The Husband Hour(72)

“No, Lauren. No one would see it the way you do. Probably not even Emerson in a more rational frame of mind. And you have to stop blaming yourself. Or it’s going to ruin your life. And you deserve to have a life, you know.”

She cried and he moved his chair close enough that he could hug her. She sobbed against his shoulder, and he repeated, “You deserve to have a life.” She heard it again and again, even after he was silent, even after her breathing returned to normal.

“I should go,” she said, pulling back.

“Yeah, God, it’s late. Um, okay. Let me find my car keys.”

“Oh, it’s fine—I can walk.”

“Lauren, don’t be ridiculous.”

Outside, the air was thick with water and salt. Soon, the sun would be up. It was a magical hour, night just about to turn into day. Everything around her seemed to hum and vibrate with life.

She lowered the window on her side, letting the air whip through her hair. Matt turned on the radio and the car filled with a song she remembered from eighth grade, “Drops of Jupiter” by Train, told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land.

Matt pulled up in front of the Green Gable and turned off the car. Through the open window, she heard the cicadas humming in the tall grass that framed the stairs to the beach.

“One summer, when we were in high school,” she whispered, “I was driving us around in the rain. Rory opened the sunroof. Something about that moment…it was the most free I ever felt in my life.”

Matt reached for her hand. “You’ll feel like that again someday.” She pulled her hand away.

“I never told anyone what happened between me and Rory.”

“You mean about him hitting you?”

She nodded.

“Didn’t you go talk to anyone after he died? A counselor? Anything?”

“I saw a psychiatrist. But all she did was give me a prescription for Zoloft.”

“Fantastic,” he said sarcastically. “Did you at least tell your mother? A friend?”

“No,” she said. “No one. Until you.”





Chapter Thirty-Eight



Beth sat up with a start in the early-morning darkness, her mind racing.

During her year in pastry school, she would start her day similarly, except she’d be thinking in French. It was just a few phrases without context or meaning, fragmented evidence that her mind had been churning overnight.

Now, the morning after Nora’s party, it wasn’t mise en forme or le pétrissage, but the words four walls rushing at her pre-coffee. Sometimes you have to sell everything you’ve got. Even the four walls.

She realized, pulling on her yoga pants, that Howard was dealing with the failure of the store all wrong. Or, rather, he was not dealing with it. And selling the Green Gable wasn’t the answer.

It was still dark, but she padded down to the kitchen, expecting to find Lauren getting ready for her daily run. Surprisingly, her bedroom door was still closed. Stephanie’s door, however, was open. And it was obvious her bed hadn’t been slept in.

An hour later, nursing her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table and waiting until it was a decent time to call Howard, Beth heard the patio door slide open.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me,” Stephanie said.

“Should I even bother asking where you’ve been all night?”

“I was with Neil, obviously. So you can officially stop pushing Lauren on him.”

Beth sighed. “Well, I hope you’re happy now.”

“Do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you really hope I’m happy? Because that would be a switch. I can’t remember the last time you thought about anything other than Lauren.”

“That’s unfair, Stephanie. Lauren suffered a tragedy. If I’ve been more focused on her—”

“It’s always been this way! Dad’s the only one who gives a shit about me and now you’ve driven him away too!”

Beth was momentarily stunned into silence.

Stephanie headed upstairs. Beth followed her, saying in a loud whisper, “I’m going to Philly today. Overnight. I’m taking Ethan with me.”

Stephanie turned around. “Why?”

“Why am I going to Philly?”

“No, why are you taking Ethan?”

“Because I can’t in good conscience leave him here to be ignored for hours at a time.”

“I resent that,” Stephanie said.

“Well, if you don’t start making some changes, one day your son is going to wake up and resent you.”



It was the first time in four years that Lauren had overslept. She woke up thinking about the coach’s interview as if it had been replaying in her mind all night long. But hockey culture demands resilience. Guys feel pressure to prove their toughness, and, frankly, they know they can be replaced. Especially the rookies.

She laced her sneakers, figuring she still had time to get in a quick run before work.

Outside, a mist settled around her. Lauren jogged in place on the boardwalk, taking deep breaths. It’s okay, she told herself, launching into the run. Her legs found their familiar rhythm, her feet hitting the boards in steady repetition.