ISBN: 9781525896019
Publication Date: August 10, 2021
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Two
Before
I can pinpoint the day that set everything in motion.
Gillian Baker, one block over, holds a book club at her house once a week.
Reluctantly, and at her insistence, I finally decided to join. I squeezed a
cylinder of cookie dough out of its plastic tube, cut it into disks and put a
tray of the artificial-tasting dough in the oven so I had something to bring
and pass off as my own. Collin thought the book club idea was great and might
inspire me. I told him it’s just a kid-free night for the neighborhood wives so
they can drink wine and make vapid, uninformed comments on great literature,
but he still thought I would be in my element and should give it a try.
I was going to be a scholar once upon a time, but I dropped
out of my master’s program when we learned about Bennett’s condition. I wasn’t
forced to stay home, but we decided it made sense. It was for the best, and
even better than a degree, because I could write books from home and still
pursue that dream. What a gift! All the time in the world to write the great
American novel. Except I haven’t written any books, have I? What the hell do I
really have to say anyway? Life has gone out of its way to ignore me in many
regards. Shelby Fitch two doors down was in the peace corps in freaking
Guatemala for two years before she married into this neighborhood. She should
write the book.
What will my topics be? “Mom cleans up kid’s barf during
carpool.”
“Mom waits half a day for dishwasher repair guy, and guess
what? He never shows.”
“Mom tries a Peppa Pig cake recipe from Pinterest, but it
looks like deranged farm swine with a phallic nose and makes son cry.” I have
nothing to say. The other day I thought I’d get serious again and try to really
sit and brainstorm some ideas. I ended up watching videos of people getting
hurt on backyard trampolines and a solid hour of baby goats jumping around in
onesies. So, I guess maybe at least getting my mind back into the literary
world can’t hurt.
At my dressing table, I pulled my hair back and slipped on
some dangly earrings. It was my first time out of yoga pants that week, and it
felt nice. I applied lip gloss and pressed my lips together; I could hear the
chaos begin in the background. The oven was beeping nonstop, beckoning Collin
to take out the premade dinner he’d been heating up for the kids, but he was
arguing with Ben about a video game he refused to turn off. He still had to
make a plate for Claire and help the kids with homework after dinner, and
Ralph, our elderly basset hound, was barking excessively at something outside,
raising the tension in the room. I felt guilty leaving, but when I appeared in
the front hall in a sundress, Collin lit up and gave me a kiss, telling me he
had it under control. I knew he ultimately did. It’s not rocket science, it’s
just exhausting and emotionally bloodsucking, and he’d already had a
twelve-hour day of anxiety at work.
I kissed the top of Ben’s head and said goodbye to Rachel,
who was paying no attention, and then I walked out the front door. I carried
the plate of cookies and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye as I walked
across the street. They were trying too hard, trying to be literary. Why not
just choose Fifty Shades or a cozy mystery? When Rachel had to read this
book for English, she called it a turd with covers. I, on the other hand, spent
hours making meticulous notes so I could be sure to make comments that were
sharp and poignant. I rehearse them in my head as I walk.
I was the last to arrive; there were a few other moms from
the block already there. We all did the obligatory cheek kisses. Gillian’s
living room looked like she was hosting a dinner party rather than a book club.
Chardonnay was chilling in ice on the kitchen island next to a spread of food
that could have come from a Vegas buffet. I wished I could hide my pathetic
tube cookies.
“Wow, Gill. Did you do all this?” I asked, impressed.
“Oh, hell no. Are you kidding? It’s catered, silly.”
I can’t believe she’s had her book club catered. Everyone
has wine and something fancy on a toothpick in their hands. She put my sad
cookies next to the beautiful chiffon cake on the island, and I was mortified.
There was cling wrap over them for God’s sake—on a Spider-Man paper plate left
over from Ben’s last birthday. Kill me.
She poured me a glass, pretending not to think anything of
my trashy offering, and I walked carefully over her white rug as we made our
way into the sitting room. Of course she has a “sitting room.” It’s a bright
space in the front of the house with vaulted ceilings and a blingy chandelier.
We all perched on the edges of pale furniture. I never did quite know how to
feel about these women. They’ve welcomed me so warmly, but they sometimes seem
like a foreign species to me. Yes, I live in this neighborhood too, but it’s
because of Collin’s success, not anything I’ve done. I guess they can probably
say the same. I still feel sort of like an imposter. I don’t lean into it the
way they seem to.
