“No, don’t do that. I mean, it’s never a good idea to shake the family tree. And if he’s a drug dealer we don’t want him near our boys,” I say quickly, my heart thudding in my chest. “I just brought him up because of the stars, that’s all.”
“Oh, good point. You just never know. He could be really bad news,” she says. Mia seems to let the subject go, thankfully. We enjoy a comfortable silence for the rest of the drive back to Lakeside. I am thinking about how wonderful it is not to have to get home, pay the babysitter and then coerce the boys to sleep. I am thinking about how peaceful this moment is, just the two of us in a darkened car, silently compatible. It’s like we could be playing Scrabble or another friendly board game and growing old together. Bored game, I think with a smile.
Sure, sometimes I imagine that I could continue on like this, feel content and make myself believe I have enough. Just the two of us, and our boys, blending in with the rest of the people who work boring jobs and then come up here on the weekends and fish for walleye. I’ll become head of advertising for the city magazine, even though they’ll call me Chief Revenue Officer. Mia, tired of working from home for John’s agency, will go into John Larson Advertising’s small office in Hilliard three days a week. She will barely make enough to cover the childcare expenses she’ll incur when in-office meetings are required by clients and run over into school pickup time, but she’ll feel productive. She’ll have lunch with her coworkers—there are only three of them besides John—and the receptionist will tell her that John has a crush on her. She’ll smile at the silly woman and tell her he’s just a friend. She’ll dream about the weekends at the lake.
Meanwhile, at the magazine, I will report to the publisher, a woman with the vision of a mouse. She wants to be the best magazine in the city; it is the only magazine in the city. The publisher has teased her rodent-brown hair—to make it appear fuller—and has had too much Botox, so that her face is frozen in a mask of skewed aging perfection. She barely manages a wink in my direction as she escorts me out of our directors’ meeting and asks me to grab coffee with her. She trails her pastel pink fingernail down the side of my Italian suit jacket as she makes the suggestion. I tell her I’m happily married, but that I’m sure I’ll meet her revenue projections. She tells me she doesn’t care about the revenue. Later, that afternoon, she’ll insist I go to happy hour with the team, just one of her many team members. She’ll keep me in my place.
I shudder, and hope Mia doesn’t notice. I was never made for that kind of linear, predictable and ordinary life. Guys like me don’t grow old peacefully. No, we fight it every step of the way. I suck my stomach in, the only flaw in my otherwise youthful facade. I’m like Orion, shining in the sky. Don’t get too close or I may burn you. As I pull onto our street, I note that our cottage is lit up and glowing, as welcoming as the Boones’, and maybe more so. I didn’t realize we had left so many lights on, but I guess we did.
Beside me, Mia stretches her arms in front of her and then covers her mouth as she yawns. I’ll need to convince her to have another glass of wine or perhaps a cup of tea.
It isn’t bedtime yet.
10:00 p.m.
19
I hear Mia’s footsteps upstairs. She is in our bedroom changing out of her dress and heels. I don’t blame her. I’m reminded again of how lucky men are that we don’t have to prance around on tiptoe just to get attention from the other sex. Actually, I’ve never had trouble in the mating game, as you now know, but some women and men, well, they need to employ all the tools of the trade, respectively.
While she’s upstairs changing, I go back outside and retrieve the plain white envelope from the glove compartment. It’s an old Thompson Payne envelope, business-sized, with the agency’s logo and return address on the upper left side. Just a plain old envelope sealed tight with a little something special inside.
I’ve parked the car in the garage, to make Mia happy, and after I get what I’ve come for, I’ll need to push the button on the wall and then run out of the garage without tripping the sensors. If I keep this cottage, I will definitely fix the actual door to the garage. It has been wonky since we bought the place. I push the garage door button and sprint through the garage, hopping over the line where the sensor beam will detect me, and burst out of the garage into the night. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep the envelope in my hands. The universe is making up for the croissants again, no doubt.
Still sprinting, I make it to the back door in record time and rush into the kitchen. It’s empty.
“Mia?” I call.
“I’m still changing,” she answers, her voice floating down the stairs to me.
“Great. I’m going to make us a nightcap,” I say, sticking my head around the corner and talking to the stairs.
“Sounds good,” she says. “Be down in a minute.”
Quickly, I pull down two crystal tumblers. From the liquor cabinet—aka the cupboard above the refrigerator—I grab the brandy. We aren’t really after-dinner drink people, but tonight is special. I pour the brandy into each glass; the strong odor of the liquor stings my eyes. Can brandy go bad? I wonder. I don’t have time to change course, so I grab the envelope from the counter and carefully tear off the corner, ripping through “Thompson Payne” in one satisfactory motion. Typically, I wear gloves but there is not time for caution now. I pour the contents into a glass, crumple the envelope and toss it into the sink.
There is a candle next to the sink—its green-checkered wrapper is country and screams “cottage candle.” A gift, I believe, from Mia’s mother. I reach into my pocket and pull out the matches. I strike the match, light the candle, and then light the envelope. The paper takes forever to catch fire, it seems.
“Paul? What are you doing?” Mia asks, appearing in the kitchen suddenly and causing me to jump.
I turn my back to the sink, blocking it, and say, “God, Mia, why do you sneak up on me like that?” I am willing the envelope to finish disintegrating behind me.
“What’s burning?”
I turn to the sink again, and see the envelope fully engulfed. “Gosh, I dropped the match in there after lighting the candle. Must have been a paper towel.” I turn on the faucet, dousing the flames, the white envelope now a charred mess that easily rinses away down the drain. I wash my hands with soap, and dry them with a paper towel.
“Smokey the Bear would be proud,” Mia says. She is wearing sweatpants now. They are gray and make her look like a lazy housewife who eats too many Oreo cookies while watching daytime TV. To complete the ensemble, she has added a gray sweatshirt with the word LAKESIDE printed on it in white. Charming.
At the sight of my expression, Mia lets out a little laugh. “I know you hate me in sweats but there’s a little chill in the air tonight. I’m so much more comfortable now.”