The Book of Someday (21 page)

AnnaLee understands that Jack means every word he has just said—that he loves her beyond measure.
But
this
is
the
same
conversation
we’ve had, the same breaking-point we’ve come to a million times before,
she’s thinking.
It’s where we always end up. With me pushed to the brink. And you acting like it’s the first time I’ve been there. You scramble around trying to reassure me, save me, by throwing yourself into a whirlwind of longer hours and fatter paychecks. Then once the crisis has passed, you slide back…little by little…into being slow and quiet and dreamy. You go back to being Jack. Then when the bills start piling up again, I go back to being afraid. And angry. Scared I won’t have the strength to keep going…

“What’re you thinking?” Jack is asking.

The only thing AnnaLee can do is to give him a weak smile. Because she loves him and can’t bear the thought of hurting him.

“Don’t stop believing in me, Lee, please, please don’t.” Jack’s words are chaotic, rapid—like a frantic prayer.

“Jack, I just need you to—”

He is immediately interrupting her. “I’m sorry, Lee. I apologize. I’m no good at my profession. I’m lousy at being a lawyer, no good at truth-bending and backstabbing. We both know I’d be out on my ass if my brother wasn’t a client and his legal work didn’t bring the firm a steady income. I’m a failure at the law for the same reason I was a washout as a doctor. I can’t stand the bloodletting. I don’t have big enough balls.”

“Jack. Please. We’re only talking about a party, a couple of hours.”

“You’re wrong. We’re talking about me, Lee. About me letting you down one more time. Because not only am I lousy at my job—I’m lousy at socializing. I’m not good at bullshit and small talk.”

Jack’s expression is painfully defenseless as he’s explaining: “The things I am good at, nobody cares about. Not in a man anyway. I’m good at thinking, Lee. And learning, and reading. I love peace, and books. I crave being at home with my family. I’m good at loving my wife and my daughter. The truth is I would never leave you, or Bella, or this place, if I didn’t have to.”

He seems heartbroken. “Whether or not we want to admit it, Lee, the things that make me who I am are what make me a sorry excuse for a husband.”

AnnaLee has left the swing to sit on the grass, beside Jack. Her arms have gone around him and her lips are pressed close to his ear. She’s whispering: “You’re not a sorry excuse for a husband. You’re a man who hasn’t found his place, that’s all. You graduated from medical school—and from law school—with honors. You’re brilliant. I believe in you. I just need you to believe too.”

Jack’s sobs are wrenching. “I want to be the man you need, Lee. I don’t want to let you down.”

“Then don’t. Keep looking. Keep searching. Find where you’re supposed to be. That’s all I need.”

AnnaLee can feel Jack holding on to her with every ounce of love and strength he possesses. “I’ll take care of you, Lee,” he’s promising. “I’ll kill and die for you. I swear.”

***

As AnnaLee is entering the darkened living room and switching on the lights, the hope that Jack might finally find a way to earn a decent living is tantalizing her to the point of torment. It’s eleven-thirty and she’s roaming the house. Wide awake, too unsettled to sleep.

She’s thinking about Mrs. Jahn’s gala; worried that Jack, at the last minute, will retreat into his shell and refuse to attend.

While she’s trying to come up with a way to keep Jack on track, AnnaLee is crossing the room, and going to the fireplace. Where the only thing on the mantle is the blue-and-white porcelain. The vase that, in its singleness, is the symbol of her difficulty with Jack. She needs to put it away—somewhere where she doesn’t have to look at it.

As she’s taking the porcelain from the mantle, she is recalling the heart-wrenching day when she sold its mate. She’s remembering Mrs. Wang saying,
“No honor in a man who look at a woman for his support.”

Hearing that comment had made AnnaLee hideously embarrassed. For herself, and for Jack. And later that day when the full loss of the vase, her mother’s wedding present, finally hit—AnnaLee had briefly wished she’d never met Jack.

And now, in remembering that, she’s letting herself wonder,
What
would
a
life
without
Jack
have
been
like? Would it have been better? What if some other doctor had been on duty that night in Brooklyn? And Jack and I never even saw each other? How would my life have turned out? If I’d come home, here, to Glen Cove to recuperate instead of—

She is suddenly thinking of Bella.

