It had been ugly, but the way it all went down just validated her decision.
Now it was done. Julian could choose to let it put a damper on their relationship, or he could see it as a positive. Either way, she felt as if a weight had been lifted off her.
Marin stood up. “I should get going. Thanks for the birthday cupcake.”
He reached for her hand. “Don’t go. Stay.”
She was shocked to feel tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t realized how desperately she needed to hear that word.
Chapter Three
Blythe woke up just before six in the morning, two hours before her alarm. This was not surprising. One month into her separation from Kip, she still wasn’t used to sleeping alone. Add a strange hotel room to the mix, and it made for an exhausting night of tossing and turning.
Blinking in the darkness, she stretched out in the enormous bed of her suite. With the blackout curtains closed, there wasn’t even a hint of light. Even though the sun was just beginning to rise, she knew that midtown was bright and awake around the clock, and if she stepped out onto Fifth Avenue, she could start her day.
But she didn’t want to start her day—not when it meant telling her daughter that after three decades of marriage, Kip had asked her for a divorce.
When Kip moved out four weeks ago (leaving his clothes and golf equipment and scotch collection in their home on Wynnewood Lane—the house they’d bought as newlyweds), she’d felt certain he’d be back. He was subletting a town house at Oak Hill, but that would get old fast. She knew Kip, and of this she felt certain. Yes, there were problems in their marriage, but that had long been the case. So why divorce? Why now?
Was it a coincidence that he’d first expressed his desire to separate on the heels of Marin’s engagement? Had he been suppressing this impulse, thinking that their grown daughter needed them together still? And that her impending marriage, the first step toward creating a family of her own, somehow released him from this obligation?
If that had been his reasoning, then wasn’t the broken engagement the perfect time to pause and think it over?
We’re telling her at breakfast. No more stalling.
She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t ready to admit defeat.
A glance at the bedside clock told her that it was a little after six. Kip hadn’t slept past six a day in his life.
Blythe didn’t bother putting on makeup, though she was tempted to at least dab a little concealer over the dark hollows under her eyes. But now that she had the idea to talk to Kip, she couldn’t risk missing the opportunity. What if he was already getting ready to go to the hotel gym? She pulled on her own sadly underused yoga pants, the Yale zipper hoodie she’d had since Marin’s freshman year, and her Uggs.
Pressing the button for Kip’s floor, Blythe ran through her pitch. There’s no reason to rush into telling Marin. We haven’t even worked out the details ourselves. Of course, she already knew what he’d say: There’s nothing to work out. You keep the house. Whatever you need…
I need you, she thought to herself. But she had not yet said this—not aloud. Not to him. But this morning, she would.
And it was true—had been true for as long as she could remember. Even during the times when she didn’t want him. Want and need were two different things. What was it some philosopher had said? Substitute the word need for love and I’ll show you love in its true dimensions. Something like that. She hadn’t studied philosophy. She had not attended college. She’d married Kip instead.
Blythe padded down the eighth-floor hallway, passing two men dressed in business suits as she rounded the corner to Kip’s room.
She paused a minute, then ignored the Do Not Disturb placard and knocked.
No response.
Blythe knocked again, more self-consciously this time. A housekeeper passed by, pushing a cart of linens and towels. She waited until she was halfway down the hall to knock again. Maybe he was already at the hotel fitness center. Did she dare track him down there? And then she heard the brush of metal on metal as the front door unlocked. Surprisingly, Blythe felt her heart race. The way it hadn’t for Kip in a very long time.
Her husband answered the door, but barely; he cracked it two inches. She could see that he was still in his powder-blue Peter Elliot nightshirt, the one she’d given him last Christmas. His eyes were half closed with sleep.
“Are you okay?” she said, because illness was the only possible explanation for his not being up and about.
“Blythe, what the hell are you doing here at this hour?” he whispered.
At this hour? Had she made a mistake? She felt her face flood with color as she glanced at her watch, half expecting it to read 4:15 instead of 6:15.
“It’s after six,” she said.
“Kip? Who is it?” A female voice. From inside her husband’s hotel room.
Blythe froze. Kip responded to the query, though in the white-hot shock of the moment, Blythe couldn’t for the life of her make sense of what he said. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his brow. “I should have told you sooner. But you’ve been having so much difficulty with even the concept of divorce. I wanted to take it one thing at a time.”
When he looked at her, his eyes had softened from his initial flash of irritation.
“Do you…love her?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Marin walked into the lobby of the Plaza, buzzing with energy despite getting only a few hours of sleep.
Julian was happy she was free. She was happy she was free. Now she could enjoy her parents’ company in a way she hadn’t been able to last night.
She spotted her father, dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a lightweight argyle sweater. At six foot two, with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes, her father was a dashing man. She’d always wished she looked a little more like him, but she took after her mother’s side, the Madigans. Not that her mother was a slouch in the looks department; she was a very pretty woman, with high cheekbones and deep-set hazel eyes and full lips. But Marin had always coveted the more refined, classic features of the Bishops.
“Where’s Mom?” she asked when she reached her father, looking around. The lobby was bustling with well-heeled guests arriving and departing and bellhops pushing brass carts full of luggage.
“She has a terrible headache,” he said.
“Oh no! Should I go up to your room and see her?”
“No, no—she’s resting,” he said, looking away.
“Are you sure?” Marin felt a stab of guilt. Her broken engagement was making her mother literally sick. She would have to make a trip to Philly. Schedule a mother-daughter lunch. Confide in her about Julian.
“Yes. She sends her love and feels terrible but said to just call her later.”