But he’d said, somewhat dismissively, “You can go. I talked to your mom and she said she’d be happy to have the twins for a couple of weeks this summer.”
“You talked to my mother before you talked to me?” Hillary’s blood pressure had begun to rise, but that was par for the course these last few months. Their marriage was on shaky ground, and apparently, he’d decided they would take their troubled marriage and go to England, right in the middle of the house-buying season in the States to see some old house that his mother hadn’t even mentioned. Hillary could picture it: a dump, some crumbling little cottage where cows walked in and out, feasting on the thatched roof. It would be more work than it was worth. And for that, she was supposed to take time away from the job that kept a roof over their heads.
Matthew no longer spoke to her—he informed her of decisions he had no right to decide, like some king on a throne.
It had been like this between them since Matthew had lost his corporate job at a national mortgage company. The housing industry had turned belly up like some diseased whale, and it was a miracle that Hillary had managed to hang on to her business. But then again, she’d spent ten years cultivating her clients, and she was dealing in properties that were recession-proof, and her job provided them with a good standard of living.
But Matthew seemed to grow more distant the more apparent it became that she could provide them with a good living and he couldn’t find a job.
At first, he’d believed he’d find another job very quickly. “I’ve got some major experience,” he’d said confidently when the pink slip had come. “I’m not worried. I don’t want you to worry, either.”
She didn’t worry. In the first couple of months, Matthew had papered banks and mortgage companies and financial institutions with his stellar resume. He had been upbeat when he’d called his contacts. Several people promised him he had a leg up.
But the weeks dragged by and nothing came of it.
“The economy sucks right now, bro,” his friend, a banker at a national bank, told him. “No one’s hiring. You might have to ride it out.”
Hillary knew that men tended to be defined by their jobs and their incomes, and without them, they could feel emasculated. Matthew was not the sort of guy who could ride things out. He needed to be doing, to be moving and shaking, and it had become clear that when he wasn’t doing those things, he didn’t quite know what to do. Six months after the pink slip came, Matthew was beginning each day in his pajamas, in front of ESPN Sportscenter. He snapped when Hillary asked him what his plans were. He grew impatient with their six year-old twins, Mickey and Mallory. Hillary and Matthew’s sex life took a long vacation.
Hillary tried to talk to him about it. “I feel like we aren’t…connecting,” she’d said one day when he’d met her for lunch. They weren’t connecting emotionally, sexually, or even casually. But the moment she’d said it out loud, Matthew had looked down at his plate and sighed. “Hillary, come on,” he’d said. “I’m going through a hard time. Can you just…let it go for now?”
She had let it go, but not because he asked. Because she honestly didn’t know how to proceed with him. Was she supposed to be the patient wife and wait it out? Was she supposed to prod him along? And really, how long was she supposed to wait for her husband to come back to her?
These were the questions swirling about her head when his mother’s estate had been probated and the mysterious house in England had been discovered.
Hillary hadn’t paid much attention to all of the chatter between the siblings about the England house. She had enough on her plate trying to be a top-producing realtor, a mom, and wife to a man who was clearly mired in a major depression. She was too busy cooking dinner after working all day, then picking up the house after a day of Matthew. She remembered looking at him as he’d talked about that damn house, wondering if they were ever going to make love again, or if she was going to be stuck in one of those loveless, sexless marriages. She missed Matthew. She missed the guy she’d met twelve years ago who’d made her laugh and sent her roses for no reason. The guy who never started a day without a smile, who could not keep his hands from her.
And then he’d announce they were going to England, and he’d already arranged it, and they had a huge argument in which they’d both hurled words that were probably better left unsaid. At the end of it, Hillary had pleaded with him. “I can’t go on like this,” she’d said. “Our marriage is falling apart.”
“Just do this one thing for me, Hillary,” he’d said. “Just this. Please.”