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 as 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.