You can’t make this stuff up, right?
When Brad and I had gotten married twenty years ago, I was just about to graduate from Emmanuel College, and he was finishing his PhD at Boston University. We met on Boston Common when he ran past, sweaty, blond and gorgeous, and told me my ice cream cone looked amazing. (It was.) Eight months later, I found out I was pregnant—miraculous, given my medical history—and Brad and I were married in a hasty but tasteful wedding at the Hampshire House, tab picked up by my in-laws, who were utterly delighted that I was expecting.
This wedding—of my forty-six-year-old husband and his barely-thirty-year-old bride—was another animal. The kind my sister specialized in—archways made of orchids, bands flown in from Austin, dinners that cost $500 a plate, wine shipped in from vineyards and, if rumor was true, Bruno Mars dropping in for a quick solo.
Let’s say it stung. Let’s say it ripped my broken heart out of my chest and ground it on the sharpest shells and let the seagulls pick at it. Maybe I should’ve caught two skunks. Or a wolf. A great white shark. Then again, there was Melissa’s kid to consider. Wouldn’t want her to be eaten. I’m not a monster.
Obviously, though, I stalked Melissa on social media. She was filthy rich and loved showing the world how the one percent lived. There was nothing she enjoyed more than photo shoots starring herself, occasionally her kid, but also the apartment she had lived in with Husband #1 in New York City. The vacations they’d taken—Thailand, London, Madrid, Kenya. Over the past six months, her feed had been filled with shots of the mansion on the water here on the Cape. Melissa just adored furnishing with the work of local artists. She posted a walk-through tour, like she was Oprah. The BMW she’d just bought herself, played down in a humblebrag. Felt so strange, buying a $90K car, but want the highest safety rating for my Ophelia! Tried to make up for the guilt by giving money to the local food pantry. #RandomActsOfKindness #BMW #Tweens #CapeCod #SmallTownLife #SafestCar #Donate #EndHunger
And now, she was thrilled to be working with Hannah Chapman Events to design her dream wedding! Would we like to see her vision board? Well, here it was!
So.
Divorce is especially painful when you didn’t know your marriage was floundering. Splitting up is one thing, right? You grow apart, you’re perpetually dissatisfied with each other, you agree that you’d both be happier unmarried. Happened all the time.
That was not the case with Brad and me. A couple of days before Brad told me he’d found love elsewhere, we’d had sex. Really good sex—the kind you could have when your only child was out of the house. Five days later, I was informed that he needed to infuse joy into his life, which meant dumping me.
During the four months since I found out Brad was leaving me for someone else, I swear I’d been running a fever. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since May 12, which wasn’t helping my “woman on the verge” feeling.
But right now, I didn’t care. I was just so dang proud of catching a skunk.
I turned off Route 6 and took a right to go into Wellfleet proper. On Main Street, I slowed down, waving to Bertie, who owned the general store, and Sarah, who owned the package store. At the Congregational church, I saw Reverend White, who lifted his hand at me as he crossed the street. I flipped him off and he nodded kindly. The good reverend, who had baptized me, was performing Bralissa’s wedding. Word had it she’d just donated ten grand to fix the church’s bell tower.
Beth, who had been my friend since kindergarten, was catering the wedding. She and her siblings owned the Wellfleet Ice House, the best restaurant in town, possibly on all of the Cape. She told me she’d do her best to spit in Brad’s food. Again . . . a spy for me. And we Cape Codders accepted the dynamic—outsiders pumping money into the local economy was just how it was.
I drove slowly, fearful of jostling Flower. Past the shops and restaurants, which would all profit off of Melissa’s money, no doubt; past the beautiful memorial garden where she’d probably already donated money; past Preservation Hall, the fish market, the library. There was the tiny bookstore, Open Book, possibly the only business in town that wouldn’t benefit from Melissa’s money, since I’d bet my right thumb Melissa was not a reader.
The roads became curvy and confusing, but I knew my way. Of course I did. I knew every street, dirt road and path from here to Provincetown. I had ridden my bike on every road in Wellfleet, from Route 6 to the secret dirt roads on Lieutenant Island. When Dylan was a baby, I’d take him for car rides late at night when he couldn’t settle down. So of course I knew about the little road to nowhere that was adjacent to Melissa’s house. Their alarm system didn’t have cameras (yet, though this might change their minds on that issue). It was just the type that notified the police that someone was trying to get in. Someone who didn’t know the alarm code, that was.
The truck bounced over a bump, and I glanced in the rearview to see that my skunk was still covered. She was.
I thought back again to that call last January, the coldest, quietest, grayest time of year on Cape Cod. Vanessa, my then-beloved mother-in-law, had said, “Darling, I hate to ask since it’s such short notice, but we’re obviously in Bali, and Norma”—their Realtor in the Cape office of Fairchild Properties—“is having her knee replaced. Would you mind showing a house or two? We have a new client who seems promising.”
“I’d be happy to,” I said. Not for the first time, I wondered why they never asked Brad. Both of us had flexible hours—Brad was a therapist in solo practice—but only I got the tap. Probably because I was better with people. It was fine. I didn’t mind. “How’s Bali?”
“Oh, darling, it’s paradise! I wish you and Brad had come with us!”
“Well, another time, maybe,” I said. “Once Dylan’s in college, we’ll have more time.” A lump had risen in my throat at the idea that my son would be leaving.
“Of course. Well, next year, we’ll have to go somewhere special. Our treat! Hopefully, it’ll help with the . . . well, the loneliness. I know what it’s like to have only one child, after all. It’s awful when they first leave. But you do get used to it, and if you’re lucky, he marries a wonderful girl and you become closer than ever.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, because she loved when I called her that (and because I got to secretly stick it to my own mother, who had the same maternal instincts as a lizard that eats her own eggs). “It’s so nice of you, and we would love it,” I said, smiling. Many times in the past, we’d gone on vacation with my in-laws, with our son, to places we would never have been able to afford on our own.
I had obediently called the client. “Hi, I’m Liliana Silva with Fairchild Properties. I understand you’re looking for a place up here?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you so much for calling me back.” She had a nice, low-pitched voice, and though her area code was 212, she didn’t have a New York accent.
“Are you familiar with the area?” I asked.
“A little bit,” she said. “We rented a house up there last summer in Truro, but Wellfleet seems a little more . . . civilized.”
I laughed. “It’s true.” Wellfleet had a bustling Main Street, a wonderful old movie theater, restaurants that were open year-round. Truro was wilder and had less to offer tourists.
“It seems like a good place to raise a child,” Melissa said.
“It is,” I said. “Our school system is fantastic. How old is your child?”
“She’s twelve,” Melissa said.
“Such a fun age. My son is eighteen. I’d be happy to show you around. Have you looked online at any particular listings?”
“A little bit. I haven’t seen anything perfect just yet.”
“Tell me what you’re looking for.”
There was a silence. “Something . . . open. Lots of light. Maybe a water view?”