Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (13 page)

Tanner and Jake won’t let me in the playroom.” Olivia’s mouth is pursed, the first sign that thunderstorms of tears are on the way. “And I need to get Mrs. Wiffle!”

Nurturing that oddly named plush lump of threadbare terry cloth is one of Olivia’s daily rituals, reason enough for the paintbrush I’m brandishing to stop midstroke. Sadly, the only painting I do these days involves adding yet another coat of white high-gloss to any household surface that needs it. In this case, it’s the door that leads from the kitchen to the backyard. Tanner opens it by slamming his basketball against the wobbly knob, while our little karate green belt, Mickey, uses a roundhouse kick. Harvey the Labrador hasn’t figured out that scratching it with muddy paws, as opposed to bounding through the built-in dog door, is what earns him those smacks on his rump. In fact, this door has been whitewashed so many times that if the Mona Lisa had been painted anywhere on it, a forensics X-ray would miss it entirely.

“The boys have locked the door?”

“Yes! And they’re laughing at me! And no matter how nice I ask, they won’t let me in. They tell me to go away! Mrs. Wiffle hates
being in there with them, I just know it.”

I put down the brush and follow her downstairs to the basement. She’s right: they’re guffawing about something. Even my light tapping doesn’t catch their attention. Then it hits me: there is another way into the room, through the half bath at the foot of the steps.

“Wait here, sweetie.” I give Olivia a kiss on the forehead before stepping into the bathroom.

The boys don’t hear me as I come up behind them. They are too engrossed in whatever is on the screen of Jake’s cell phone. Only when I’m right behind them do I see what it is:

Laurel, naked from the waist up.

In the photo, she strikes a practiced pose, legs spread apart and hands lifting her thigh-grazing flounce of a skirt for a peekaboo view. But it’s not her come-hither pout that has the boys all hot and bothered. Her breasts, with their large and perky nipples, draw your eyes instantly.

Ashamed for her, I glance away. With one swipe, I grab the cell out of Jake’s hand.

“What—” If possible, his eyes open even wider when he realizes I’ve seen what all the fuss is about. His eyes blink his annoyance, then narrow with defiance. “What the hell, Mrs. Harper? Give it back! That’s . . . 
personal
.”

“Yeah, I’ll say it is.” He looks so much like Harry when he’s angry, it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I cross my arms, protecting not just Laurel’s image but my own vision of this boy who, over the past couple of weeks, has gone from being sweet and gracious to sullen and disrespectful. “Really, Jake! How could you take a picture like this? It’s—it’s such a violation of her privacy!”

He smirks at my naïveté. “Hey, can I help it that she sent it to me?”

Watching my mouth open in shock, Tanner tries to soften the
blow. “Yeah, but dude, you
did
ask her to do it. And she’s so freaked about you dumping her—”

“What?” I look from one boy to the other. “You’re no longer dating Laurel?” Jake’s ongoing relationship with Laurel ensures Margot’s support of Harry. These days, that gives him an invisible force field that deflects Tammy’s scornful venom and keeps Isabelle thinking twice about punching him out.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is: so many girls, so little time.” Jake’s smile is forced. “Besides, it’s only a matter of time before she dumps me first, right? They all do. This way, at least I have a little something to remember her by.”

“You’re wrong. Every girl is different, just like guys are all different. You can’t let—you know . . .”

“Let what? Who?” His eyes beg me to say it, to tell him that he’s wrong about Laurel.

About DeeDee.

But it’s not my place to say it. I shake my head with a sigh. “Look, Jake, this picture of Laurel—well, it’s not just ‘a little something to remember her by.’ It’s her last-ditch effort to hold on to you, so that she won’t be hurt.”
Like you are now
, I want to say, but I don’t. “Tell me the truth: has this made the rounds?”

Jake shrugs as he shakes his head.

Thank goodness. I hit the cell’s delete button, and toss the phone back at him. “I have to say I’m very disappointed in you. In fact, I think it’s time you head home.”

By now, Olivia is pounding on the door, demanding entry. As I make my way over, Jake growls, “I guess you’re going to tell my dad about this.”

“I think we both know he’d prefer to hear it from you.”

Jake winces at the suggestion.

I’m sure Tanner is expecting repercussions for the role he played in these shenanigans. His penance comes from Olivia: as I open the
door, she runs past me to grab Mrs. Wiffle, and on the way out she catches Tanner off guard with a roundhouse to the belly.

