“Yes, he does,” Annie says. “But one of those books where the woman is crazy and you can’t trust a thing she says.”
They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clinking a glass, and the crowd begins to disperse, moving toward the front of the room, where the candidate is poised to speak. “Listen, there’s a bunch of us who get together sometimes,” Sidney says, in a hushed tone. “Dinner Club, we call it. Mandy, Ash. You remember them, Sam.”
Sam nods, though he hasn’t the faintest idea who she means.
“You should join us.”
“That’d be fun,” Annie says. “Sam will bake cookies.”
The women smile and walk away, toward the candidate, who is calling for people’s attention. Sam reaches for his drink, seeing the expression on Annie’s face. “What?” he whispers.
“‘Probably an orange’?”
“You heard that?” he asks, smirking.
“Yes, I heard that.”
“It was funny.”
She rolls her eyes again and walks past him, toward a guy with a tray of champagne. “Okay, heartbreaker. Whatever you say.”
Chapter 8
Sam is at work, and I am in a five-star mood.
The Mumble Twins had a major breakthrough during their session this morning, and I couldn’t be happier. Mumbly Wife wanted to spend the summer in Spain, but Mumbly Husband took a job without telling her. A freelance design gig for Apple (at least I think that’s what he said; the two of them talk like they’ve got marbles in their mouths). He couldn’t turn it down, and it led to a big fight, which led them to an appointment with Sam at ten o’clock this morning and the realization of a harmful and long-standing dynamic between them. It’s related to how critical Mumbly Husband’s mother was, and it’s too much to get into, but between their good news and the crisp scent of autumn in the air, I am in a fabulous mood.
I can hardly remember the early days anymore, those first weeks after moving here, when I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, agreeing to this whole situation. Moving into a money pit of a house. Giving up the city for this place. Chestnut Hill, NY, where every day feels like Wednesday.
But if Wednesday is going to be anything like this past Wednesday, I am all for it. That’s the day I pulled out of Farrell’s at 1:00 p.m. with a trunk full of groceries and spotted Sam through the window of the Parlor. I parked at the bank, snuck up behind him at the bar, where he was doing the crossword puzzle and nursing a seltzer with lime. We enjoyed a quiet lunch, the fish sandwich for him, a Mediterranean sampler for me. The whole thing was so marvelously relaxed, nothing like the stress of the city, where I would never think of ordering a twenty-dollar lunch entree, not worrying about a thing in the world. Until I lied to Sam again.
Not for the first time, he asked if I had given any more thought to my long-term plans, and while he did his best to keep any judgment from his voice, I could sense the underlying message. Are you ever going to do something useful with your days? I hate feeling stupid, and so I lied. “Funny you should ask,” I said. “I just so happened to accept a volunteer position today. I was planning on telling you at happy hour.”
Tour guide at the Chestnut Hill Historical Society, I said, all smiles. I’d been thinking about volunteering for some time (somewhat true), and, on a whim, went to the organization’s website (less true, but not out of the question). I saw the volunteer posting and decided to apply (patently false).
Sam was polite enough not to point out what we both know is true: I am exceedingly overqualified for this (fake) volunteer opportunity. But we agreed it was something to do, and to be honest, I’ve been enjoying the image of myself leading a busload of old biddies from Boston up and down Main Street, pointing out all the shops under new management, necessary amenities for the recent settlers from the city. Mid-century floor lamps. Farmhouse dining tables. Eighteen-dollar hamburgers that don’t have the decency to come with a side of fries.
And while lying to Sam is a terrible habit, there are worse things for me than getting into the shower and out of the house two hours a day, three times a week (that’s my schedule, subject to change). I’ve made a list of the cultural destinations I plan to visit on the hours I need to be out of the house, making the most of this lie, starting right now, at three o’clock on a lovely Wednesday afternoon, my first day on the “job”: the Chestnut Hill Historical Society. It is, after all, only fitting that I start here, and my spirits are high when I pull into the parking lot in front of the little white house. Built in 1798, it houses a collection of pieces from when Chestnut Hill was a thriving center of brick manufacturing, a display of artifacts from the Civil War, and a permanent exhibit on the Lawrences, the town’s founding family.