He knew how to grill a steak, fix a sink, kill a deer, and give you a kiss so sweet that you forgot your own name. He was needlessly thoughtful, unfailingly generous, and could accurately predict the vintage of a wine down to the year.
But none of that mattered to me. I, quite simply, was in love with him. Every day. All day. There was no explanation for how or why. And I think that’s how I knew it was true. Because I didn’t care what my parents thought. His job didn’t matter. His money didn’t matter. If he told me he was quitting everything to move to a hut in Uruguay and minister to the sick, I would have packed my bag and bought a Bible.
And so, where I always thought that one day I’d be leaving on that midnight train to Georgia, instead, I graduated from college and left on a red-eye flight to JFK. Didn’t matter where it was. All I knew was that, like Gladys Knight before me, I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine.
TWELVE
inhumane
caroline
The worst part about your husband leaving you when you’re pregnant is that there is no alcohol of any kind involved. I mean, how are you supposed to heal when you can’t drink your troubles away? It’s really quite inhumane, if you ask me. I had just put Vivi to bed and was in the kitchen making a sparkling water with a splash of pineapple juice for myself and plain sparkling water for Emerson to take back out onto the front porch to enjoy the crisp evening and bright stars with my sisters. As you can imagine, wine was not part of Emerson’s cleanse. If it had been, she would have been incoherent after three sips.
My phone beeped on the counter, which is when I realized it was 9:08. Ladies Who Lunch had officially premiered for the season. The text was from James.
I’m sorry, Car. I really, truly am. Can you ever forgive me?
I didn’t respond, because I was pretty sure I couldn’t.
My friend Lucinda texted: Hang in there, lady. I’ve got your back.
Then Sarah Peters: Love you! It’s not that bad. It’s really not. They look ridiculous, don’t you think?
I could feel that queasiness developing in the pit of my ever-protruding belly. I wasn’t sure which was worse, not watching or just watching and getting it over with. Fortunately for me, Mom’s lack of a TV made it a choice I didn’t get to make.
My phone chimed. Jenna Franklin. Gag. You hold your head up high, Caroline. She may be a supermodel, but she doesn’t have your class.
Jenna was the queen of the backhanded compliment. I was glad she reminded me that Edie was a supermodel, lest I forget for a mere moment.
I screwed the top back onto the fresh pineapple juice that Emerson had made for me. So this was it. The secret was out. The last few people in the United States who didn’t know that my husband was screwing a supermodel and not his pregnant wife now knew it for a fact. I leaned over on the counter for a second, feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
The phone dinged again. James. Again. Can we talk?
I laughed out loud. No. No, we could not talk. I liked giving him the silent treatment, because I knew the uncertainty of it all would drive him bananas. But I couldn’t help texting back: You have Edie to talk to now. You don’t need me.
Don’t be like that.
Was he serious? Wow. That was just like a man. While he is smearing you all over the papers and TV and Internet making you look like a fool, making the entire life you led look like nothing more than a farce, he wants you to call him and reassure him that it’s OK.
“Well, guess what?” I said out loud. “It’s not OK.”
I heard footsteps and turned to see Mom walking into the kitchen, clad in the robe and slippers we had sent her for Christmas. I had felt terrible about not coming home. We all had. But I think it was fair to say that we were making up for it now with this visit.
“You talking to yourself?” Mom asked. She smiled and rubbed her hand up and down my back. “How you holding up?”
I dropped my chin to my chest, trying to stretch my neck, which always got very tight when I was stressed. “My husband is currently canoodling with a supermodel, and millions of people are watching it.” I took a sip of my mocktail. “But, you know, considering the circumstances, it could be worse.”
And it could be worse. I’d lived through worse. We both had. In some ways, we still lived through it every day.
“Let’s go on the porch,” I said.
Mom nodded. “Let’s. It’s such a beautiful night.” She handed me a throw from the back of a club chair on the way out. “Just in case.”
I opened the door, but Sloane and Emmy were nowhere to be found. The sky took my breath away. What seemed like millions of stars twinkled over the water. I didn’t know if it was the lights or the buildings, but star sightings in Manhattan were not quite as brilliant.
“Where did they go?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s get comfy and wait for them to come back.”
I cut my eyes at her. “Where are they, Mom?”
She was the world’s worst liar. She took a sip of her real wine, which was another tip-off, because Mom basically never drank unless it was someone’s wedding.
“Moooommmm,” I said.
“Sit down,” she said. “Let’s talk about baby names.”
I opened the door again and walked upstairs.
“Caroline,” she hissed, so as not to wake the children. “Get back down here this instant.”
Of course, all that did was make me walk faster. Now I knew for sure that they were up to something. I poked my head into Sloane’s room. Lights off. Beds made. Empty. I knew the boys were asleep in the room next to hers. So I went to the end of the hall to the guest room, flung the door open, and there were Emerson and Sloane sitting on the bed. Emerson slammed her laptop shut.
I crossed my arms. “My own two sisters. Seriously? You are such traitors. Could you not even wait until I went back to the guesthouse?”
Emerson looked sheepish. “Honestly, no.”
“We were coming from a good place,” Sloane said. “We thought we could be like the pass-through. You wouldn’t have to actually watch it, but we could tell you what you need to know.”
I was seething. “How could you do this to me? Tonight of all nights? I’m down here with my phone about to vibrate off the kitchen island from all the Ladies Who Lunch texts, and I need my sisters to sit on the porch with me and talk about old times. Instead, you’re up here reveling in my disgrace.”
“Caroline,” Sloane said pleadingly.