Harold Christensen is the head of her husband’s company, a private equity firm. Lori has heard many anecdotes about Harold but has never met or seen him, though he and his wife presumably live in the same town as Lori and Mitch. It occurs to her that she may have encountered Mrs. Christensen—Carol—without knowing who she was. Lori pictures her as one of the ageless capri-panted blondes who populate the town and who seem to have dwelled here, with their headbands and quilted bags, since its founding by the Pilgrims.
This is the first year Mitch has made the guest list for the party, an annual affair that the Christensens stubbornly bill as a backyard barbecue, an informal gathering to acknowledge Labor Day, the unofficial end of summer. Lori considers this a terrible purpose for a party. What is there to celebrate about the slow drying of greenery, the sneaky flash of autumn, the onslaught of another New England winter? Bring your bathing suits! the invitation commands in breezy cursive. Lori knows that the Christensens live on Pelican Point, on the waterfront, and this will not be a casual cookout. There will be passed hors d’oeuvres and a tuxedoed bartender. Whatever in-ground pool is offered for the guests’ enjoyment will be rimmed with bluestone and rock outcroppings through which will flow a simulated waterfall. No one will bring a bathing suit.
The traffic continues to hurtle along Cannonfield. Lori holds the steering wheel, waiting to make her turn, but the cars are traveling too closely together for her to safely enter. The nature of the left turn, too, requires her to wait for simultaneous gaps in both eastbound and westbound traffic. Adding to the difficulty is the presence of a blind curve to her left, obscuring the eastbound cars until they are almost upon her. For this reason, she focuses on the westbound traffic—watching the distant cars as they approach and noting any promising spaces as they draw closer. Almost without fail, by the time the promising gap has reached Lori, it will have been narrowed to nothing by the accelerating car in the rear. And in the instances when the space remains, a quick check to the left reveals a new cavalcade swinging out from the curve.
The turn signal blinks on her dashboard with a lazy, plinking sound. Lori watches as vehicle after vehicle appears over the eastern horizon with twin headlamps like unfriendly eyes. A red sedan, followed by a silver SUV, pursued by a white pickup truck. She becomes aware of the pressure of her foot upon the brake pedal. It hits her that only by continuing this pressure is she preventing her car from gliding into traffic, becoming a jumble of steel. Perhaps this is what distracts her from acting when a suitable opening arrives in the wake of a Mercedes convertible. The opportunity registers in her brain, and yet the appropriate neurons do not fire, and her foot does not rise from the pedal. Instead, she stares at the empty road in front of her until a moss-green Subaru approaches and closes the gap irretrievably. Behind the Subaru comes a van, and behind that another Subaru. Lori reprimands herself. She could have made her turn twice in the amount of time she had. Now, who knows when the next opportunity will come. She breathes out and pumps her foot impotently on the brake.
Just one more minute and another chance will come. She will have to be patient. Well, she is good at that. She is patient, in little ways, every day. And she has been patient in a large way for years, waiting for her children to become independent. She has waited through midnight crying spells, failed toilet-training programs, food-flinging phases. She has waited through driver’s ed. That is what motherhood is about, she reflects: patience. If she is not patient, no one is.
Now, suddenly, her boys are on the brink of manhood, and time will be hers again. Soon, she can do what she wants. She can give more attention to clients, really make a name for herself. She earned her real estate license after the kids started school, but has worked only as a buyer’s agent, never taking listings of her own. Mitch was doing so well at his job—the firm was so crazy about him, giving him generous raises each year, plus bonuses—that it seemed unnecessary. She knows that some women find self-worth through work, pegging their identities to their careers, but she has never needed that crutch. And, in all honesty, she’s become accustomed to her time at home. There is plenty to do with even just one teenage son in the house. Mason has his driver’s license now and doesn’t need rides anymore, but still needs his dinners cooked and clothes washed. In her free time, Lori enjoys doodling around the house, choosing new paint for an accent wall, finding new ways to organize the linen closet. The more open houses she attends, the more ideas she gets. No home is ever truly finished, as so many women her age are fond of saying. And she alone is the steward of their home, tirelessly pushing it to its potential, singlehandedly keeping it from regressing into chaos.