Best Day Ever

  During my second and final trip out to the car, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and check the number. I smile, though I know I can’t talk now. I’m spending a quality weekend with my wife. And quite obviously, this time together was needed. I wonder what other surprises she has for me besides her newfound desire to work and her new confidence in directly contradicting my wishes in front of strangers.

  I close the trunk and roll our suitcases up the front walk. It’s simple here, peaceful, tucked away from the hustle of the main street, the stresses of life back home. The wind ruffles the new green leaves on the oak tree and I know everything will calm down. We just need to unpack, and get our rhythm back. It’s going to be the best afternoon.

  Inside I pull the suitcases to the bottom of the stairs. I hear Mia up in our bedroom. The walls and floors are thin, a product of the time and the belief that no insulation was needed for summer cottages, I suppose. I pick up Mia’s suitcase and carry it up the stairs, placing it on the landing before I head back down to retrieve mine.

  By the time I climb upstairs again, Mia has wheeled her suitcase into our bedroom—an oasis of white furnishings with light blue walls—and is diligently unpacking as I join her in the room. There is enough space for our king-size bed, a small table on each side. That’s it. One dresser at the end of the bed is split down the middle, with each of us getting our half of each drawer. The small closet holds eight hanging items, tops. The entire room with its white furniture and bedding and curtains and cozy size typically feels very soothing. At the moment, it seems crowded. The air pulses as it did in the car. Ping.

  I glance at Mia. My wife’s face seems to have softened, the frown lines not so deep at the sides of her mouth. Maybe she is at peace with our decision, the end of the discussion. I could see that, read that feeling on her face. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking. I unzip my suitcase and unpack in silence. Instead of pursuing a conversation again, I have decided to let her be the first to speak, let her explain herself.

  She will explain herself, I’m confident of that. Mia learned this lesson years ago. It was early in our marriage and Mia was delighted to receive a call from a high school friend who was in town on business. We didn’t know we were pregnant, not yet, and so there was no reason she couldn’t meet her friend for happy hour, at least no logical reason I could come up with at the time. So she went, promising to call me if she’d be gone more than two hours.

  She forgot to call me. And she didn’t pick up any of my calls, as they rolled to voice mail one after another. I was panicked. I phoned the dive bar on High Street where she said they were going, but the bubba who answered the phone said she wasn’t there. I had been just about to call the police, something I would typically never do, when Mia waltzed through the door, eyes glistening, cheeks flushed with alcohol. She froze in the foyer, a deer in the headlights just before the truck hits.

  “Paul, what’s wrong?” I knew she could see the fire surging in my eyes.

  “You never called. Where were you? I had all these thoughts racing through my head about what had happened to you, terrible thoughts. Newlywed disappears after night on the town. That kind of headline in the Columbus Dispatch.”

  Mia took a step back, a nervous smile crossed her face. “I was with Cathy, like I told you. We decided to go to dinner. Sorry. I was having fun. We hadn’t seen each other in years.”

  My fists clenched at my sides. I took a deep breath, proud of how I had grown to handle these situations. “Mia, I’m not asking for much. Just communication. I was so worried. Come here.”

  She crossed the room and fell into my chest, smelling of beer and cigarettes, murmuring her apologies. “It won’t happen again. When Cathy and I are together, we just lose track of time. It’s always been that way. Do you understand?”

  No. “It’s selfish of you, now that you have a husband, but I understand, of course. I know it won’t happen again.”

  “No, of course it won’t,” she agreed as I pulled her hair, tilting her face toward me and pushed my lips down hard onto hers. She never did see Cathy again, of course, and she spent that night making things up to me in bed, makeup sex at its finest. I smile at the memory and I’m about to call out to Mia, to remind her of that night, but then I remember, she will be the one to speak first.

  4:00 p.m.

  8

  Mia isn’t talking to me. That much is clear. She walked out of the all-white cloud of our bedroom without saying a word. But then again, I’m not speaking to her either. We are in some weird sort of truce, or a silent argument of sorts. I hope she is reflecting on her attitude and how she is ruining our best day together.

  After all I’ve done for her and our family, you’d think she’d be more thankful, more appreciative and respectful about my stance on things, like working for my former boss for instance. It’s sheer lunacy. It will lead to drama and I hate drama. Here’s the thing, my coworkers all admire me, and my former manager John—well, he’s afraid of me. Not afraid I’m going to hurt him physically, of course. He was just afraid that I was going to take his job. Turns out, he was right.

  If he hadn’t started supporting his son’s sports team with company marketing dollars, he probably would have been able to hold on forever. But he made a critical mistake, and once I brought it to light with a few well-timed and confidential tips called into the CEO’s ridiculously titled “talk to me” voice mail, well, of course he was asked to leave. That’s all. I just don’t see any reason for Mia to begin conversing with him, even if they once worked together at Thompson Payne. The past should always be left in the past. Almost always.

  I miss Caroline. Well, actually, I miss everyone at work, but I miss her in particular. If you knew the circumstances, you’d probably tell me I’m crazy to still have these feelings, but I do. When I close my eyes, she’s the woman who pops into my mind. It’s a shame, really.

