Mia looks like she’s about to give her rebuttal when Teenage Nightmare appears and drops Mia’s salad in front of her and my pizza, with a plunk of tin, in front of me. It smells heavenly. Pepperoni pizza is the scent of happiness and escape. It’s what you get to eat when you’re having fun, when you don’t have worries about weight or money or anything more than what’s on television tonight. Pizza is bliss in my book.
I take a big bite of bliss. I feel grease dripping down my chin. This pizza tastes so good I’m tempted to keep eating instead of using my napkin. Sloopy’s chef won an international award, traveled to Italy to compete over this pizza. I savor the bite but I do wipe my face.
Mia picks up where we left off. “How would you know if we talk more than other couples? What friends of yours would you measure that against?” she says. She has a black olive stabbed on her fork, poised in the air like a miniature hammer. She puts the olive in her mouth and chews slowly. She is implying I don’t have any friends. This is a theme she has been pushing all day for some reason. She knows I don’t have time for friends. I am focused on family. This is my role right now. I am tired of this entire discussion. It’s time for a pivot.
“Actually, I’d say it’s the opposite—other couples measure themselves against us and come up lacking. We are blessed. Handsome, healthy children, the best home on the street.” I set down my slice of pepperoni heaven and watch her eye it with distaste. Together we watch as the greasy cheese oozes onto my plate. “Anyway, I’m starting to think this is a silly conversation. We’re in our favorite vacation place in the world. It’s time to relax and enjoy ourselves. In fact, there’s really only one issue I’d like to discuss before we officially commence our vacation and that’s to talk about this so-called job you think you’re starting on Monday. Isn’t that what I heard you say, honey?” I’m smiling, tilting my head with sympathetic understanding, like when you discover your child has accidentally wet his pants. They’re embarrassed it has even happened so you treat them with compassion, not anger. That’s what I’ve learned to try to do. It’s not easy, feigning care.
Mia’s face gathers into a storm, blue eyes narrowed, chin pointed at me in anger. “Yes, Paul, that is what I said. I am starting my job Monday. I’m a virtual employee, and I am excited about this new opportunity. You should say congratulations.”
Lacking any other idea, I shove the remainder of the slice of pizza into my mouth, cheese strings cling to my chin before I wipe them away. I chew slowly. My wife does not work. That is not our situation. No matter what. She stays at home and cares for the house and for the children. Optimally, she learns to cook, but at the very least, she sets a nice table. This is what we talked about, what we agreed to, even on our very first date.
How different is the face looking at me across the table from that night with the crème brûlée more than a decade ago. That magical evening, we’d arrived at Diamond’s restaurant at almost the same time, and as I held the door open for Mia, I fought the urge to lean forward and kiss her. I smelled the fresh floral scent of her hair, I noted the way her black dress hugged her body, and I saw her blue eyes sparkle in the dim restaurant light as she looked over her shoulder, tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled back at me.
We’d spent almost three hours at dinner, talking and laughing, getting to know each other. Her expressions were loving and warm, never challenging. She shared her dreams and I followed suit. So of course she discovered we both wanted kids, and how we both longed for the traditional American family. She didn’t exactly articulate the whole working dad, stay-at-home mom part of the dream. But that was fine, it would take time and gentle persuasion. I knew I’d fallen for a working woman, but she didn’t really need the job, not with me providing for her. Not with the trust fund she came with. It was so endearing, though. Many of the wealthy are lazy; they don’t even attempt to prove their worth. Not Mia. She was a hard worker, a skilled copywriter. She was. The job was valuable to her, for her, for that moment in time. It brought us together, because otherwise, our two worlds never would have collided.
“So, your goal is children and a white picket fence?” I asked over the flickering candlelight. My heart was beating with excitement. She was my perfect woman.
“Yes, of course. The whole suburban dream.” She smiled. “I mean, after I work for a while. I love my job. I’m not in a hurry. And fortunately I’m young.”
