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 br?lée 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.