  I close the drawer to the dresser and make my way slowly down the hall. I stop in front of a framed photo of the boys, both sitting on Mia’s lap, smiles on their little-boy faces as the sun sparkles on the lake behind them. I took the photo, maybe five years ago, back when we were the guests of the Boones. But now we aren’t anyone’s guests. We are residents. Cottage owners. Second home people. The life my wife was accustomed to living—that’s what I’ve re-created for her here.

  Next to the photo of the boys and Mia is a framed picture of Mia’s parents, Phyllis and Donald Pilmer Jr. of New York City and the Hamptons. It is the same photo that was on Mia’s desk back at Thompson Payne. I pick it up to study it. Phyllis is an older version of my wife, with shorter hair and a rounder face. Donald has a large nose that Mia was fortunate not to have inherited, and round dark glasses that make him appear to be examining you closely at every encounter, as he did me on our first meeting more than a decade ago. He’s also bald, no doubt the reason for some of his disdain toward me: my full head of hair must taunt him.

  She’s their only child, my wife. I know they believe she married too young, too quickly and beneath her status. I’ve worked hard to try to win them over, of course. They’re family. Our first meeting, when I accompanied a sobbing Mia across the country for the funeral, went fine. Her parents were grieving, and basically ignored me. They underestimated my staying power and Mia’s dad in particular is probably kicking himself to this day.

  He should have seen me coming, but he didn’t. After the funeral encounter in New York, our next get-together was in Columbus. Mia invited her parents to fly in for dinner, to really get to know her new boyfriend, yours truly.

  Of course, I poured on the charm. I wore my best suit, hosted them at the city’s private dinner club on Broad Street, The Columbus Club. It was once the governor’s mansion and until just a blink of an eye ago, women could only enter through the side door. I loved that tradition. Mia’s dad seemed impressed by the history of the place a
s I showed him around while Mia and her mom sat gossiping in one of the front rooms.

  “This photo is from the 1930s, a very old boys’ camp in Maine. Exclusive. I was so lucky to go there,” I said, pointing to the framed print of gangly white boys sitting on a dock on a pristine lake. “Followed in my old man’s footsteps.”

  “Is that so,” Donald remarked. “I went to a boys’ camp in Maine. Made me who I am today.” He clapped me on the back then and I thought I was in. “How many summers?”

  Here’s the thing with the whole summer camp, boarding school, fraternity-joining, privileged act. It’s tough to fake. Whatever he was asking, it was code for something else. I pivoted. “Donald, what fraternity were you in?” By the time his answer was due, we had rejoined the ladies.

  “We had final clubs, um, you wouldn’t understand. Mia, you look beautiful,” Donald said. Snooty shit.

  The host showed us to our private room, a table for four in front of a roaring fireplace. I’d ordered a white rose centerpiece.

  “Look at those. My favorite flowers,” Phyllis cooed, leaning forward and smelling the roses. I looked up and Mia was smiling at me.

  “How thoughtful, Paul,” Mia said and squeezed my hand as I pulled out her chair for her.

  “Paul, is this for me?” Phyllis was holding the gold-encrusted antique pillbox I’d had them place at her seat. I nodded, humbly. “Exquisite. Thank you.”

  I could feel Donald staring at me with a look that was the opposite of the one that Mia and Phyllis were sending my way. But it was too late. I proposed a few months later, calling to ask Donald for Mia’s hand, giving the excuse that I couldn’t pull away from work to fly across the country and ask in person. I found out later Mia’s mother called her in tears, begging her to slow down, even though I’d already given the woman the first of what would become a sea of antique pillboxes meant to win her over, the traitor. But Phyllis was too late. The combination of chemistry and promises had set the hook; Mia was no longer under their control.

  On the plus side, they treat me with deference; they must if they want to see their only grandchildren. Somehow they know this, perhaps because I may have implied it to Donald during our second phone call, shortly after we announced we were having a baby.

  “Congratulations, Paul. Quick work.” Donald’s words were filled with distaste, like he’d eaten a rotten egg and didn’t know where to spit it out.

  “Thank you so much, Donald, or should I say, Grandpa,” I said. I stood in my office, my corner office at the ad agency, feeling like the world was my oyster. And it was. “Now may be a good time to establish a trust, you know, for the grandkids. I just read an article about that.”

  “Did you? How interesting. Let me give you a little advice, Paul. Do not presume to tell me how to invest my money. I will take care of my daughter and her children. But don’t expect anything from me, Paul. Not a dime. I see you for what you are.” His words sounded like gravel. Too bad he wasn’t warming up to his only son-in-law. His loss. We could have gone fishing together, or perhaps, joined an investment club together. I know from my research that he likes to take expensive trips. Golfing in Scotland with his only son-in-law would have been swell.

  “Listen, Donald. Can I speak freely here? I take good care of your daughter, and I will take good care of your only grandchildren. I’m not sure why you don’t like me, but I wish you and I could build a relationship. It could benefit both of us, you see. I help you keep your relationship with Mia and your grandchildren—a relationship you know won’t end well if you make her choose between us—and you get to take on the son you never had. Let’s take a trip together, to Scotland or somewhere. How about it? You might just change your mind about me.” I prowled to the corner of my office, wiped some dust off the ficus tree leaf. The cleaning service clearly needed to be changed again.