Yes, she was, but I was smart. Work was only fun if you were assigned good projects, if you were praised, learning. I could stop all her momentum at Thompson Payne with a few well-placed words to the partners. And once she was pregnant, she wouldn’t need an office to make her feel important. She’d have me. And a baby.
“There’s no more important job than being a mom,” I said, leaning forward and fighting the urge to reach for her hand. It was too soon. There were certain steps one must take when reeling in the object of one’s desire. It was time to listen, to continue to research her family, her past. But I did have a few more discoveries, like what she wrote in her high school yearbook as her “biggest wish.”
“There’s another dream, too, right? There must be a bestselling novel floating around in that pretty little head. You can write during naptime.”
Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “You’ve thought of everything. How did you know I want to write a novel?”
How indeed. “Most copywriters are frustrated novelists, I’ve found.”
We agreed, it seemed, on everything. I am not revising history. I’m not. She dreamed of a husband. Check. Traveling the world. (I told her we would, but we wouldn’t.) She dreamed of a home in the suburbs and children. Check. She dreamed of being a working mom. (No way.) She dreamed of finding an older, more sophisticated man who could provide for her and teach her the meaning of love. Check.
It was all pretty easy, really. I didn’t even have to charm her that much. And when I walked her to the valet line outside Diamond’s that night, I’d slipped my hand around her waist, sending a bolt of electricity straight through me. She leaned against me slightly as we waited for her car.
“See you tomorrow. Thank you for a wonderful night,” Mia said as she slid behind the wheel of her car, a VW Rabbit of all things, while I tipped the valet. I held the top of her car door and leaned forward, hoping for a kiss, my head literally dizzy with desire and the bottle of wine we had shared.
“I had the best time, thank you for coming,” I said. Mia tilted her head and then lifted her face toward me as I leaned in and gently brushed my lips against hers. After a moment, I pulled away. I had confirmed we both wanted more, needed more.
“See you tomorrow, beautiful.” I closed the door and waved as she pulled away, wheels bumping along the brick streets of this historical part of town. I didn’t really need to sabotage her career at the agency. As soon as she found out she was pregnant just a few weeks after our honeymoon, she had one foot out the door. I mean, she had been complaining for months. Soon after our first date, she’d been assigned to the boring electronics account and as everyone knows, technical copywriting is the worst. She hated that account. I have no idea why she was assigned to it. Well, maybe I suggested it. But still, it helped her see where she belonged: at home. It all worked out, she agreed.
But now, right now, we aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything. Not food, not the kids, not about her working outside the home. I know, you’re thinking, given most couple’s circumstances in general, and mine in particular—and you don’t even know the whole story—I should be grateful she wants to bring in some extra money to the household. Perhaps I’ll consider it. But not if it means she’ll be working with John. No way. Together, they each know too many pieces of me.
“I can’t congratulate you, Mia, because I forbid it,” I tell her now. In my lap, my hands are clenched into fists. I’m furious. I know what happens at workplaces. I’ve shredded my napkin and white bits sprinkle the g
round around my feet like snowflakes.
Mia’s face cracks into a smile and then she begins to laugh. It is not a happy laugh. Our pink-striped waitress appears and refills our iced tea with a quick, sloppy pour from a plastic pitcher.
“Glad to see somebody is having a good time. What’s so funny?” the girl asks. She’s quite sure of herself. Millennials have no respect for private conversations. I’m about to swat away Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle when Mia says, “Him.”
Mia points her index finger at me. “My husband doesn’t want me to go back to work. I’m trying to convince him I’m bored all day, with our boys in school. But he doesn’t think women should work outside the home once they marry. He’s so old-fashioned that way. It’s charming, I suppose. I guess he wants me all to himself.” Mia winks at me, smiling. I don’t believe the smile is sincere, however.
Ghost of Teenage Future says, “That’s sort of awesome. I mean, I guess if you want to work he should let you. Everybody should be able to do what they want but it sounds like you have a pretty sweet deal. Me, personally, I’m marrying a rich guy, staying home and having babies.”
