Promises to Keep (18 page)

She had joined the Dreamy Asian Wife site a few weeks ago, she said. Had received emails from several men, but hadn’t found any of them very interesting. Walter, however, she found intriguing.

“So handsome!” she wrote. “And clever!”

She was big on exclamation marks.

And Walter allowed himself to be charmed.

He paid for her ticket and drove to the airport to pick her up, gruff with nerves and second thoughts, but as soon as she walked through, a beaming smile on her sweet face, he was thrilled.

“So much more handsome than in your picture!” she said, as they walked to the car, then she giggled, adorably, behind her hands, embarrassed.

“And you are so much prettier,” he said, instantly flushing at how clichéd that sounded.

It didn’t feel clichéd, though. It felt . . . wonderful.

She waited on him hand and foot. She cooked him the most delicious Asian steamed sea bass he had ever had. She gazed at him as he spoke, as if he were the most interesting, intelligent, amazing specimen she had ever seen, and truth be told, Walter found it all rather addictive.

When she returned to Japan after six weeks—he had extended her ticket—he missed her. Plus, he was fairly certain he had fallen in love. Their relationship had not become physical, but he knew that it would, that she felt the same about him but was shy, demure, wanted to be married first.

“Dad?” Steffi said, when he mentioned he was quietly “dating” a lovely Japanese woman. “You’d better not have gone to one of those websites.”

“What are you talking about?” he said quickly. “What websites?”

“Mail-order bride? Because that’s all about getting a green card, and it’s a total scam.”

“I didn’t meet her through a website.” He forced a laugh. “But how can it be a scam? Even the young people are dating through websites now,” he said. “Maybe you should try it.”

“No thank you. My friend Erin’s dad married some Thai woman he met through a website, and he thought she was the love of his life. Okay, so she was about thirty years younger than him, but as soon as they were married she turned into the witch from hell, and left him for the plumber, taking half his life savings with her.”

“Ah.” Walter made a mental note to call his lawyer immediately, but swiftly forgot the warning from his younger daughter. This wasn’t a scam; it couldn’t be. This was true love.

Hiromi moved in, and after a while she moved into his bedroom. Then Brutus moved in, and then, because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, he proposed.

Hiromi squealed with excitement, jumped up from the table and flung her arms around him. Her joy and happiness was so delirious that Walter went to kiss her, but she leaped off and immediately rushed to the phone. Walter sat, smiling at her affectionately as she phoned her family back in Japan. Then her friends, then everyone she had ever met, talking fast, her fingers moving prettily as she spoke. After two hours Walter whispered he was going to bed, and Hiromi laughed happily and nodded, reaching up for a quick kiss before going back to her call.

Walter got undressed, put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed, waiting for her to come up. She obviously hadn’t heard, so he went back to the bathroom and flushed the toilet, knowing she would hear that because the plumbing was terrible in the house.

She still didn’t come. He put his reading glasses on, picked up the biography he was reading and thought he’d give it ten minutes, and then he’d tell her to come up. He wanted to celebrate, after all. With his . . . fiancée!

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” She giggled up at him, looking so adorably cute when she was excited. “I just have to tell my great-aunt.”

“I thought you already told your great-aunt?”

“On my father’s side. And my cousins. You go upstairs, I will be quick.”

An hour later, while Walter was gently snoring, his book having dropped onto the floor, Hiromi continued giggling away downstairs.

All was forgotten by the morning. Later that day he went to see his lawyer, his old roommate from Yale, to arrange a pre-nup. He felt strangely guilty doing so. Surely legal arrangements to protect yourself were not the way to start a marriage, but he couldn’t quite put Steffi’s story about her friend out of his mind, and it was always good to be on the safe side.

Just in case.

He started to think he might have made a mistake on the night of the wedding. A dozen Japanese people showed up outside the town hall, showering them with confetti.

“Cousins,” Hiromi turned to him and explained delightedly. “Surprise!”

It certainly was a surprise. He had booked a romantic dinner for two at a special occasion restaurant, but instead found himself, after first taking Brutus back home, in a very seedy bar with lots of happy Japanese people who didn’t really speak any English, but did do a very good job of running up the bar bill.

They drank and drank. And then a couple of men walked in with equipment, and the Japanese people cheered. Karaoke night was, it seemed, a regular here, and as the vodka flowed they all started singing.

And his demure Hiromi? What had happened to her? She was drunk. And shameless. She kept grabbing the microphone from whoever was singing, and gyrating on the stage, while her friends cheered her on.

Walter was horrified.

He carried her to his car, for she was in no state to walk, and spent the rest of the night Googling how to annul a marriage.

Happily, in the morning she was deeply apologetic. She said she was taking antibiotics for a “woman’s issue,” hence not telling him, and it had reacted horribly with the small amount of alcohol she had ingested.

He was quite certain he had watched her drink vast amounts of alcohol, but after consummating the marriage she was just as wonderful as she had been before their wedding night. So it was clearly a blip.

Until the next time. And the next.

Each time an entourage of smiling, charming, bobbing friends of hers showed up, none of them speaking English, and he began to dread going out at all.

