“You feeling all right about tomorrow night?”
“Yes, definitely. It should be fun.” Tomorrow I’ll be playing hostess for the first time in this house, at a dinner party we’re hosting for two opera company donors and their wives. It’s a chance for Guy to take advantage of the house, and yet I know he’s hoping I’ll find it enjoyable, a way to engage again and meet a few people from the town. It’s being catered through his work, so I won’t have to lift a finger, just spend the night chatting with the guests, the kind of activity that until March of this year I’ve relished, both in my personal life and my work. But I find myself dreading the mental effort it will demand.
“That reminds me,” I add. “I should poke around the dining room and see what’s in there in terms of napkins and stuff. Both donors are bringing their spouses, right?”
“Yes, though there’ll actually be five besides us,” he says. “I decided to invite that journalism professor from Ballston College, Derek Collins. The one I met when he brought his class to the performance hall for a discussion. He’s a big fan of yours.”
“He’s not bringing anyone?”
“No, he’s single and said he’d prefer to come alone.”
“All right, I’ll see you later then.”
“Looking forward to it. I love this new luxury of being able to see you every night now.”
Up until three weeks ago, Guy and I have had a commuter relationship for the entire two years we’ve been together. He understood that I wasn’t up for relocating to a small town, and he’s been more than happy to travel to Manhattan on weekends until the time comes for him to pursue a job in the city. And though we’ve made the commuter thing work, seven days a week in each other’s company instead of two and a half has been a great change for us.
Except when Guy’s work hijacks one of our evenings.
“Ditto.”
After I hang up, I feel a little swell of guilt from having deceived Guy about what I’ve accomplished today. I don’t like telling him little white lies. At a time when we’ve never been closer, it only adds distance.
But in the last month or so I’ve begun to sense a small tear in his patience, a silent chafing at my inertia and failure to rebound. Isn’t that so often the case, that sympathy for someone ends up weirdly entangled with irritation, or maybe even spawns it? People feel sorry, they truly do, but they also want to stop worrying about you at some point, however much they love you. They want you to reassure them that their concerns are exaggerated, that the crisis is past, and that you will soon be more yourself again. So they check if you’re still fatigued and taking afternoon siestas. They invite journalism professors to dinner in order to goad you into thinking about your own work again.
The key is for me to get my energy back. And then there won’t be a need for little white lies.
I wander back downstairs, to the small room near the kitchen that I’m using as an office. When Guy found the house for us, he reported that there was a perfect spot for me to write in. What he had in mind was the room in the turret reached by stairs from the second floor. It would be like a writer’s garret, he said, but I found it both dusty and claustrophobic, and I preferred the idea of being on the ground floor. So I commandeered the tiny room across from the kitchen, once a mudroom, I assume, and moved a desk in there. Hardly ideal—there’s a lingering scent of wet wool and rubber boots emanating from the wainscoting—though I doubt the words would be flowing wherever I was.
I check email, diverting most of them to my assistant in New York to contend with, though I send off quick replies myself to friends inquiring how I’m doing, and one in response to my brother, Will, in his third year of working for a bank in Jakarta, promising more later. There are several requests for interviews and podcasts, which I politely decline, and two from my speaker’s bureau about well-paying gigs. These get nixed as well. Speaking to groups about the subjects of my books has always been a thrill for me, but I can’t fathom pulling that off right now.
My gaze falls to the icon for the proposal folder on my computer desktop. Maybe I should make another go at it before I fix dinner. But the mere thought makes my stomach tense. My phone rings, sparing me. It’s Casey, my agent, returning a call I made to her earlier.
“How’s it going up there?” she asks. “Have you seen what’s-his-name race yet? Seabiscuit?”
I laugh at her little joke. “Seabiscuit died in the nineteen forties. But they’ve got a big statue of him on the main street in town and I’ve petted it a couple of times.”