Family Pictures (27 page)

Just as back then, the Realtor phones to let me know when she will be showing the house, but I’m no longer the owner. The bank has repossessed my beautiful home, and the phone calls from the Realtor are merely a signal for me to leave; there is no incentive for me to beautify the house, for none of the proceeds of the sale are mine.

Not that I could beautify it now, I think, looking out the window as sadness threatens to drown me. The gravel driveway is covered in weeds, the boxwood hedges shaggy with new, pale green leaves sprouting off in all directions. The apple trees have dropped their fruit; what hasn’t been eaten by deer has rotted and soured on the ground.

Inside, there is an air of emptiness, of a home unloved. Dust covers the surfaces of what little furniture is left, unless I’m able to emerge from my depression enough to notice and sweep a hand along a tabletop.

To think that once upon a time, I would have been mortified that the Realtor has to show up half an hour early, armed with fabric spray, beeswax, scented candles, room spray. She has to move furniture to cover the stains, polish the dusty furniture.

I don’t bother doing any of these things for her. I no longer have the energy to care.

More and more furniture has been sold, leaving faded marks on the carpet around the house, large squares on the wall where pictures once hung.

It is hard to believe this was ever a house filled with family, laughter, and love. In fact, I’m not sure it ever was.

At the bottom of the stairs, I take a deep breath and pause, listening to the women bustling around the living room. My eyes automatically go to the wall facing the stairs, where the huge antique gilt mirror had hung.

It was the mirror in which I always gave myself one last check, making sure my makeup was perfect, my hair frizz-free; ensuring I looked the part.

That the mirror has been sold is irrelevant now. I no longer need to glance approvingly at myself in darkened store windows, resenting even having to see my two-inch roots and wrinkled forehead in the bathroom mirror.

The mirror sold for four thousand, two thousand of which, thank God, I got in cash. The blank holes around the house the only reason we still have electricity and oil. At some point, everything will be reclaimed by the bank, or the police, or the creditors, but until that point, I have a family to feed.

“There you are!” An older woman with short gray hair, neat and precise, walks into the hallway, holding a crocodile purse. “We’re just getting everything set up, but we think there’s a mistake on the price.”

I bend down to peer at the price tag.

“It says fifteen thousand dollars,” the woman laughs.

“No, that’s right.” She isn’t the local estate seller—I couldn’t handle that. I found her in Norwalk, and understand the incomprehension in the woman’s eyes. “I know it’s a crazy price, but it’s the bag everyone around here wants. It will probably be the first thing to sell.”

“Oh, goodness!” The woman shakes her head. “I had no idea anyone ever spent this much money on a purse! Goodness! This looks like it’s going to be the best sale we’ve ever done. Are you
sure
you don’t want to stay? Most of our estate sales have the owners present. They love seeing how much their old things are going for.”

I look at her as if she’s crazy, then give a mere shake of my head. “Not me, I’m afraid.”

“I understand. It can be painful, parting with things you’re still emotionally attached to.” The woman’s eyes soften in sympathy as I just nod. It’s less that I’m emotionally attached, more that I’m horrified at the prospect of seeing the vultures gleefully picking over what’s left of my beautiful things.

I told Lara I’d be away, as if I were nipping over to Nantucket for a couple of days. Ha. I wish. I have no idea where I’m going, but I need country. Trees. Fields. Nature. Maybe a beach, or lake. Somewhere I don’t have to think about what’s happening inside my home.

The house that used to be my home.

Yesterday, when I spoke to Lara, she asked how the organization of the sale was coming along. What could I say? That it made me feel sick?

“I bet Kim will be the first one there,” I said bitterly.

“Probably,” Lara laughed. “I just want you to know that I’m not going, okay? I know you’re selling these things because you have to, and it wouldn’t be right. I need you to know that.”

“You’re a good friend,” I said. “I hate the thought of everyone picking over my things. I knew you wouldn’t be going, but thank you for saying that to me. It means a lot.”

