a narcissist, actually. He thinks he’s the greatest hunter in the world, but Zeus’s wife kills him with a scorpion,” she says. “Scorpio hasn’t risen yet, it doesn’t rise until the early-morning hours when Orion goes down.” She isn’t looking at me. She’s still staring up at the sky.

  I’m not looking at her either. Not anymore.

  “Wow, a shooting star! Did you see that?” she says, slapping my shoulder with her hand. Finally, the valet pulls our car up.

  “Sorry for the wait. Somebody had blocked your car in, and I couldn’t find the keys, and sorry,” he says, rushing to open Mia’s door. Meanwhile, Mia is still staring up at the stupid hunter. “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” she says, sliding into the car. I’m already inside, more than ready to get going. The valet holds the passenger door open, no doubt looking for a tip.

  Mia notices and rummages in her purse before handing him a bill. The guy grins and says, “’Night. Thanks.” He slams the car door.

  “Big tipper tonight, eh?” I say. I usually appreciate a good tipper. People know you’re somebody if you tip well. I’ve always tipped well. It’s what a man like me should do. Mia, on the other hand, should not be spending money we do not have.

  “Poor boy was out of breath,” she says. “Anyway, what a fabulous thing to see a falling star. It blasted right through the middle of Orion’s belt. Too bad you missed it.”

  “I saw it,” I say. I am lying but I don’t want to feel left out. During our drive back to the cottage there is one more subject I need to discuss, but I had hoped Mia would have had more to drink by now. That would make her more likely to talk without thinking. Regardless, like most women, she is putty in my capable hands.

  “Hey, honey, has your father mentioned anything about your estranged uncle, his brother? The one in Texas?” I ask. I know this is coming out of left field, so I add, “The stars—Lone Star State—helped me remember to ask you.”

  “Um, no, we don’t really discuss Uncle Derrick. You know that,” she says. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just thought about him, the other day, at work—well, during a job interview. One of the agency’s biggest clients was based in Texas. Made me think of him,” I say. “Wonder how he’s doing.”

  “He’s a drug dealer or something. But he always was a lot of fun at parties when I was little,” Mia says.

  I notice she’s holding the side door handle, as if she were anticipating an accident. It’s a pose you’d assume if you knew something was coming at you head-on at any moment.

  She adds, “I should reach out to him, find out what he’s up to. You’re right.”

  “No, don’t do that. I mean, it’s never a good idea to shake the family tree. And if he’s a drug dealer we don’t want him near our boys,” I say quickly, my heart thudding in my chest. “I just brought him up because of the stars, that’s all.”

  “Oh, good point. You just never know. He could be really bad news,” she says. Mia seems to let the subject go, thankfully. We enjoy a comfortable silence for the rest of the drive back to Lakeside. I am thinking about how wonderful it is not to have to get home, pay the babysitter and then coerce the boys to sleep. I am thinking about how peaceful this moment is, just the two of us in a darkened car, silently compatible. It’s like we could be playing Scrabble or another friendly board game and growing old together. Bored game, I think with a smile.

  Sure, sometimes I imagine that I could continue on like this, feel content and make myself believe I have enough. Just the two of us, and our boys, blending in with the rest of the people who work boring jobs and then come up here on the weekends and fish for walleye. I’ll become head of advertising for the city magazine, even though they’ll call me Chief Revenue Officer. Mia, tired of working from home for John’s agency, will go into John Larson Advertising’s small office in Hilliard three days a week. She will barely make enough to cover the childcare expenses she’ll incur when in-office meetings are required by clients and run over into school pickup time, but she’ll feel productive. She’ll have lunch with her coworkers—there are only three of them besides John—and the receptionist will tell her that John has a crush on her. She’ll smile at the silly woman and tell her he’s just a friend. She’ll dream about the weekends at the lake.

  Meanwhile, at the magazine, I will report to the publisher, a woman with the vision of a mouse. She wants to be the best magazine in the city; it is the only magazine in the city. The publisher has teased her rodent-brown hair—to make it appear fuller—and has had too much Botox, so that her face is frozen in a mask of skewed aging perfection. She barely manages a wink in my direction as she escorts me out of our directors’ meeting and asks me to grab coffee with her. She trails her pastel pink fingernail down the side of my Italian suit jacket as she makes the suggestion. I tell her I’m happily married, but that I’m sure I’ll meet her revenue projections. She tells me she doesn’t care about the revenue. Later, that afternoon, she’ll insist I go to happy hour with the team, just one of her many team members. She’ll keep me in my place.

