But at times he struck her as too independent. Karen had always suspected that, were she to walk out on Matt, apart from his bruised ego, he’d be absolutely fine. Assuming that Karen had custody, he might miss Ruby. Except he’d see her every Wednesday and Saturday, and, quite possibly, that would be enough for him. Or was she being unfair? Maybe his failure to be more emotive was just an excuse for her attraction to Clay—and Karen was simply restless, like everyone else who’d been married for a decade or more.
As she stared at the screen, she wondered if there was a way of letting Clay know that she felt the same things he felt without inviting another encounter. Or was it too late for that? Karen had lived long enough to know that no enduring kind of love could compete with the fascination of a new partner. She was trembling as she wrote,
I miss you too.
Thirty seconds later, her phone pinged again. Karen lifted it to her eyes. Clay had written,
Make up an excuse for the weekend of the 28th. Need to see you.
Not Are you free the weekend of the 28th? Just Make up an excuse. That was Clay. He didn’t ask; he told. As it happened, Karen had no particular obligations that weekend. But what if she had? Or did his kind of money negate such considerations? It was so presumptuous of him, so entitled, and so blind to the reality of other people’s complicated lives, she thought—and yet so compelling. For once, Karen wouldn’t be in charge of the arrangements or the schedule. So often, her life and motherhood in particular felt like an extended air traffic control shift. And she doubted she was the only woman for whom this was true. In fact, she didn’t know a single husband who landed the planes. Most of them didn’t even know what days the sitter worked or when gymnastics class started or even what time school got out. The job of keeping track of all those beeping dots on the screen, from permission slips to pediatric dentistry checkups, still fell to women. And while the arrangement admittedly suited the controlling side of Karen, the other side longed for backup and resented its nonexistence.
Another part realized how ridiculous, absurd, and risky the very idea of sneaking off for the weekend with Clay Phipps was. Or could she keep this time—a time that promised to be far longer than the single evening they’d already spent together—a secret as well? And was it his money that made him attractive to her, or was it Clay himself? And could the two even be disentangled? And how could she have fallen for her political enemy? Karen also worried that he’d lose interest in her if she said no—and that this was her last chance before he grew frustrated and then bored by his own frustration and then forgot about her for another twenty-four years. After all these decades, it seemed she was still fretting about disappointing the opposite sex. Her heart was at full gallop as she typed:
Why—where are you/we going?
Karen realized after she wrote it that she might just as well have written Okay.
It’s a surprise, but sweaters unnecessary, Clay wrote back.
She hadn’t been on a tropical vacation since her honeymoon, ten years ago.
Karen spent the next several days alternating between nervous excitement and abject fear—that either her husband would find out about Clay or someone at Mather would find out about her theft of PTA funds. Every time she opened her in-box—or dropped Ruby at school—she half expected one of the PTA board members to ask if she could talk to her for a second, head cocked quizzically. But, in fact, at the Fund in the Sun picnic that Saturday, at least four members of the PTA executive board—Kim, Leigh, Susan, and even Denise—individually came over to congratulate Karen on doing such a great job before returning to their organic cotton, diamond-patterned ikat blankets and rattan picnic baskets containing Rainforest Alliance–certified grapes. Even Liz made an appearance, her newborn in a sling. “Hey, mastermind,” she said.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you came!” cried Karen, kissing her hello. “What—did you have the baby last night or something? And who is this?” Karen peeked into the sling, where a tiny lump of pale flesh lay asleep, eyes squeezed tight and fingers outstretched as if reaching for God. The sight of babies still stirred something inside her. But these days there was also relief in the knowledge that they were other people’s precious burdens.
“Say hi to Archie, my new slave driver,” said Liz.
“Hi, Archie—you be nice to your mom,” said Karen, stroking the baby’s velvety cheek with the back of her index finger.
It was gorgeous out—they’d gotten lucky with the weather—and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Even Karen felt moderately contented—that is, until she noticed Charlotte Bordwell and Maeve Collier-Shaw throwing water balloons at each other and laughing uproariously, both of them perfectly outfitted for the event in patterned rompers with drawstring waists and metallic sandals. Maeve’s were silver, Charlotte’s gold. The image of Ruby’s two estranged BFFs joining in merriment while Ruby herself stood in the near distance with a group of younger children trying to pop a relentless stream of bubbles that were being emitted by a large plastic gun filled Karen’s mouth with a sour taste. She knew that, in all likelihood, Maeve and Charlotte’s burgeoning friendship had absolutely nothing to do with her daughter. There was no reason even to suspect that either one of them had ever mentioned knowing Ruby. But Karen couldn’t help but feel that somehow their mutual jettisoning of Ruby had brought them, if not together, then closer.
Karen turned away and was further jarred by the sight of Maeve’s mother seated on an ikat blanket of her own with her face partially hidden behind a pair of aviator shades. Karen thought back and realized that she hadn’t seen Laura Collier in what was now going on six months. She also realized that there was nothing to be gained by saying hello. But somehow, in that moment, it seemed necessary that pleasantries be exchanged. Or maybe Karen was still holding out hope that Ruby would be reintegrated into Maeve’s inner sanctum. “Laura!” she said, walking over to the edge of her blanket.
“Oh, hey,” said Laura, but she didn’t remove her glasses, which struck Karen as the tiniest bit rude. She didn’t get up either. Even so, Karen leaned over and attempted to greet her with a kiss to the cheek. But as Laura remained seated, and Karen was standing, incorrect body parts bumped together.
Afterward, Karen felt even more awkward. “I haven’t seen you in a million years—” she said, trying to mask her unease with chatter.
“I know, it’s been forever,” said Laura. “Is it true you organized this whole thing?”
Karen wondered how she even knew. “If you mean was I guilted into organizing this whole event, the answer is yes.” She laughed, then wondered why she always revealed more than she needed to.
“That’s so good of you. I wish I had time for stuff like that,” said Laura. “But between work and helping Maeve edit her animated short, things have been so crazy lately.”
“Maeve is making an animated short?” asked Karen.