Obviously she’s been taking lessons from Mickey. I guess the next shoe print I’ll be painting over will be a girl’s size one.

Saturday, 16 Nov., 11:05 a.m.

“Thanks. I owe you,” Harry hands me one of the two sacks he’s carrying, the one sweating glazed doughnut sugar. Yum.

Temple and Olivia’s ballet class has just started. I sneak a peek inside the bag, but forgo doing a happy dance, despite finding it filled with my poison of choice: two chocolate-topped Krispy Kremes.

I shoot him a thumbs-up. I’ve been up since sunrise, but with all my running around—chauffeuring the kids to their activities, not to mention collecting and distributing the barrels to every classroom for the board’s annual Thanksgiving Homeless Shelter Food Collection—this is the first bite of anything I’ve had all day. However, munching snacks in front of the studio’s glass partition is verboten, something about little ballerinas getting the wrong message if they see their parents gorging themselves on pastries. Adhering to ballet mistress Nadia’s rule, I motion for him to follow me outside, where we can enjoy a guilt-free pig-out.

We settle on one of the benches in the little park beside the studio. “Hey, no coffee to go with this?” I don’t know if Harry can make out what I’m saying, what with my mouth stuffed with doughnut. As he frowns, his dimples deepen. Lord help me, I can’t stop my cheeks from heating up. Does he notice? Nah, he’s too busy dodging the spittle hurtling out of my mouth.

He bats a pellet of fried dough off his cheek, then flicks one off mine as well. “I’m boycotting the ’Bucks these days. If I run into Margot and her posse, I’m sure she’ll have me shot on sight.”

That stops me mid-munch. “Ah, so Jake broke it off after all!”

“Yes, last night. Thanks to your urging, he and I had a
heart-to-heart about it. He feels he’s being pressured into going steady, and he’s just not ready for that. My God, they’re not even fourteen yet! Last year he was the shortest kid in his class. Even the girls were taller.” Harry crumples up the bag and hurls it into the garbage can by the street. “Laurel took it pretty hard. But it could have been a lot worse, if Margot had gotten wind of that sext message.” He stops and gulps. His doughnut remains untouched on his napkin, so I know the catch in his throat isn’t from that. “Knowing her, I’m sure she’d be threatening to sue. That’s one less brouhaha I need in my life.” He rubs his eyes wearily. “Not that, legally, she’d have a leg to stand on.”

“How’s that?”

“Because Laurel sent the message to Jake. She’s the one who broke the law, not him. They’re both minors, and that’s the legal concern. But still,
he asked her to do it
. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the principle of the thing. Of course, I read him the riot act. I think I got it through his thick skull that nudity and sex, no matter how tempting, aren’t things he should be rushing toward. Not for a few years, at least.” He gives the parental salute: a genuflection. Seeing my smile, he allows himself one too. “Seriously, Lyssa, it’s a good thing you waylaid the boys before they did something we’d all regret. So you see, I owe you a lot. And by that, I don’t mean a couple of doughnuts.” He opens the other sack and pulls out a beautiful little plant in a glazed pot. It boasts one small flower, white streaked with red, which has yet to fully open.

“How beautiful, a candy cane amaryllis! Wow, Harry. Really, you didn’t have to do this. You don’t owe me anything. I mean, you would have done the same thing if you’d caught Tanner in the same predicament.”

He looks at me strangely. “Yes, I guess I would—now. But before I knew you, before all of this”—he waves his hand beyond the
cluster of businesses, toward the neighborhood unfurling beyond it—“I could not have cared less. I would have just laughed it off, just chalked up it as, you know, ‘boys being boys’ or some such nonsense.”

“Why would you say that? The last thing you are is callous, Harry.”

“Then you really don’t know me so well. Before DeeDee left me, stuff like this just wasn’t important to me. It fell under DeeDee’s purview, not mine. I didn’t care to hear about the kids’ fights with their friends. If something was bugging them, I’d let her handle it. I was too busy carving out my own place in the bigger universe beyond here. And for what? Seriously, Lyssa, nothing—and I do mean
nothing
—is as important as my kids’ lives at any moment. I didn’t realize that until Temple’s accident the other day.”