The estate sale woman—what was her name? Oh yes! Eleanor—is still standing there. “Are you off anywhere n—? Oh dear!” She turns to the sound of a car with a frown. “I told the press they couldn’t come in.”

“The press are here?”

“All of them,” Eleanor sighs. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to keep them out. But that’s not press. That’s a local.”

“How do you know?” I step away from the window so I can’t be seen, or photographed with a long-lens camera.

“Black Range Rover,” Eleanor says, peering outside.

“Oh yes. Definitely local.”

“Someone you know?”

“Could be one of a hundred.”

“We
said
no early birds. I do hate it when they ignore what we state quite clearly in the ad.”

Whoever it is, I don’t want them to see me, not face-to-face. I don’t want them to witness my shame.

I thought I had friends here—believed I had earned a loyalty and respect from the women I saw almost every day, be it at school, a committee meeting, a charity event. Those same women who are now appearing on television, giving their opinions and comments about my marriage, telling stories about Mark and me. Women more interested in their fifteen minutes of fame than in protecting a woman who had hosted them in her house numerous times.

Grabbing my bag, I practically run to the safety of the kitchen, but just before I close the door, I hear a familiar voice from the hallway.

“I’m so sorry I had to come early. I have an appointment in the city, but I wanted to stop by. This is just too good to miss.” My heart is in my mouth as I listen. I would know this voice anywhere.

It is Eleanor’s turn to charm. “There are certainly some beautiful things here. The purses are on this side, and there’s wonderful jewelry over there. This is truly one of the best sales we’ve ever done.”

“I’m sure. Nothing but the best for Maggie Hathaway. Oh well, one woman’s loss is my gain,” she laughs.

“I’m Eleanor.” The estate sale woman has the grace not to join in. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll take that Birkin, for starters.” There is a pause during which I imagine her turning the Birkin over in her hands. “
Fifteen thousand?
I know it’s crocodile, but look at that scratch! And that one? That’s far too much.”

“Oh,” Eleanor says nervously. “Gosh. I hadn’t noticed those. I see what you mean.”

“I’ll give you five,” the woman says confidently. “Five thousand dollars. Cash.”

“I’m going to have to check with the owner—”

“Five thousand? For a used purse with scratches? No one’s going to offer you more, I promise you.”

“You have a point.” Eleanor is doubtful, but five thousand dollars for a purse is, in her mind, still obscene. “It is rather badly scratched.”

“Good. I’d like to look at those necklaces too. And the earrings. Those purses are interesting but priced much too high. Trust me, I know what these are selling for in consignment stores, and it’s a lot lower than that. Can I just start a pile over here? I’m Kim, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Kim.”

I would know Kim’s voice anywhere. And that isn’t Kim’s voice.

It’s Lara’s.

*   *   *

I resist the urge to burst through and let her know I know. I’ve done enough damage to myself already. I just need to get out.

I race to the car, put my foot down hard, and accelerate out the driveway, scattering the clamoring reporters and camera crews. No one can keep them out of the house, but who cares anymore. There is nothing they can say or do that could make my life worse. Nothing people I don’t know can do, but there are still things my “friends” can do to hurt me. Clearly.

I drive on I-95, in shock. I’ve lost my husband, my life, and the respect of everyone I know. Even the few I thought were friends have proved to be more interested in profiting. I am well aware that in the newspapers and one of the blogs I have publicly been declared a fraud, my humble beginnings doubtless the subject of much mirth along the scrubbed wooden tables in Le Pain Quotidien.

I have lost everything, but in doing so, I can’t help but start to wonder what that “everything” meant.

Mark was described by all who knew him as “the perfect husband.” I may have been blind to his betrayal, his other marriage, but that aside, what kind of a husband was he, really? Hardly ever home, when he was, he would be stepping outside to take a “conference call”; would disappear in his office for hours, closing the door so as not to “disturb anyone.” Then there were the times he would go missing for days, out of reach.

He was rarely here to accompany me to the various events I used to fill the emptiness in my life, and it is beginning to dawn on me that this wasn’t a marriage. This was an
arrangement.

