The Ground Rules: Undone (3 page)

I explore the waters for a spell, hidden in my black tankini. I’m not showing yet, thank God. But still, I can’t help but feel like they can all see. Gabe grabs me by the hips and throws me in. He’s got a good throw because I go flying off in the air. There’s really no dilly-dallying with him around — you just go straight in the water, whether you want to or not. The water is freezing, but it feels great. For a few seconds, I can almost forget.

We have a feast for dinner. Greg’s a good cook. Gwen has sure scored with this guy. Greg is a good man and she’s very lucky to have him. When I first met the two of them, I was surprised. I expected a gorgeous trophy-husband — the tall, dark and handsome type. And Greg’s not quite that. But I also thought they were the cutest couple on the planet. They’re very close — always hugging and giving each other pecks on the cheek. There doesn’t seem to be much drama between them like there is between Gabe and I. Gwen never has any stories, never shows up at work heartbroken over a silly fight, never has juicy ‘kiss and make up’ stories. No, those are more my thing. I’m not sure if their marriage is as passionate as ours — because she never talks about the sex, which is odd, because Gwen talks about
everything
, especially sex. A beautiful, sophisticated woman like Gwen could probably have any man she wanted, and she chose wisely indeed. Sometimes, having a gorgeous husband only leads to trouble. And I’m most definitely the perfect example of that. If Bridget hadn’t liked the looks of Gabe so much, we wouldn’t find ourselves in the situation we’re in today.

I take a seat on one of the white linen covered chairs at the rustic round table. “Be super careful, girls,” I warn Chloe and Claire. “I don’t want a drop on these nice white chairs.” It seems like an odd choice for dining table chairs, but it does add to the whole look — the heavenly light and airy rustic beach house vibe. Gwen and Greg set the platters of grilled chicken skewers, corn on the cob, strawberry salad, and grilled peppers on the table.

“Wow. Thank you so much guys,” I tell them. “I feel like I’m at a five-star resort.”

Gwen laughs. “Just wait ‘til you see the bill.”

Gabe smiles as he helps himself to an enormous amount of food.

“I hope you’ve made a lot,” I tell Greg. “Gabe can pack it in.”

Greg helps himself to some salad. “Oh, there’s plenty,” he says with a wide smile.

Gabe shoots me a quick wink.

And I’m completely taken aback when my stomach does a tiny flip.

The guys are still playing cards. My lids are heavy as Gwen tells me, yet again, about her mother-in-law — she has
a lot
of stories. Whenever I hear her horror stories, I’m glad my own in-laws are relatively normal, nice people. We don’t see them too often, but when we do, everything’s cool.

But I know they’re about to hate me. When the truth comes out, everyone will know I’ve been with another man. They’ll know what a tramp I’ve become, that I’ve turned into my mother, controlled by lust. They’ll know I’ve turned my back on my husband and my girls. They’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me. And I deserve to be hated.

It’s still bright out, the sunset beautiful. But I just can’t seem to stay awake.

Gwen stops mid-sentence, and tells me I look exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve been really tired lately.”

“No problem, sweetie.” She eyes me with a curious look. It’s only about nine o’clock.

“I should probably get the girls and myself to bed.”

She sets her fruity drink down on the coffee table. “Sure. We’ll chat tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

I tuck the girls into the two wrought iron vintage twin beds. They look so cozy, wrapped up in the old whimsical blue and yellow quilts. Claire hugs Bitzy, who is tucked in comfortably under the crook of her arm.

“Good night, sweetie. Love you,” I whisper as I kiss her forehead.

“Good night,” she says, “love you.”

And then I lean in to my left, and repeat the whole ritual with Chloe. It’s like
Groundhog Day
.

Gabe comes in quickly to kiss them goodnight. He kisses me too as he leaves the playful room — a sweet peck on the forehead.

As I turn off the light before I step out, my throat grows thick and a tear streams down my cheek.

God, what have I done?

I’m exhausted, yet surprisingly, I lay here on the striped sheets, awake…edgy. I don’t think about Weston tonight. I can’t stop thinking about Gabe. I want him to join me in this delicious bed. I want to be in his arms. But I know he’s still playing cards with Greg.

The air is chilly and I bury myself into the crisp linens. The moonlight filters through the window and the beautiful white room is drenched in a soft blue tinged darkness. My gaze drifts to the old brick fireplace, painted white, and unused. The cool sleek vase filled with dry branches casts weird shadows along the bead board covered walls. The black and white vintage photos of flowers are just abstract shapes now, lost in the darkness. Yet, I still study them, trying to make out the details.

And after what seems like eternity, I finally drift off thinking about Gabe’s strong arms wrapped around me.

It’s a beautiful summer day. A soft breeze blows, easing the heat of the sun. The lake is calm today. I take in the beauty surrounding me and try to hold on to it, to let it fill my thoughts, and help me forget the reality of my life. Just a second of happiness, free of worry and remorse, that’s all I want. But I can’t quite hold on to it. It slips from me because I won’t let myself have it — I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve even a second of joy.