“Harry, you can’t blame yourself for that—”

“Oh no? If I was in tune with her feelings, then why didn’t I pick up on her angst? Because I’ve been an absentee father, that’s why.” His voice cracks. “Do you know that I missed Father’s Day with my kids this year? I was stuck in a messy merger deal out of town where I was working twenty-four seven for over a month. But I promised them that, come hell or high water, I’d make it home that Saturday night. So the two of them took their allowances to buy us all seats at a Giants game.” He shakes his head sadly. “I didn’t get home until late Monday. Their handmade card was on my bureau—with the tickets inside. I’m quite a dad, aren’t I?”

“Those things happen. Besides, Harry, everything you’ve done is for them.”

“Not really. Up until now, my ego was more important to me than my kids. I had it all: beautiful wife, great kids, power position at a prestigious firm. Now look at me.”

“You’ve still got your kids.”

“For now. But I’m not going to pretend that things are perfect.
Temple is still wetting the bed at night. Says she doesn’t want to sleep alone. And Miss Judith has asked that I pack an extra pair of underpants in her backpack. In fact, it’s a struggle to get her to go to school in the first place. Miss Judith has suggested a shrink for Temple.” He shakes his head sadly. “I wonder if I can get a family discount. Jake is sullen, too. I miss that sweet cocky kid in him. It’s this damn divorce! I guess I’ve let both my babies down. But I swear to God, I’ll never let that happen again.”

I tap his hand with my sticky fingertips. Does that gross him out? Apparently not, since he covers them with his other hand.

“Look, Harry, we all wish we could freeze time, turn back the clock. Sometimes I stare at my kids’ faces while they sleep, just so I’ll always be sure to remember them at every age: you know, like when they were three and had those sweet apple cheeks. Or right before they can walk, and you can’t stop squeezing their fat little legs, or kissing their instep because it’s so smooth and soft. Do you remember that?”

Memories haze his eyes for a moment. Hearing the hum of a jet high over our heads, he follows it as it disappears into the sun.

“Lyssa, I’ll let you in on my dirty little secret: Sure, I have all those same images, but before the divorce
I don’t remember ever kissing them when they weren’t asleep
. I left for work while it was still dark, or I came home late, usually after they went to bed.”

As he stands, he pulls me up with him. “But that’s okay, because now I’m making up for lost time. Just think—if DeeDee hadn’t left, I would have never realized what I’ve missed all these years. I guess she did me a favor after all.”

“Men kick friendship around like a football, but it
doesn’t seem to crack. Women treat it like
glass and it goes to pieces.”

—Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Monday, 18 Nov., 9:10 a.m.

She’s devastated! Simply DEVASTATED. She hasn’t quit crying since he broke the news!” Brooke, who is usually a loudmouth, barely speaks above a whisper. For the first time since I’ve met her, I have to lean in to hear one of her proclamations.

Hell, yeah, this is serious.

Harry may have deserted Starbucks, but I still need my vanilla latte fix, which is why I’ve joined the board at its usual school-morning coffee klatch. Besides, I’m doing reconnaissance on Jake’s breakup with Laurel, if only to cover Harry’s back.

And if what Brooke says is true, the knives are being sharpened.

“I took over a casserole, and the poor thing wouldn’t even have a bite,” Colleen chimes in. “I doubt that she has eaten since it happened.”

“Well, of course not,” sniffs Tammy. “What he’s done is a cruel betrayal of their relationship, the
cad
!”

I feel the color leave my face. Did Laurel’s sext message somehow re-pixelate and float back out into the ether, forever branding her a slut and Jake a boy ho?

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I know I must. “Was it something . . . irreversible? Maybe it was a mistake—”

“Mistake? Yeah, well, he’ll find out what this ‘mistake’ will cost him,” growls Isabelle. “She’s on the warpath, and rightly so. But no, it’s not irreversible. Not if he does the right thing by her.”

Exhaling again, I feel my upper lip quiver as I smile. “Well, then, that’s something, at least! I’m sure this will all blow over in a week or so, and then they’ll be friends again.”

Isabelle snorts at my naïveté. “Ha! Fat chance! It should never have happened in the first place. Hell, she wants him back.”

“Whoa, whoa! It was puppy love! You know, a first crush. Seriously, someone has to help her put this into perspective. What does Margot have to say about it?”

Dumbstruck, all three of them turn and stare at me. Colleen is the first one out of her trance. “Just who do you think we’re talking about, silly?”

“Laurel, of course! Wait—it’s
Margot
who’s so upset? But—why?”