You, dear, are my pile of cash, I think, but I don’t say it. I know I should feel shame, but I don’t. We will be fine. She is loaded and things will work out.
“You’re overthinking this, Mia,” I say. “We are fine, we’re a team. I will take care of my family, my boys. I expect to take an offer next week.” I also expect her to smile and nod, but she doesn’t. I will take the stupid job, just to show her I’m wanted. I soften my tone, tilt my head to the side. “Honey, I can’t believe you’d doubt me, after all we’ve been through. I’m a good provider, a good husband. You know this. Everything will be fine. So you see, this conversation is a waste of time. It’s causing too much drama. Stress is bad for you, bad for your health. And you know how I hate drama. Now let’s get back to a nice evening. Sound good, honey?” She needs to help me douse the flames. Please, Mia. Help me help you.
Mia tilts her head, mirroring me, and tosses her hands in the air before dropping them to the table as a new waiter, perhaps someone’s assistant, appears at our table with my drink and Mia’s wine. I am pleased. I’ve decided to drop the entire working for John thing. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. For one thing, she knows everything, which she should have told me sooner. For another, well, I do have a plan.
I hear Mia let out her breath, a quiet whoosh. I wonder what else she’s heard about me, what else she has been waiting to question me about. Is this the first raindrop leading up to a torrential downpour, or is this little shower, this little job situation, all she has been worked up about, the cause of all the tension in the car? At this table? Ping.
My house salad arrives with mild fanfare, silver cover removed with theatrical flair. I take a bite. The lettuces are dark green, arugula, kale and perhaps even a dandelion green. I taste sweet onion and tangy blue cheese. The dressing is vinaigrette, not too tart. Appreciation of fine food is an important facet of successful men like me. I have this down. It’s an art I like to teach younger people, younger women especially. Gretchen has been a quick study.
“Pepper for your salad?” a voice says. Our waiter has returned from Siberia.
“Yes, please. Two rounds,” I say, making eye contact with him. I’m challenging him nonverbally. Lucky for him, he submits. He quickly finds something very interesting in my salad to look at.
“Ma’am, you need anything at all?” he asks. Who is this guy? Some sort of guard dog for distressed restaurant diners? If she said, Yes, I need a better, kinder, wealthier, truer husband, would blue eyes here be able to deliver? Is that type of man on the menu here, or anywhere?
No, he isn’t. We’re all like me, ladies, just differing degrees. We are more than willing to put up with your emotions, as long as you keep your end of the bargain. Look good, take care of the kids, maintain a clean home, have sex when we want it and for God’s sake, don’t question us or our motives. Never do that.
9:00 p.m.
16
In lieu of ordering a better version of me, my wife smiles and says to the waiter, “I’m doing fine. Everything looks wonderful. Thank you for your kindness.”
What the hell is going on? Your kindness? Has she lost a limb, or did she just have a minor spat with her husband? Everyone is going crazy around here but me. I take another bite of salad and chew slowly, trying to figure out what conversational topic would be most tame. The boys. No, they are at a movie, with a sitter, and that is a reason for my wife to stress until they are back home, safely tucked into their beds. My job. Nope. Her job. Nada. I know. Lakeside.
“Honey, aren’t you excited to be back at the cottage?” I ask. This is safe and happy ground. This is why we’re here and having the best day possible. “Everything looks great and soon, your gardens will be in full bloom. Even the strawberries.”
Mia exhales. Her face is pinched. She looks terrible. She sounds exhausted. “I guess the first step is to fix the cottage up and put it on the market,” she says. This, now, is her sadness. It’s not over money. It’s that we may have to give up the cottage. Ridiculous. At least now I finally understand. Relief floods over me, leaving only smoldering embers.
“No, of course we’re not selling the cottage. I’m not letting that happen. Everything will be fine. I promise. Remember when you thought we couldn’t buy the cottage in the first place, but I surprised you, handled the mortgage all by myself? Please don’t worry about the cottage, it’s ours. Everything is under control,” I say. I’m so happy to know the actual cause of her distress isn’t me, but the thought of losing her second home. She’s not upset about my job or our pesky money problems. She just doesn’t want to give up the lake. Perfect. She’s still my sweet Mia. I can’t really explain it, but I feel like jumping up out of my chair and grabbing her face between my hands and kissing her firmly, taking her, right here, right now.
But that would be Tom Cruise–ish weird, and not my style. I turn on my biggest smile instead.
“Trust me. You’ll have this cottage for as long as you live. Heck, the boys will inherit it. It will be a Strom family asset, for generations,” I say, not adding, just like the Boones. Greg Boone was upset because I’m a better card player than he is. Beat him every time they invited us to the lake. That was the entire problem, if you want to know the story. He called me a cheater. Au contraire, Mr. Boone, I am a winner. In the heat of the moment that night, though, I might have called Greg a thing or two, with my hands clenched by my sides. I know I can appear threatening but most of the time, my bark is worse than my bite.
“Just like the Boones,” Mia says, as if once again reading my mind. Her face is soft, though, and she takes a thoughtful sip of her wine.
Mia and I never did discuss why Greg and Doris stopped inviting us to the lake. It wasn’t like a big blowup or anything, and it wasn’t as if I’d hit on Doris, I would never do that. I mean, have you seen her? Short, short hair, too perky, too annoying. Like I told you, the only thing I can think of is because I beat Greg at euchre all the time. Maybe Mia did something wrong, I don’t know.
“You talk to Doris a lot still, don’t you?” I ask. This is a new realization on my part—Doris and her role in my life both here at the lake and back home in Grandville. And it’s time to ask Mia about it. My salad is finished, fork at four o’clock on my plate. It occurs to me I didn’t offer a bite to Mia, but then again, she’s having salad for dinner.