Well Behaved Wives(26)
“He’d better be. He’s the holdout.”
Lillian took a step away from him. “Peter—you need to cut him some slack. His mother died in May, so if he is there tomorrow, say something nice and go easy on him. By the way, Jay Martin’s son just went off to Princeton, so remember to congratulate him. Are you catering lunch?”
Peter said nothing. This was like pulling teeth.
“If you are, remind Wendy that he’s allergic to shellfish and that Barry Jones has an intolerance for dairy. Eat so they eat. You know they spend more on a full stomach. We’ll have a light dinner—I’ll get cold cuts from Manny’s. I’ll see what Sunny has prepared and I’ll adjust the menu.” Lillian could alter meals; that wasn’t cooking. “Oh, and don’t make their drinks too strong, so they can sign the contract.”
Peter ran his hand through his hair, betraying his nervousness.
What was he worried about? They’d done this dozens of times before. Lillian prepped Peter on personal details and reminders before a meeting, a dinner, a party. He had never asked her to do it—it was just what she did.
What would happen if she stopped?
Lillian imagined the neighborhood’s social hierarchy melting like a sandcastle at high tide. That would leave her with a shapeless mess—or the job of rebuilding.
The next morning, with a good night’s sleep behind her, Lillian tried to embrace the status quo. Life always looked brighter in the light of day. She eyed Peter in his custom-tailored blue suit, smoothed his collar, and kissed his cheek, being careful not to leave a lipstick smear.
“For luck.”
He smiled, planted a kiss on her forehead, and departed. Peter’s affection was as inconsistent as his golf swing. If only it received half as much time and attention.
With Peter gone and the girls already in school, Lillian was all alone. Face it, she mused, she was alone even when Peter was there. She poured a quiet cup of coffee and drank it black, staring out the kitchen window, across the driveway, into the morning gray of her neighbor’s kitchen. She didn’t know Faye well, only that she was in her early fifties, was married to a cardiologist, and puttered around her kitchen wearing a robe each morning, whereas Lillian dressed before heading downstairs every day.
Faye’s robe did not reveal whether she wore flannel or lace beneath, just as the faraway cup she raised to her lips did not reveal its contents. Coffee with cream, milk, sugar, saccharin? Tea with lemon? Honey? Wine? Something more potent?
Unintentionally, her mysterious neighbor revealed a truth about Lillian. Lillian knew only part of her own story as well.
She’d married a nice Jewish boy, moved to the best neighborhood, and lived in one of the nicest homes. She had the most modern appliances, a maid three days a week, two healthy, beautiful daughters, and at last count, a secret stash of almost seven hundred dollars, which she didn’t need, in a Maxwell House tin hidden in the back of her closet. Her life was everything she’d ever wanted. More, even.
Why was it, then, that Lillian felt like she was suffocating?
Chapter 11
RUTH
Before dawn, Ruth sat up in bed, but Asher didn’t budge, not even a bit. She gazed at his sweet, sleeping face. A soft whistle came from his nose, and his dark, loose curls fell on his forehead. When his eyelids fluttered, Ruth decided his lashes were longer and darker than any gentleman’s had a right to be. She found these noises and unconscious movements endearing—alluring even. She kissed his forehead like a mother might kiss a sleeping baby—the way she’d seen her manly brothers kiss their sons, besotted.
Love in all its iterations sparked behaviors and decisions some would call erratic, out of character, foolish. Ruth had moved away from her home, her family, and her friends because she wanted this love—this marriage. Maybe she’d have to wait a little while before she could be honest with everyone about her career, but that would happen soon.
Careful not to wake her husband, Ruth slipped out of bed and tucked the covers around him. She dipped her hand into the nightstand drawer where she stored the study guide. Just because she was waiting to share her plans with her in-laws didn’t mean she couldn’t prepare. After all, she had 399 more hours to go. At least. Flashlight in hand, Ruth snuggled onto the window seat and flipped through the study guide.
When the sun rose, so did Asher. He propped himself up on one elbow and beamed at her. That gaze sent pleasurable shivers up her spine. Ruth was overwhelmed, overcome. She never wanted to disappoint him—she couldn’t imagine a day when she’d tire of his admiration. He crooked his finger and Ruth hurried back to bed.
She could wait just a little longer to chisel down her 399 hours.
Later that morning, Ruth sat outside on the front steps. The sun was shining through high, white clouds, and crisp air swirled around her as she balanced a sealed Tupperware container on her knees. She looked up to the sky, closed her eyes, and let the sun spread its warmth over her. In a few minutes, her new friends would be here to pick her up.
She plucked a leaf that had escaped the lawn cleanup from the boxwood. She tucked it into her pocketbook and vowed to press it inside one of her thickest novels, a memento from her first autumn as a married woman.
She fiddled with the Tupperware container on her lap, which Shirley had carefully packed herself after Ruth told her that Irene had invited the girls on a picnic this morning. “Irene said not to bring anything.”