Without Jack there would be no Bella.

AnnaLee knows that her musings are pointless. She has nothing, really, to wonder about. Bella is AnnaLee’s life. Jack, with all his flaws, is AnnaLee’s love. Her story has been written; there is no alternate version.

After putting the porcelain vase into a cabinet beside the fireplace, and just before turning off the light, AnnaLee pauses to straighten a painting near the wall switch.

When she leaves the darkened living room, she’s worrying about the party, about it being a costume affair; worrying about finding a way to get Jack to willingly attend; worrying about money, and the fact that property taxes will soon be due.

It isn’t until she’s halfway down the hall, fretfully wandering through the house again, that AnnaLee is recalling what she did just before she left the living room—her absentminded straightening of a painting. The portrait of a beautiful young woman in a silver dress and pearl-button shoes.

The straightening of that portrait was a small, seemingly insignificant gesture. And yet, in thinking about it now, AnnaLee is finding an unexpected glimmer of inspiration.

Livvi

Rolling Hills Estates, California ~ 2012

The amount of time that has passed since Andrew lifted Grace from Livvi’s bed and carried her out of Livvi’s house has been short and profoundly significant. Two months. In which Livvi has discovered how conflicted her feelings about Andrew are—and how essential and all-encompassing her love for Grace is.

There have been moments in the past eight weeks when Livvi was convinced she never wanted to see Andrew again. There have been other moments when she desired him so much she was on fire. And there hasn’t been an instant when she wasn’t missing Grace. When she wasn’t loving her, and concerned about her—longing to be with her.

Now, after several days of phone calls, and late-into-the-afternoon lunches, and sweet lovemaking, and promises that there will be no more lies—no more secrets—Livvi is in Andrew’s silver Mercedes. Entering the countrified splendor of a community tucked between the Pacific Coast Highway and the Pacific Ocean. A green and glorious place called Rolling Hills Estates.

The road Livvi and Andrew are traveling—the entire length of it—is bordered by a whitewashed, split-rail fence. Inside the fence is a bridle path lined with a colonnade of pepper trees. The leaves on the trees are slender, light green: the branches are willowy, slowly lifting and falling on the ebb and flow of the breeze. Beneath the trees, soft earth is being turned under the cantering hooves of passing horses. Making the bridle path look like a ribbon of brown velvet.

“It’s beautiful here,” Livvi murmurs.

“Yeah. It was a great spot to grow up in.” Andrew’s right hand is resting, lightly, on Livvi’s thigh. He has been in physical contact with Livvi, caressing her, touching her, for the entirety of their drive, as if he’s trying to keep this fragile new beginning from slipping out of his grasp.

“And Palos Verdes is only a couple of intersections away—isn’t that right?” Livvi asks. Palos Verdes is the neighboring town, the home of Andrew’s wife. The allegedly frail creature who has threatened suicide if Andrew leaves her. The woman Livvi is so curious about—and jealous of—and unsettled by.

At Livvi’s mention of Palos Verdes, Andrew shoots her a wary, questioning glance.

She looks away—turns her attention to watching a girl and boy galloping a pair of perfectly matched Palominos along the bridle path.

Livvi is rattled. Worried about her complicated relationship with Andrew and the volatile situation with Andrew’s wife. Nervous about meeting Andrew’s mother and father for the first time. And wildly anxious to be reunited with Grace, who is with Andrew’s parents, waiting for Andrew and Livvi to pick her up.

Andrew has slowed the car to a stop, preparing to make a turn onto a side street. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he’s asking.

Livvi’s heart is pounding—shaking her in her seat. She’s terrified. But she will do whatever it takes to see Grace, to hold Grace in her arms again. Which is why Livvi’s response is: “Of course I’m okay.”

She’s having a hard time keeping her voice steady. “This is what we agreed to. The new ‘us.’ No more secrets. Everybody knows everybody. I’m ready to know, and be known.”

Andrew has completed the turn, and his hand, the hand that has been on Livvi’s thigh, is now restlessly moving from the steering wheel to his knee, then to the car’s control panel. Roaming the buttons: agitated. Shuffling the music, jumping from one song to another.