An arrangement that didn’t make me happy, an arrangement that was so unreal, I’m questioning not just my marriage, but also everything connected with it.

The furniture, the clothes, the
stuff,
already mostly gone, and none of it missed.

The friends who have all disappeared, the parties to which I’m definitely no longer invited, the committees I will never be asked to chair again—does any of it matter? Did any of it
ever
matter?

I keep driving, these thoughts whirring through my head, no idea where I’m going, aware only that the farther away I drive from New Salem, the calmer I become.

I exit on a whim, take roads because I like the look of them, noticing the leaves hanging over the roads, the bright green of the grass, the farms dotted around, cows grazing peacefully in the meadows.

Guilford. Old Saybrook. Lyme. I follow a sign to Ashlawn Farm, curious as to what I might find, delighting in finding a coffee roaster and café, settling into an old wooden chair on the porch of a charming farmhouse, sipping the delicious coffee as I look out over the fields, not realizing for a while that there is a smile on my face.

A few others join me on the porch. We smile hello, make small talk, and it is only when I am left alone again that I realize I have found the place to start the next part of my journey. Left up to me, I would never set foot in New Salem again, not least because at the ripe old age of forty-four, I find myself starting again with absolutely nothing?

The only thing of which I’m certain is that this is the place in which to do it—a town that has finally managed to fill me with peace.

42

Sylvie

Sylvie sits on a bench overlooking the water, sipping from a bottle of water, berating herself for feeling so nervous. This is Mark, for God’s sake. The man she had lived with and loved all these years.

The man who had lied to her all these years.

She wouldn’t speak to him on the phone, or let him come to the house as his attorney had suggested, after she borrowed money from Simon to bail Mark out. She isn’t even sure why she did it, only that with Eve being so fragile, she couldn’t bear for her to think of Mark in prison.

They are meeting at Torrey Pines—the state reserve. While beautiful, it held no romantic memories for either of them, was neutral enough to remove the possibility of running into anyone they knew.

Not that running into people was a problem for Sylvie. She held her head high, refusing to be seen as a victim in this. She was still Sylvie: mother, friend, artist.

She couldn’t describe herself as wife. Not anymore.

The women in school had rallied round, inviting her out with them, sending letters and e-mails expressing their dismay and support for her. Sylvie rarely accepted those kind invitations, but knew they were genuine.

Keeping busy was the distraction she needed. During the day, she painted houses; at night, she made candles. Whatever she could do to get by. Too much quiet time, and she found herself dwelling on the past, the movie of her life with Mark running through her head, rewinding and replaying, as she tried to figure out
why.

*   *   *

She hears him before she sees him, the butterflies in her stomach instantly waking up. She turns and stands, quickly rearranging her features to hide her shock at his appearance.

Mark, always so debonair, handsome, so very much the California boy next door, looks terrible. So thin, his pants are hanging off him, his face is gaunt; deep shadows under his eyes. Where before, he was always immaculately dressed, Mark’s polo shirt is stained and worn.

If you didn’t know better, you might mistake him for a homeless man.

He stops in front of her and drinks her in. “You look wonderful.” The tears in his eyes seem genuine.

“You look terrible.” Sylvie cannot help it. They both smile, and for a moment she forgets what he has done, sees only the man she has loved, the possibility in that smile, before dislodging the thought with a shake of her head.

“Oh, Sylvie.” He reaches for her hand as she takes a step backward, noting the dismay in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He backs away himself, unable to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Shall we … walk?”

The path is narrow, a sandy trail along the cliffs by the water. They walk in silence, Sylvie hyperconscious of not touching Mark, moving off the path and into the grass to avoid their arms brushing by mistake as they move.

“I’d like to try to explain,” Mark says eventually.

“Oh, I don’t think you can,” Sylvie says to stop him. “I didn’t contact you for an explanation. I contacted you because Eve has been very ill and I thought you ought to know.” Sylvie continues walking, turning only when Mark grabs her arm and pulls her round to face him, his expression stricken.