I’ve found an unlikely ally, one with a ring through her nose and black eyeliner soaring like bats from either eye. I guess you could say she has her own style. “Yes, my wife is living the dream, the perfect scenario, just like you will one day.” I nod at Mia, who is staring at me and shaking her head back and forth in a slow, measured no. “Can we have the check, please? And a to-go box for my last slice.”
“Sure,” says the waitress, hurrying away. I wonder if we now scare her more than she scared me.
“You’re one of a kind, Paul,” Mia says. She slides out of our booth with ease. I feel as if she is running away from me but that’s ridiculous. We arrived here together. She has nowhere to go. “I’ll meet you at the car. I need to make a call. To Claudia.”
“Tell her the money will be in the account in half an hour,” I say. Mia turns and walks to the exit, pushes with both hands and bangs her way out through the screen door. I watch her walk down the sidewalk until she disappears. I need to fix this tension, calm her down. My wife shouldn’t be running away from me, she should be standing by my side. I’m good at this, I remind myself. I’m typically calm and in control, hiding the fire deep inside. The past six months have been tough, and I’ve lost a bit of my power around the home—it seems apparent by this display, by the car ride conversation, too, that Mia isn’t pleased with me. But I’m not worried. I know Mia, my empathetic, sweet wife. And of course, I have my plan.
I briefly consider making a call, too. It would be nice to speak with someone kind and loving, someone still enamored with me. But I counsel myself against it.
There will be time later for that.
2:00 p.m.
7
I pay the bill and slide my last slice of bliss into the box for later. It’s so cheap here compared to prices in the city, and I tip the pink-haired girl generously. I see that she’s watching me, clearly attracted to an older, sophisticated and successful man. No doubt she’d like a father figure in her life. I smile and slip out of the booth. I need to focus. I need to find Mia.
I pull on my sunglasses as I step out into the sunshine and onto the busy sidewalk. Tourists are walking up and down this main shopping street, meandering three across like human roadblocks, mindlessly weaving and darting into the trinket stores and art shops. There should be a rule that adults cannot walk three abreast or even two across on crowded sidewalks. Everyone should walk single file, destination in their sights, briskly and with purpose. Unfortunately, humans are like sheep, most of the time. They need a shepherd or they are a milling-about mess.
Except children, I realize, as a gang of youngsters runs past me. They are purpose driven. Our kids are no different. They love this street. Down here they can buy candy and cheap new toys with quarters and, at the most, dollars. I see a couple of boys zip by on bicycles and think fondly of my sons. I miss them, just now. I picture their small hands waving goodbye as I dropped them at school this morning. So sweet, so trusting. I’ll be with them again soon. Right now I need to find my wife and I’m anxious to get to the cottage.
I spot Mia and relief washes over me. She is leaning against the side of the Ford Flex, staring at me while she talks on her phone. I wave but she does not. She ends her phone call as I close the distance between us. I pull her into my arms, careful not to get pizza grease from the box on her lovely blue sweater.
“Honey, let’s not fight anymore. Let’s think about this job thing, not just jump at the first offer. If, after you’ve given it some thought, after we’ve weighed the pros and cons together, you’re still interested in getting back into the advertising game, let’s send your résumé out and get a number of offers.” Problem solved. It’s what I do.
She looks up into my eyes; her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word. I release her and open the passenger door for her, and she slides into the car. I close the door behind her and walk to my side, chuckling at the memory of our first date, and the difference ten years can make.
“It’s almost strawberry time,” I say, changing the subject. “Almost time to see your little strawberry babies.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m excited to see how they’re doing,” she says. She sounds genuine, happy. We’re back on track, I think. I push the button to roll down our windows, enjoying the breeze from the lake to my left. Between the lake and this street lies the heart of Lakeside, the main park with a putt-putt golf course, children’s playground, a performance gazebo and shuffleboard courts. Shuffleboard is serious business here. I hear the church bell clang twice. Two o’clock. This day is moving quickly.