  “We will not be friends, young man, and you are certainly not my son. You are my daughter’s husband. That’s it. Nothing more.” This time his voice was quiet.

  I dropped mine to match. “Well, your loss. But like you, I’m king of my castle and if you ever want to see your grandkids, you better make sure the king is happy. Talk soon.” After I hung up, I called my secretary. My plant was drowning in dust. It was embarrassing, really. What if a client noticed? “Change cleaning companies, immediately.”

  “Mr. Strom, we just changed services two months ago. Give them a chance.” I know my secretary didn’t want to go through the work of finding another cleaning service but too bad. I didn’t like the way my secretary was looking at me lately, like she was sizing me up. Disrespect from the help isn’t ever tolerated. I would need to make two changes, it appeared.

  “This is not up for discussion. Just do it,” I said. “And go ahead and take an extra half hour for lunch. You deserve it.” I was a demanding boss, but I could be kind, too. Just ask anybody. Up to a point. This one had reached it. When my patience ran out, it was over. She’d find that out when she came back from her extra long lunch break.

  But with Mia’s parents, I must be subtle in my control. I allow the Pilmers to see the boys, of course, ever since Mia told me they’d set up large trust funds for them. So nice, and she gave me access to the accounts so I could monitor them. I was sure old Donald wouldn’t like that, but too bad. Mia was in love and what was hers was mine.

  And when they are granted a visit, my in-laws dote on Mikey and Sam just like grandparents are supposed to, bringing them age-appropriate presents as they should. I make sure that chance doesn’t happen too often, stretching out time between visits—theirs to Ohio and ours to New York—to be certain absence makes their hearts grow fonder, or at least kinder, when it comes to their only son-in-law. I know Mia and her mom do video chats often, and the boys get to see their only living grandma then. Now that I’ve made Phyllis a grandmother she’s gotten over any lingering reservations about our hasty marriage, so I keep sending the pillboxes. Easy trade.

  It’s nice that Mia came from a family of means, especially at year-end when they gift us serious cash. We often don’t make it to New York for Christmas; usually I have a work commitment conveniently pop up. But the money still arrives, checks tucked inside crisp linen envelopes. Four checks, one made out to each of us. Arguably, this could have been a reason to have a third child. Had I known about these checks rolling in every year, or calculated the payment over the life of a third child, I probably would have said yes to another.

  Helps out a lot, those gifts, but they won’t arrive for another seven months. That is not in time. Mia’s quarterly stock dividends don’t hurt either, although that money already has been spent. I can’t even imagine how many shares we will end up with in all of those blue chip companies, once Phyllis and Donald pass. They’re younger than my parents were, but they live in a big, crazy city, so who knows what could happen to them. Her inheritance could appear any day, anytime now. Just like the letter that appeared from Mia’s Texas uncle, Donald’s brother Derrick, the family’s black sheep. Wasn’t expecting that at all. That’s why there is no need to worry about money. Opportunities arise all the time. I’ve been waiting to share the Texas news with Mia and I will, when the time is right.

  Of course, I knew Mia Pilmer was rich, was told that before I even met her. But I didn’t even think about her money when I was courting her. I was an established advertising executive and she was a young beauty just out of college. Why would I ever have thought of such a thing as her future inheritance from her parents, or an uncle or otherwise? That would have been shallow.

  I have heard the rumors that Mia’s father is a corrupt businessman who learned everything from his father, Donald Pilmer senior. I’m sure you’ve heard them, too, so I’m not being a gossip. It’s just that whenever a certain family is that rich for generations, you can be sure they cheated somewhere along the line. Robber barons, investment bankers, bankers in general, you know the ty
pe. Especially when they’re from New York. You may think I sound like I’m jealous, but far from it. I appreciate a good con job, and I’m benefiting from the corruption myself, so more power to the Pilmers. It’s just that you have to be careful in families like this one. One day your luck runs out. You just don’t want to be the generation that blows it, the end of the line so to speak. At least my boys will carry the Strom name on their passports, even as they carry the Pilmer cash in their pockets.

  I hear the front door open and wonder if Mia is coming or going. I place the photo of her parents back down on the hall table, next to the photo of my family, minus me. I notice I’ve left fingerprints on both of the silver frames. I don’t feel like wiping them off.

  5:00 p.m.

  9

  I hurry down the stairs and discover Mia has gone outside; she’s standing on our front lawn, the phone pressed to her ear. She is probably driving the babysitter crazy with her check-ins every few hours. I know I’d want to smack her. Maybe that’s why Claudia is on drugs, to deal with Mia’s incessant calls.

  I walk into the kitchen and note the time on the round clock tacked to the wall above the back door. It’s five o’clock. A perfectly acceptable time to enjoy a cocktail, I realize. I look around the simple kitchen, getting my bearings again after not being here since last summer. Everything is in place, thanks to Mia and the cleaning crew she called. I notice the bill on the counter.