A Most Uncommon Degree of Popularity (30 page)

“Mom! Mom! Mommy!”

It was Thomas racing across the lawn, no longer wearing the sweatshirt he had had on when he had arrived. God might know where that sweatshirt was, but I was sure that Thomas did not. “Where’s Gideon? You were supposed to stay with Gideon.”

“I know, I know, but Dad’s here.”

“Dad? Your dad?”

Jamie wasn’t coming home this weekend, and even if he were, he wouldn’t come to the fair. I think he had only come once. He complained that I was always wildly busy and he didn’t know anyone and so had to spend the day following Thomas around, keeping track of his tickets and his coat.

But indeed, following Thomas, holding his carry-on bag as he had apparently come straight from the airport, was my husband.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Jamie said pleasantly, handing his suitcase to Thomas. “It seemed like the right thing to do. Show up and be a supportive husband, although I admit I don’t have a clue as to how to do that.”

I remembered feeling this way when I had been on my way to Houston, but showing up was certainly a good place to start. He had not needed to do this, I never expected it. But it said so much, his coming. It said that he got it, that he knew that today was going to be hard for me. I reached up and put my arms around his neck, and he put his around my waist, pulling me close. His body felt big, familiar, and warm.

He whispered into my hair. “I don’t think I can compete with the way you greeted me in Houston.”

I stepped back, a little embarrassed to be remembering, in the middle of this total-mom sort of day, my magnificent performance as a rock groupie.

“Oh, come on, Lydia,” he teased, “you should be proud of that moment.”

“I am, but right now I have a fair to run.”

“It looks like you’ve done a great job. People seem to be having a really good time.”

“Wait until they try to find their kids’ coats.” And then without waiting another moment, I said, “I took the contracts into Sidwell yesterday.”

“I knew you would.”

He knows me. He knows that I don’t linger for second thoughts; if I am going to do something, I do it.

“Are you going to be okay?” he said.

“Of course.” I did believe that now. It wasn’t going to be easy, but this time next year I’d be fine. I would never love Sidwell as much as I had loved Alden, but that is because I would never take a nervous, silent four-year-old with her smiling puppy sneakers to Sidwell and pick her up three hours later, glowingly happy. I might never love Sidwell, but I could love our family being there. “It will be different, but I will be okay.”

“I want it to be different, too,” he said. “I want to change. I want my part to change. I’ve always thought of Alden as your world, and I’ve never really felt any connection with it since I don’t have any desire to take off work to help a bunch of five-year-olds finger paint or use power tools. Everywhere I look, Alden seems to be about the women, the moms, and you know me, I do better if there are other guys around.”

He
wanted to change? That surprised me. “But, Jamie, as long as you are looking through my eyes, you will only see women. The investment committee and the buildings and ground committee are more than half men, but I’m always drawn more to the girl stuff.”

“Oh.” He stopped and thought. “I just assumed that the Alden volunteer community was dominated by women because it used to be a girls’ school.”

“Most schools’ volunteer communities are dominated by women, but plenty of men do find their place.”

“That’s what I was going to say. Several of my partners send their kids to Sidwell, and some of them work just as hard as me and yet they don’t seem to mind going to school events.”

I smiled at him and patted his arm. “That’s because—I’m willing to bet—they go and meet up with the other business-litigation attorneys and stand around and talk to each other, ignoring the consumer-advocate attorneys and the estate-planning attorneys. And I can get you four nice cotton-fleece drawstring skirts to wear so that everyone knows who is in your clique.”

He drew back. “I’m sure that there is a joke in that, but I don’t know what it is. I just hope that you’re noticing I’m not saying that it will be nice to have Thomas play on teams that have a chance of winning.”

Jamie was a guy; he couldn’t help that, and when guys play sports, they don’t mind if the activity builds character and teaches them about teamwork, but that’s not what it’s really all about. They want to win. “I do give you credit for not saying that, but only because you’re going to like having Erin be on a winning team just as much as Thomas.”

He smiled, obviously thinking of watching our daughter run down a soccer field. “You’re right. I will.” He put his arm around me again. “We’re going to do this as a family, Lydia.”

I pressed my cheek against his shoulder for a moment, then stepped back. I felt wonderful and light. “Well, getting more involved starts right now. You can help me with that trash can.”

I pointed to the trash can closest to the cotton-candy machine. It was brimming. Jamie went over and started to gather up the edges of the heavy fifty-gallon sack.

Just then Erin raced up. “Hi, Dad! Thomas said you were here. Can I have more money? Please?”

Jamie let go of the bag. “I think this is what the future really holds, Erin saying ‘hi’ and asking for more money.” But he reached into his pocket, handing her two bills.

She looked at them. “Wow, Dad! Thanks!”

“You need to give one of those to your brother.”

“Okay, sure.” And away she dashed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “Every time she wasn’t invited somewhere this year she baby-sat, so she’s loaded.”

We watched Erin catch up with Thomas in line at the moon bounce. She handed him the money, and he looked up at her, startled and gratified. She rapped her knuckles on his head, apparently a gesture of extreme goodwill, and danced off to join her friends.

This was the one constant in my life, the one thing that would devastate me to say good-bye to. I would have other activities, other projects that would consume me; there would be other things I would get way too involved in, care way too much about. I might have other careers, even other friends, but—God willing—I would only ever have this husband and these children. They would give me all the balance I would need.

Jamie and I stood side by side for another moment watching Thomas crawl into the moon bounce. This was what was real in theme-park land, the way the four of us felt about one another.

Then Jamie dropped his arm, and we picked up the trash and headed for the Dumpster.

My niece Erica Gilles read a draft of this book with insight and confidence. Peg Serenyi and Roger Vilsack contributed their expertise. Washington, D.C., photographer Leslie Cashen, who has taken great pictures of my kids over the years, unknowingly furnished the model for Lydia’s work. Lydia herself was named in honor of the dear, late Lydia Lee, a woman much missed.

Every time I would stop working on this book to try something else, my agent, Damaris Rowland, would prompt me to come back to it. My editor, Jennifer Enderlin, with whom I have ascended to the heights of Mount Silliness, proved herself as talented at editing as she is at reading “Romance Jeopardy” questions.

My greatest debt is, of course, to my own mom-friends, most notably Mary Candace Fowler, aka Laura B.’s mom. Candy and I led a Girl Scout troop together; we owned a swing set together. She wrote the swim team newsletter, while I wrote the one for the dive team. She’s my friend, my next-door neighbor, my volunteer editor … and, needless to say, an ex-lawyer.