“It’s our pleasure,” Lillie said, leading the way to their table. Melissa followed, feeling Brad’s eyes on her. She was glad she’d worn a clingy dress.
Throughout the dinner, Melissa answered questions and asked about their son (yawn). Lillie, smug and secure in her marriage, did what so many first wives did: She looked at Brad like he was on her . . . her bowling team or something. There was absolutely no chemistry between them. And when Brad mentioned his book, Lillie gave her a little smile and sipped her wine. Yes, the book sounded on the ridiculous side, but Melissa knew how to look fascinated. She’d had years of practice, after all, listening to Dennis praise himself.
Within fifteen minutes, Melissa knew she could see what Lillie didn’t know.
Brad was afraid.
So many middle-aged men hit a certain landmark birthday and became abruptly terrified that their youth was behind them (because it was). They were suddenly invisible to college-age girls. The barista didn’t flirt with them anymore, didn’t even remember their names. Those youngsters they worked with and supervised were surpassing them. Their potbellies and reluctant erections were a sign that youth was coming to an end. Their children were grown, lives ahead of them, and these men were jealous . . . jealous that their kids had so many chances middle-aged men no longer had. What did they have to look forward to? An enlarged prostate and a brain aneurysm?
Dennis had been easy to get. Brad . . . it would be like a hot knife through soft butter.
First step, call him by his whole name, as if it’s far too important to shorten.
Second step, awe and wonder at his accomplishments. “Oh, wow, a therapist. I’ve been thinking of getting my master’s in counseling, believe it or not.” Then, later, “I can’t wait to read your book!” She took her phone out of her purse. “There. I just ordered it.”
Third step (new for Melissa), befriend the wife. “Oh, Lillie, what an amazing job you have. Did you always want to be a nurse? Sorry, nurse-midwife?” It would be easier to evaluate Bradley if Lillie were friendly and unsuspecting.
Meanwhile, Bradley fell under her spell. He was quite handsome, well educated, and he looked at her as if she were a new planet, beautiful and fascinating, like nothing he had ever seen. All while Lillie sat there, blissfully ignorant.
There weren’t a whole lot of men to choose from up here. She didn’t want a laborer—her landscaper had been quite attractive, but he was too close to her age, and besides, he loved his wife and had six children. The second selectman had obviously been interested, but he was on his third wife, so no, thanks.
Brad—Bradley—was handsome in that pretty-boy, Ralph Lauren way. He had a soft voice that made her lean forward a little as he commended her on taking in her niece and asked her about life in New York. His hair was still fairly thick, and the gray made him look distinguished. And his eyes . . . his eyes were nearly turquoise, and utterly unguarded.
How would he be in bed? It didn’t matter. She could teach him.
Meanwhile, she made sure not to exclude Lillie.
Lillie had been quite nice to her. Had welcomed her with flowers when she and Ophelia moved in, as well as a homemade cake that Ophelia said was delicious (Melissa didn’t do carbs, and certainly not desserts). Lillie had put her in touch with every person she could need, from the girl currently babysitting Ophelia to a cleaning service.
But that didn’t matter. Bradley was a cheater waiting to happen. As he talked about his book, his education, slipping in mentions of his Beacon Hill childhood and boarding school days, Melissa knew he hadn’t had a woman this interested in him in a long time. He asked her about herself, and she glossed over her interest in becoming a therapist (she was actually accruing quite a few Instagram followers and was leaning toward becoming an influencer).
“I thought you were opening a yoga studio,” Lillie said.
“Well, I was, but there do seem to be a few around here. Do you practice yoga, Lillie?”
“Well, I take classes. And I do love it.”
“Really!” Because you sure couldn’t tell, looking at that round little body. “We should take a class together sometime, if you don’t mind. You can tell me who the best teachers are. Go easy on me, okay? The most exercise I’ve done this year is unpack boxes.” A lie, of course, but they laughed merrily.
Bradley (and Lillie, she supposed) wanted to know all about Ophelia, and Melissa spun her as a smart, brave kid who’d had a rough time of things, rather than the petulant, irritating, ungrateful tween she was. She told them Dennis had been the love of her life, and she was still grieving, of course. “I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, as they say,” she said. “But really, my focus is on Ophelia. Dennis was the only father she ever knew.” More murmurs of sympathy and praise. This was fun!
By the time dessert was served (to Lillie), Bradley had invited her to visit his office so they could talk about the different types of therapists. Lillie finished her entire crème br?lée, set up a date for them to take yoga and told her she should join the Wellfleet Cultural Council, since Melissa had said how interested she was in the arts.
All the while, the poor chubby woman didn’t realize her marriage was about to crash.
Bradley was distinguished by nature of his good looks, advanced degrees and wealthy parents. He stood to inherit a beautiful home on Beacon Hill, but from what Melissa could glean (which was a lot), they were solidly middle class. Rich parents were just extra. She didn’t need his money. He would be so grateful to her as she freed him from a stale marriage and granted him the opportunity to be with her—sixteen years younger (practically the same age when compared to Dennis). A beautiful woman, independently wealthy, sexy as JLo but without all those divorces. Melissa didn’t need to be a trophy wife. Now she could choose a man who interested her, who thought she was amazing. Someone who’d be her arm candy, but someone with class, too.
They would be such a great couple. The couple everyone would want to have over for dinner, the couple who could endow town projects and support local galleries and throw fundraisers at her incredible house. A prenup, of course. Unlike New York, Cape Cod was a place where Melissa would be someone of great importance.
Not bad for a hillbilly graduate from a little Christian college.
It was pathetically easy. She went to see him at his office two days later. He invited her to lunch, which lasted for four hours. Two nights later, she texted him and they met for lunch again. Oh, it was easy. “You look tired, Bradley,” she said at the restaurant. “Is everything okay? I know we just became friends, but you seem a little . . . sad.”
She led him down his already forged path of middle-aged discontentment, seeding in a few lines about how consuming Lillie’s work must be, how it could be hard to be with a woman who was so focused on other women, who lost herself once she became a mother. Once they had sex, it was a done deal, and a month after they’d met, Bradley informed her he’d be leaving his wife when their son went to college.
Bing, bang, boom.
CHAPTER 9
Lillie
The thing about divorce is that it shatters your family. It breaks everything you thought you knew and affects everyone in your radius.
Two weeks after our son landed in Montana, Brad and I set up a Zoom call with Dylan. I let Brad do the talking, turning off the computer camera to wipe away tears so my son wouldn’t see.
“Mom and I will always love each other,” Brad lied, “and we have absolutely loved raising you. But our paths are diverging now, and we’re finding our joy separately.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Dylan asked, also crying. After a few minutes of snarling at his father, he said, “Mom? What happened?”
I couldn’t lie to my son. “Well . . . this has come as a total surprise to me, honey. But I’ll be okay. I’m fine. I’m sorry, honey.”