“We won’t stay long,” he says. “I told them we’re planning to say hello—pick up Grace—and leave.”

Andrew has angled the car onto the apron of an iron-gated driveway paved in fawn-colored bricks. He’s leaning out of the driver’s-side window, entering a code into a keypad embedded in a stone pillar.

Livvi’s attention is riveted on the house, which is at the far end of the winding driveway, on the other side of the gates.

She is looking at a home with towering windows set into pale stone walls. A palace. Its massive roof gleaming in the sun—like a work of art tiled in blue-gray slate. A magnificent French chateau that should be crowning a hilltop in Provence.

Livvi’s pounding heart—is pounding harder. She isn’t ready for this. She has never flown first class. Or shopped at Neiman Marcus. Or been to a spa. Before going away to college, she’d never ever been inside a restaurant.

She feels so insignificant. So inadequate. It’s actually making her dizzy, and sick.

The towering iron gates are swinging open, while Andrew is telling her: “We’re going to make this work.”

“It’s okay,” she’s saying. “I’m fine.” Her voice is thin and small.

“I’m not talking just about today, just about meeting my parents. I’m talking about us. You and me. We’re going to make it work.”

Livvi lowers the car’s passenger-side window. She’s quietly gasping for air.

After Andrew has parked the car not far from the mansion’s front doors, he reaches for Livvi and turns her toward him, very tenderly. “Olivia, listen to me. The way I handled the situation with Grace—not letting you know about her—was stupid. I’ve apologized for it. I’ve learned from it. I’ll never do anything like that to you again. From now on my life will be an open book. You have my word on that.”

“Andrew, I…” Livvi can’t finish her thought. She is clattering with anxiety.

He kisses her. Then says: “I love you. I don’t want to be without you.”

While Andrew is opening his door and coming around the car to open Livvi’s, her attention has gone back to the house. She’s picturing the people who live here. Imagining that Andrew’s parents will be like their home—imposing and regal, larger than life. She’s also recalling what Andrew has said about their relationship with his wife—that they’re deeply fond of her, extremely protective.

And as Andrew opens the passenger door—Livvi says: “Maybe I’ll wait in the car.”

The look in Andrew’s eyes is impossible for Livvi to decipher. It could be disappointment or, perhaps, relief. All he says is: “I won’t be gone long.”

While she’s watching Andrew walk away and head toward the mansion—the extraordinary place that was his boyhood home—she’s seeing how seamlessly he fits here. How beautiful he is; how at ease with his world. Every movement directed and purposeful.

Andrew is at the door of the mansion now, pausing to look over his shoulder at Livvi, mouthing the words, “I love you.”

It’s making Livvi want, just for a little while, to push away all the nagging doubts; all the places Andrew has taken her where there are gaps and unanswered questions.

And with the soft ocean breeze flowing into the car, and the late September sun warming her shoulders, Livvi is closing her eyes. Willing her thoughts into the other places—the lovely places she has gone with Andrew.

…she’s in Canada. Waking up to singing waiters and a Paddington Bear. To a birthday that Andrew has filled with wonder.

…she’s in San Francisco, the night before Easter. Laughing uncontrollably. At Andrew. He’s wearing rabbit-patterned boxer shorts and a bow-tie while he’s dancing alongside a pair of music-box bunnies, to a silly version of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.”

…she’s in Flintridge on a June morning. Hand-in-hand with Andrew. They’re flying off the diving board of his pool. Cannonballing into the water. Shouting and giggling like teenagers.

…she’s in bed, early this morning. In her little guesthouse in Pasadena. Cradled in Andrew’s arms. She and Andrew are talking, and telling jokes, and making love. Easily. Endlessly. Until the sun is pushing its way into the noontime sky. Their conversation is about how winter will soon be here; she’s whispering to Andrew, “I’ve always wanted to be in a real winter, in the mountains, with snow and hot chocolate and a fireplace.”

Andrew
is
announcing, “We’ll do a winter trip. In December. We’ll go to Colorado. Aspen. I’ll teach you how to ski.”

Then
she’s saying, “David is lining up a December speaking engagement for me at a literary luncheon in New York.” And she knows, even as she’s mentioning it, that if it conflicts with Andrew’s plans, she’ll decline the invitation.