Past the park, the bicycles thin out and I can drive a bit faster, fifteen miles per hour now. At Laurel Street, I turn right, forcing myself to ignore the Boones’ huge cottage dominating the corner, hoping they aren’t here for the weekend. Once on Laurel, our cottage is on my left, bright white against the lush green grass of our yard. I turn into our driveway and take a breath as I bring the car to a stop. Before I even turn off the ignition, Mia is out of the car without saying a word. I put the car in Park and reach for the to-go box I placed on the floor in the back behind me. It’s holding the last slice of pizza from lunch and I’m tempted to gobble it down right now. But I should follow Mia. She’s headed to check on her strawberry crop no doubt.
As I make my way to the backyard, following her, I’m startled. There’s a man standing next to Mia, looking down at the garden. The man is fit, with broad shoulders and dark brown hair. It’s Buck, I realize quickly. I would know him anywhere. They stand so close their shoulders are almost touching. Buck and Mia. How long has he been standing back here, awaiting Mia’s arrival? Is she the highlight of his day, his week?
“Hey, Buck,” I say, my voice ricocheting against the back fence, sounding loud and strong. I’m protecting what’s mine, the voice says.
“Paul,” Buck says, turning around and extending his hand. His chiseled face is shaved and wrinkle-free. I notice a dimple on his right cheek that I hadn’t seen before. How cute. I shake his hand firmly, hoping it hurts.
“They’ve taken root, Paul. Buck has done me such a favor, caring for them like he has,” Mia says. Her voice drips with admiration and affection, the opposite tone from the tone I’d experienced most of today. She puts her hand on Buck’s forearm and adds, “I better go help Paul unload the car. Come over for happy hour tonight?”
What? I’m stunned. This is our weekend together. What is she doing inviting Buck over for drinks without even asking me first? “Honey, we have plans,” I say. “Sorry, Buck. It’s our little getaway weekend. I’m sure you understand.”
“No problem,” Buck says, blinking but holding my gaze.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul. Buck has been an invaluable help with the strawberries. Let’s be neighbor
ly, shall we? Come by at six,” she says before walking past me back in the direction of our car. I turn and watch her, unable to face Buck. I’ve been humiliated but there is nothing more I want to say to this man right now. I walk away, heading back to the car, leaving Buck alone in our backyard. I imagine him standing there smugly, our neighbor the garden gnome, watching me follow my wife like a trained dog. Well, this dog isn’t well trained, and he’s a guard dog. This will not be the last on this topic.
I reach the Ford Flex as Mia is unloading the trunk, carrying the laundry basket from our house. I have no idea what she has filled it with but most likely it’s stuff we don’t need up here, and probably didn’t need back in Grandville either. Creature comforts are coming out of our ears. We’re so blessed.
“Mia, can we talk?” I say, standing between my wife and the house.
“Can you help carry things inside first? I’d like to get settled,” she says, stepping around me. I notice she doesn’t have the key to the cottage, but she turns the handle of the front door and walks inside. Why was the cottage unlocked? I wonder.
“Mia, wait,” I say, hurrying to the door. “The door wasn’t locked. I need to make sure no one has broken in.”
“Paul, the cleaning crew came today. I told them to leave it unlocked,” she says, pushing past me to carry her white plastic basket to the family room couch. “Can you go get a load?”
How different this scene is than what I’d fantasized. There will be no eager lovemaking to kick off our preseason excursion, not with the stupid neighbor lurking in plain sight in the backyard.
“Sure,” I say, walking back to the front door. The cottage is small, maybe 2,000 square feet, but it’s lovely. Hardwood floors make the space warm and inviting. The first floor boasts a screened-in porch, a comfortable kitchen and dining room, and a small family room. Upstairs, there are three small bedrooms. It was built in 1927 or so, after the first big building blitz of summer cabins right next to the lake. The second wave of building was more refined if you ask me. The second block back from the lake provides each home with more land. More land means bigger homes. I love the big oak tree in the front yard and I love that we have plenty of green grass all around the cottage. Quickly, I peek into the backyard and notice that Buck is gone. Certainly, he won’t go against my wishes and come over for drinks. This is our special day and three is a crowd.