  I shudder, and hope Mia doesn’t notice. I was never made for that kind of linear, predictable and ordinary life. Guys like me don’t grow old peacefully. No, we fight it every step of the way. I suck my stomach in, the only flaw in my otherwise youthful facade. I’m like Orion, shining in the sky. Don’t get too close or I may burn you. As I pull onto our street, I note that our cottage is lit up and glowing, as welcoming as the Boones’, and maybe more so. I didn’t realize we had left so many lights on, but I guess we did.

  Beside me, Mia stretches her arms in front of her and then covers her mouth as she yawns. I’ll need to convince her to have another glass of wine or perhaps a cup of tea.

  It isn’t bedtime yet.

  10:00 p.m.

  19

  I hear Mia’s footsteps upstairs. She is in our bedroom changing out of her dress and heels. I don’t blame her. I’m reminded again of how lucky men are that we don’t have to prance around on tiptoe just to get attention from the other sex. Actually, I’ve never had trouble in the mating game, as you now know, but some women and men, well, they need to employ all the tools of the trade, respectively.

  While she’s upstairs changing, I go back outside and retrieve the plain white envelope from the glove compartment. It’s an old Thompson Payne envelope, business-sized, with the agency’s logo and return address on the upper left side. Just a plain old envelope sealed tight with a little something special inside.

  I’ve parked the car in the garage, to make Mia happy, and after I get what I’ve come for, I’ll need to push the button on the wall and then run out of the garage without tripping the sensors. If I keep this cottage, I will definitely fix the actual door to the garage. It has been wonky since we bought the place. I push the garage door button and sprint through the garage, hopping over the line where the sensor beam will detect me, and burst out of the garage into the night. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep the envelope in my hands. The universe is making up for the croissants again, no doubt.

  Still sprinting, I make it to the back door in record time and rush into the kitchen. It’s empty.

  “Mia?” I call.

  “I’m still changing,” she answers, her voice floating down the stairs to me.

  “Great. I’m going to make us a nightcap,” I say, sticking my head around the corner and talking to the stairs.

  “Sounds good,” she says. “Be down in a minute.”

  Quickly, I pull down two crystal tumblers. From the liquor cabinet—aka the cupboard above the refrigerator—I grab the brandy. We aren’t really after-dinner drink people, but tonight is special. I pour the brandy into each glass; the strong odor of the liquor s
tings my eyes. Can brandy go bad? I wonder. I don’t have time to change course, so I grab the envelope from the counter and carefully tear off the corner, ripping through “Thompson Payne” in one satisfactory motion. Typically, I wear gloves but there is not time for caution now. I pour the contents into a glass, crumple the envelope and toss it into the sink.

  There is a candle next to the sink—its green-checkered wrapper is country and screams “cottage candle.” A gift, I believe, from Mia’s mother. I reach into my pocket and pull out the matches. I strike the match, light the candle, and then light the envelope. The paper takes forever to catch fire, it seems.

  “Paul? What are you doing?” Mia asks, appearing in the kitchen suddenly and causing me to jump.

  I turn my back to the sink, blocking it, and say, “God, Mia, why do you sneak up on me like that?” I am willing the envelope to finish disintegrating behind me.

  “What’s burning?”

  I turn to the sink again, and see the envelope fully engulfed. “Gosh, I dropped the match in there after lighting the candle. Must have been a paper towel.” I turn on the faucet, dousing the flames, the white envelope now a charred mess that easily rinses away down the drain. I wash my hands with soap, and dry them with a paper towel.

  “Smokey the Bear would be proud,” Mia says. She is wearing sweatpants now. They are gray and make her look like a lazy housewife who eats too many Oreo cookies while watching daytime TV. To complete the ensemble, she has added a gray sweatshirt with the word LAKESIDE printed on it in white. Charming.

  At the sight of my expression, Mia lets out a little laugh. “I know you hate me in sweats but there’s a little chill in the air tonight. I’m so much more comfortable now.”

  “You look it,” I tell her, trying to hide my disdain with a smile. “Let’s go sit, enjoy our drinks. Light a few more candles.”