Well Behaved Wives(41)
“Lillian, it’s after midnight. What are you doing?” Peter stood at the edge of the room, where the foyer’s marble floor met the dining room carpet. Blue pajamas. No slippers, no robe. Lillian warmed at the thought he missed her, or worried about her.
“Just working on additions to the etiquette lessons for the girls.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Inspiration struck. I didn’t realize what time it was.”
He shook his head, clearly nonplussed. “Fine, just come to bed.”
Lillian stored her notebook in the buffet. “I’ve got some new ideas. It may take me some extra time to get this ready. A few weeks, probably.”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with anything we need, you can keep yourself busy however you like.”
However I like? Lillian smoldered. “It’s not a matter of keeping busy, Peter. I’m plenty busy.”
“What then, Lil? I’m tired.”
The middle of the night was as good a time as any to be honest. “I’m not very happy with myself.” She was careful not to place the blame on him.
“What?”
At first Lillian mistook his grimace as concern, then realized it might be disappointment. She should have kept her thoughts inside, but it was too late. “I don’t know. I just need more.”
Peter waved his arms in the air and spun in a circle, his sleepiness replaced by confusion. “More? Are you telling me this isn’t enough for you? What more could you possibly want? Tell me, Lillian. A new car? A pool? Don’t tell me this is about a dog.”
This had nothing to do with possessions—not appliances, trinkets, jewels, clothes, or cars.
“This is about your mother, isn’t it?”
The suggestion stunned her. It was unlike Peter to bring up her mother. He’d always been supportive in the past. Never threw her family history in her face like other men might.
“No. Not exactly. It’s about women.” Lillian had no idea that describing her feelings outside of her own head would be so difficult. Her words sounded so outlandish that they came across like a foreign language, even to her.
Peter sighed. “If you’re this unhappy, maybe you should see a psychiatrist, Lil. Ben Parker’s wife goes to one. Jerry Stern’s too. Gave them pills to feel normal. The fellas say they work.”
“What are you saying? That I’m . . .” Lillian felt liquid pooling in her eyes and she thrust her arm forward and pointed at him. “You take that back!”
“Then don’t be hysterical!”
“Peter! You promised you’d never use that word!” Tears streamed down Lillian’s face. He knew that word grieved Lillian as much today as it had when she was eleven, when her father had died. When her mother had gone to the hospital.
Peter raked his hand through his hair. “Damn it. I didn’t mean it, Lil. But really? This isn’t enough?”
Lillian didn’t want to hurt Peter; she did love this man. It wasn’t his fault she was—what was she besides lucky? Privileged? Blessed?
And discontented. The word unhappy stuck in her throat and tangled up her thoughts.
There must be something wrong with her—a woman with a life like hers had nothing to be unhappy about. Still, the ideas bounced around like pinballs in her brain.
“I’m just tired. Forget it.” And confused, she thought. Disillusioned. But it wasn’t because of Peter. He’d been a good husband, a good man, and she had blindsided him. In the middle of the night.
Peter reached for her hand. “I think you spend too much time and energy on those housewife lessons.”
“Maybe so,” she said as they walked upstairs. She noticed how solid her fingers felt when wrapped in his. She wasn’t ready to let them go.
Chapter 18
LILLIAN
Dreary weather was no excuse for a dreary disposition. She must not be moody about what she would teach the girls today. Lesson three should be clear-cut and precise. The financial futures of these girls and their families depended on their knowing how to contribute to their husbands’ successes.
Lillian set aside Thursday’s gray sky and drizzle and forced herself to smile as she set out one crystal dish with butterscotch hard candies and another with spearmint leaves. She rearranged the throw pillows on the sofa and swept her index finger along the mantel to check for nonexistent dust. She straightened the framed photos and aligned the coffee-table books. Fastidiousness was a compliment to her guests and a way to teach tidiness by example.
Deep breath.
She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the room and then herself. She preferred her print dress with the covered buttons. The wide border, replete with purple plums, green leaves, and golden accents, reminded Lillian of her mother’s china serving dish when it was filled with plum chicken during the High Holidays. She loved it when memories made her happy instead of sad. Her smile no longer fake, she drew open the curtains in defiance of the overcast sky.
Shirley walked into the living room without even saying hello, unwrapped a butterscotch with the familiar cellophane crinkle, and popped the candy into her mouth. Lillian heard it click against her teeth.
“Thanks for coming a little early,” Lillian said. She felt bad for being resentful earlier. Should she tell Shirley that she’d been thinking about changing what they taught the girls? Shirley had started these classes—they were based on her teaching. Changing the focus of them might offend her mentor.