“I like your swim suit, Mommy,” Claire tells me, all smiles. “I like the polka dots.” She’s busy working on her masterpiece — Cinderella’s ‘sand’ castle.

I’m gathering rocks to build a big gate to circle the castle. And Chloe has gone to fetch some water. “We kind of match,” I point out. “You’ve got polka-dots too.”

She looks down and studies her cute two-piece pink and white suit, her eyes fixed on her adorable belly comfortably hanging over the band of her bottoms. “We do. We match,” she says with a squeal, her gap-toothed smile making my heart sink — she and her sister are so carefree today, so happy.

We lived such an idyllic life. Such a perfect life. But it wasn’t good enough for me, was it? No, I needed excitement, passion, fancy dresses, and overpriced scallops. I can barely stand myself. I hate myself.

Here is my baby, sitting next to me — I am her whole world. Her whole life consists of Gabe and I, and her sister. And all I’ve been thinking about is how my life is about to change. But what about hers? And Chloe’s?

The lump in my throat grows and pricks. My eyes fill with tears and I know I can’t let her see me like this, because I know she’ll ask me what’s wrong. And I don’t want to lie to her too.

I race to the lake, the rocks hard under the soles of my feet. As I plunge into the lake, the cold water cuts, but my thoughts are more painful — visions of the end of a marriage, the breakdown of a family — custody arrangements, kids shuffled back and forth, and endless fighting.

I’m crying as I dive into the lake. My tears dissolve into the cold waters of Lake Michigan unseen.

They all look so delicious — rows of homemade spreads in glass jars, gussied up with pretty vintage inspired labels; strawberry-rhubarb, blueberry, raspberry. I can’t pick just one. I’m in heaven in this quaint, little treasure of a market bustling with people.

“I love those spreads on crackers with a little cream cheese,” Gwen tells me as she passes by me with a basket full of fresh produce. “Yummy.”

“I think I’m going to buy all three. I can’t choose.”

She lets out a huge sigh as she pulls the crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. “Greg made me this list. I need to get Portobello mushrooms,” she says. “I have no idea…”

I smile at her. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

As I help her pick the mushrooms, I smile at her again. “You’re lucky Greg cooks.”

She laughs. Her big smile usually always calms me. But today…

I trail my finger along the edge of the old wooden crates full of fresh produce. I like the cute little black tags — the prices are hand-written in white chalk.

I haven’t had a chance to tell her. We haven’t been alone since I got here. When she suggested I join her into town to grab a few provisions, I wondered if it would be a good opportunity.

But I haven’t had the courage just yet.

I trail behind her as we walk to the register. The place is busy and we stand in line making chit-chat. She tells me all about the town and our plans for the weekend, and I listen intently. I realize this is really not the spot to have the conversation I really want to have. So I wait.

A diminutive elderly man cuts in front of us — all decked out in a short sleeved button shirt with suspenders and a bowtie. His pants are hemmed too short and his black shoes are so shiny, they practically blind me. With furrowed brows, Gwen shoots him a dirty look.

As I edge in closer, my arm brushes hers. “He’s about a hundred years old,” I whisper. “How can you be angry with him? He’s so adorable.”

She laughs. “Yes, quite the charmer. A little old for you but…”

I smile at her and nudge her in the ribs. “I’ve got my hands full already with two.”

“Oh really,” she says. Her body stiffens as she turns to me. “I thought you were down to one now. Isn’t it all over with Mr.  omewrecker?”

I bite my lip. “Mr. Homewrecker…I haven’t heard that one before.”

I tear my gaze away from hers, and take in the quaint store with its rustic barn board shelves lined with homemade pies, sauces, jams, and pastries.

And I sulk. She’s such a drag when it comes to Weston.

We finally make it to the register and the sullen teenage girl asks Gwen if she’s brought a recyclable bag. When Gwen tells her she hasn’t, the surly girl pulls out a wrinkled disposable plastic bag from under her counter and gives her a whole little speech about the ozone layer and something about sea turtles eating plastic bags thinking they’re jelly fish and choking to death.

When my turn is up, the first thing I do is apologize to the crabby girl for my lack of a recyclable bag. “I’m so sorry. I’m a horrible human being. I’ll just stuff these jars in my purse.”

The stud in her bottom lip catches my eye as she stares a hole in my head. She takes my money and gives me the change without a single sound — not a single ‘thank you’ or ‘come again’.

We scurry out, happy to be out of there, and nip our way through the vacationers and tourists.

I try to stuff the jars into my already too-jammed bag. “I really liked that place until we got to the register.”

Gwen wobbles slightly on her tall wedges. “Yeah, self-righteous much?”

“Preachy-preachy.”

“I mean, I feel bad about the turtles” she says, “but I kind of want to go back to the cottage and grab all my plastic bags, and go back in there and throw them at her face.”

I blow out a breath. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

“The little self-righteous b—”

She jerks to a stop — a tall gangly man almost crashes into her. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbles as he makes his way around us with a furrowed brow.