Suddenly she started shouting at him, telling him he was a “stupid old man,” and when she was unhappy she refused to lift a finger in the house. Shortly thereafter being unhappy seemed to be a pretty permanent state of affairs with her, and he moved out of the master bedroom and into the spare room downstairs, just to get some peace and quiet.

He’d been had.

And he was ashamed.

Too ashamed to tell anyone.

“How’s married life?” his friends would ask, busting his chops about having such a gorgeous young wife, and he would force a smile and nod. “Fine, fine. You know. It’s . . . married life,” he’d say, then try to change the subject as quickly as possible.

He would lie in bed, Brutus on his chest—for Brutus didn’t seem too terribly impressed with Hiromi either, although he did pretend when he was hungry—and feel hollow inside. And he would think about Honor, and Eleanor, and even, sometimes, Sally. Women who may not have been perfect, but he understood them.

He had no idea what to make of Hiromi. Sometimes she would just laugh when he said something, and he would be flooded with relief; other times he might say exactly the same thing and she would fly off the handle in a rage.

It was terrifying.

He served her divorce papers after a year. It felt like the longest year of his life. He did it when she was at work—she had recently gotten a job as a hostess in a restaurant—and changed the locks on his house, packaging up all of her stuff in neat boxes and leaving them outside the front door.

He knew that if she got back into the house, she might never leave. As it was, she stood outside screaming and rattling on the door for a good hour, during which time Walter breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t have any close neighbors.

And then she left, and the emails started.

They have been divorced for five years, and still the emails come.

She is convinced he has stolen something from her. A pair of purple and black panties and matching bra that were from Victoria’s Secret and her favorite set. She accuses him of being a dirty old man, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what she is talking about, and is pretty sure that he wouldn’t have forgotten a purple and black panty and bra set from Victoria’s Secret. No sirree.

“I
’m fine,” Callie keeps insisting. “I just want to get out of here.”

“But you had a blackout.” Honor winces from the bruise of her seat belt, but nothing else, thank God, thank Volvo. “You can’t go home until they find out what caused it.”

“They said we’re all fine. There’s nothing wrong with us now, just shock and a few bruises, and I don’t want them to do tests here, okay? I swear I’ll go and see my doctor when I get home, but I don’t want to stay here in the hospital.”

Honor and Steffi look at each other. They understand. Of course they understand. Ever since her cancer Callie has hated hospitals, has hated the memories that come flooding back every time she steps through the doors, for all hospitals look the same, smell the same, feel the same.

“But, darling,” Honor attempts again, “didn’t that doctor say he wanted you to have an MRI to try to establish the cause of the headache?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to do it here. I’ll have the MRI, but Mom, if I’m going to do it, it needs to be at Poundford Hospital. I need to be with people I know, all right? It’s just too traumatic for me to be in a strange hospital, okay?”

Honor and Steffi back down immediately. The last thing anyone wants is for Callie to be traumatized.

“Okay. But you have to see someone very soon. I’m going to tell Reece.”

“Fine. Can we just get out of here?”

 

“Guys?” Steffi is driving. “Mom? Would it be okay, do you think, if you drove instead?”

“I
can
drive.” Honor is cautious, shooting worried glances at Callie, who is lying down on the backseat. “Why?”

“It’s just that I told Mason what has happened and he offered to come and get us. I told him we were fine. He’s staying the night here now, and I said I’d try to come over later, but I know you need to get back.”

“You’re leaving us?” Honor is horrified.

“But you’re fine, Mom. You heard Callie—she’s fine too.” They both look over their shoulders at Callie, who doesn’t look very fine at all.

“Call? You okay?”

“Just a headache,” Callie says.

“Oh goodness. I think we should turn back. What if it’s brain swelling? We have to go back.” Honor starts to tremble.

“No!” Callie’s voice is surprisingly forceful. “I didn’t even hit my head, okay? It’s not brain swelling. It’s the same headache I always get. Migraine. I think it’s stress.” She opens her eyes and manages an evil glare at her mother and sister. “Just get me home. Please.”

“Steffi, I need you to stay with us,” Honor mutters, her teeth clenched in anger.

“But I need to see this house, Mom. I’d planned it, and everyone’s fine. You’ll be fine to drive home.”

“I am not fine to drive home. I am shaking. There is absolutely no way I can drive us home. I know it’s not far to Bedford from New Canaan, but the answer is still no. I’m not giving you a choice. I refuse to drive, and you, young lady, need to grow up.” With that, Honor crosses her arms and stares resolutely at the road in front of her, while Steffi sets her lips in a tense scowl.

God, she thinks. Sometimes I really can’t stand my mom. Then she instantly feels ashamed at regressing to around twelve years old.

L
ila sits on the floor of her dressing room with her head in her hands. What on earth is she going to wear? Who, more importantly, does she want to be tonight?

It is Clay’s recital this evening. He is playing the cello, and while school orchestra performances are not her preferred method of spending the evening, she recognizes it is a big deal, not only that Clay wants her there, but that Ed does too.