On the morning of our wedding, I told Frank about the baby. I’d been waiting for the right moment, and it seemed to be the one. He was ecstatic, of course, though I never doubted he would be. His joy gave me joy, but so did this new life inside of me. It made me feel…less alone. In London, Frank had always been available. But in California, he was scarce. And even with Bonnie, our housekeeper, bustling in and out, I felt constant pangs of loneliness. But when my mind lingered too long in the past, or I found myself missing Millie, I looked down at my round belly and remembered that I was not one, but two.
Never in my life had I suffered insomnia, but in this new place, I found myself tossing and turning for hours, long after Frank began snoring beside me. I read books to pass the time and wrote letters to Millie. When sleeplessness bled into the early morning hours, I’d walk to the bedroom window and count the stars, before the sun peered up over the horizon and Frank got up for work. Later, Bonnie would bring breakfast up on a tray, then sit in the chair by the window, encouraging me to eat a bite of this or that. Food didn’t interest me, but her stories did, particularly of the family she left behind in her native Russia. She reminded me that I wasn’t the only one experiencing homesickness.
Permanent dark circles formed under my eyes. In those months, I was so nauseous from the pregnancy that I often stayed in bed until noon, and sometimes later. But while the morning sickness eventually passed, the loneliness didn’t. California was supposed to be the fun capital of the world, but it had the opposite effect on me, somehow. In fact, it made me feel like a vegetative version of myself.
“Come out to the patio and sit by the pool,” Bonnie said one afternoon, doing her best to extricate me from the gloom of the bedroom. “A little sunshine will do you good.” I acquiesced, but only because I didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Here,” she said, handing me an oversized black straw hat as I settled into a chaise longue by the pool. I imagined it was one of many things Frank must have had Bonnie purchase before my arrival, including the myriad of luxury toiletries in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet. I smiled to myself, thinking back to my first day in Los Angeles. He’d been so excited to bring me home and show me all of the preparations he’d made—for me. No one else had shown me such generosity, and I was at once overcome by a surge of gratitude.
I fitted the hat on my head, eyeing my reflection in the window. Frayed at the edges—purposefully—and floppy in all the right places, it oozed glamour, and I loved it immediately.
“It suits you,” Bonnie said, smiling approvingly as my baby kicked against the edges of my belly. She brought out a pitcher of iced tea and poured me a tall glass, squeezing a fresh lemon wedge on top.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for the book I’d begun reading last night, The Last Winter. I’d purchased it in London, at the recommendation of a friend at Harrods—Gemma, whom I hadn’t pegged as a reader, but when she went on and on about her favorite books, I remembered that it’s never a good idea to judge a book, or a person, by her cover.
I found a copy at the bookstore I used to frequent on my lunch breaks while tending the ladies’ accessories counter at Harrods. I couldn’t believe it’d taken me this long to pick it up again. Funny to be reading a book with “winter” in the title while in the peak of summer—in California, home of the endless summer. And yet as I immersed myself in the story, it felt…perfect. The main character, a prima ballerina named Cezanne, lived a life that felt achingly familiar, perhaps only to me.
I read chapter after chapter before my eyelids grew heavy—not from the story, but rather, from my weariness. Yes, Cezanne and I were kindred spirits, but our lives took divergent paths. As I closed my eyes, I thought about that. While I had security and comfort that she did not, Cezanne wasn’t willing to give up on the love she knew to be true, or herself.
* * *
—
When I woke, the sun had shifted in the sky. It now hid behind the row of palm trees in the side yard. I heard voices inside the house followed by a slamming door. Then I saw Frank standing over me.
“Oh, hello,” I said groggily, sitting up to greet him with every last bit of cheerfulness I could muster. “It’s a beautiful day,” I said, reaching my hand out to him, but he didn’t take it.
“That hat,” he said pacing beside me. “Where did you get it?”
I reflexively touched its wide brim, confused and a little worried. Had I displeased him somehow? His mouth was tense—his lips pressed together tightly—and there wasn’t a hint of kindness in his eyes.
“Bonnie…gave it to me.” I paused. “Is something the matter? I assumed that you…bought it for me?”
He shook his head, neither answering my question nor confirming the source of his frustration. “She shouldn’t have given this to you.”
“Oh,” I said. I lifted the hat from my head and set it on the chaise longue, feeling like a child who’d been caught wearing her mother’s prized necklace without permission.
Frank sighed, then retrieved the hat and walked inside, closing the sliding door with a forceful shove.
It must have been a gift he’d purchased for me. I wasn’t supposed to find it yet. Of course. He’d only been upset because I’d ruined the surprise. That, and maybe he had a bad day at the office.
But as the sun dipped below the horizon, taking its warmth along with it, my skepticism grew. I shivered as the wind picked up, rustling the palm trees overhead, as if they were whispering a secret—a secret I wasn’t privy to.
* * *
—
In the following weeks, Frank was mostly absent. There were several business trips I knew about, of course, but also the late nights at the office that took me by surprise. One evening, I’d even planned a special dinner for him and made my mum’s meatball recipe, but his plate sat on the dining room table for three hours and got cold.
“He’s such a good man,” Bonnie mused one morning as she fixed me a plate of raspberries with heavy cream for breakfast—my favorite. “He works very hard, so he can spoil you, Mrs. Baker!”
I reminded myself that American men were more devoted to their careers. I thought of Roger Williams, the playboy. He spent his days meeting women, and his nights forgetting them. I grimaced at the memory, and yet, if not for Roger, I wouldn’t have met Edward, which, in some ways, made me wish I hadn’t met Roger.
“Bonnie?” I asked, picking at my bowl of berries.
“Yes, dear?”
“You know Frank quite well, don’t you?”
She smiled from the sink, where she was loading the dishwasher. “Well, he’s been my employer for fourteen years now, so yes, I suppose so.”
“It’s just that,” I begin, “he got so upset with me the other day, over the silliest thing—that straw hat.”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you have any idea why?” I took a deep breath. “The way he looked at me, the way he spoke…I’ve been playing it over and over again in my mind. There was resentment in his eyes.”
“No, no,” Bonnie replied. “Mr. Baker does not resent you! He loves you!”
I shook my head. “But…”
“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Baker,” she said, returning to the sink. “He’s just been working too hard, that’s all.” She smiled. “It takes its toll on a man.”