I didn’t intend to stay home, of course, but I still feel
like I was destined for a career, never dependent on anyone else. It’s not that
I feel dependent on Collin. That’s not the right word. What we have is
ours. The way I contribute is something he could never handle, but I guess I
don’t take it for granted the way they seem to. Gillian was constantly
remodeling her house and upgrading things that you’d think it impossible to
upgrade. She had a stunning outdoor kitchen next to a pool that appears damn
near Olympic-sized. It was even highlighted in the local home tour magazine.
One day she gutted the whole thing because she wanted the pool to be
teardrop-shaped instead. And here I am using Groupons for my facials.
Even that sounds indulgent. Facials. I grew up in a
doublewide trailer in Lafayette with a mother who worked the night shift at the
hospital and an alcoholic father who spent his days quiet and glassy-eyed on
the front porch, staring at some invisible thing, lost in another time. It will
never feel right to buy five-hundred-dollar shoes or drive a luxury car,
although I’d never want to lose the safety of it and I’m grateful my children
will never have to struggle the way I did. This comfort is for them. This
safety is for them. That’s the bottom line, so I brushed away the negative
thoughts.
Tammy commented on Gillian’s bracelet. She held Gillian’s
wrist, examining it. Everyone oohed and aahed as Gillian explained that it was
an early birthday gift from Robert and she had to get it insured. I have never
understood charm bracelets. An ugly soccer ball hangs off of her silver chain,
but I made my face look delighted along with the others. After we settled in, I
assumed the small talk was over and we’d dig into a great piece of literature.
Kid-free, wine-lubricated, I was ready.
“Oh my God, you guys, did you see Bethany Burena at Leah’s
wedding?” Karen asked. There was mocking laughter. I’d been at that wedding,
but I didn’t know what they were referring to, so I stayed quiet. Liz chimed
in.
“God, it looked like someone stuffed a couple honey-baked
hams into the back of her dress.”
“And the worst part is she did that on purpose,” Tammy said,
placing her glass of wine on an end table so she could use her hands to talk.
“That ain’t too much buttercream, y’all!” Then she held her hands to her mouth
and pretended to whisper sideways. “Although did you see her shoveling it in at
the cake table?”
“She had those babies implanted,” Karen agreed.
“No!” Gillian gasped.
“Yep. Ass implants. Ass-plants.” Everyone roared with
laughter. I forced a chuckle so I didn’t stand out. I hated these people, I
realized right in that moment. I longed to leave. I could fake a headache, or
check in at home and say there’s a problem with Ben, I thought. Why didn’t I?
Why do I need their approval? Karen kept the gossip going.
“That’s not as bad as Alice. She brought the guy who cleans
her pool to the wedding!
“What do you mean?” Liz asked.
“As a date.”
“No!”
“Scandal much?” Tammy was delighted she had everyone in
hysterics.
“Alice Berg?” I asked, not understanding the social sin
she’d committed. “Isn’t she single—like, divorced, I thought.”
“Yeah, but she brought The. Pool. Guy. Sad.”
“So sad,” Karen echoed.
“Desperate,” Liz added. She noticed the book in my hands.
“What’s that?”
“What do you mean? It’s the book,” I said with a
lighthearted scoff.
“Oh, Mel. I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it, I guess I
thought everyone just sort of got it—especially since the book was something so
random,” Gillian said.
“Got what?”
“We don’t, like, read it. We just need an excuse to get rid
of the kids and hubbies for one night. I think we deserve at least that?” she
said, glancing around for allies.
“Damn right we do.” Liz held her wine up and gulped it down,
a sort of toast to herself. “You didn’t read it, did you?” I didn’t answer. I
felt like an idiot. I was joking when I said it was an excuse to drink and have
a night away. I was at least half joking. I thought that I may have found a few
kindred spirits, perhaps—that they were at least making a half-assed attempt at
self-betterment.
“I just skimmed it,” I said.
I was probably visibly blushing, so I picked a strawberry
carved into a rose shape from the table and picked at it.
“Mel has a master’s in literature. Did y’all know that?”
Gillian said, maybe in an attempt to redeem herself from indirectly
embarrassing me.
“Oh my gosh, smarty-smart pants. Look at you.” Karen swatted
my leg and smiled, supportively. I wanted the attention off me as soon as
possible, so I didn’t correct her and say that it was creative writing…and that
I never finished the degree.
“You should give me the name of your caterer,” I said,
picking up a skewer of chicken and taking a bite. “I was gonna do a thing for
Collin’s birthday. Maybe a trip, but if we stay in town we’ll have people to
the house.” The subject is officially changed. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my gosh, I have their card. I told them they should pay
me for how many referrals I’m getting for them. Their almond torte is totally
to die for. Seriously. If you don’t do a cake, maybe mini tortes.”
“Oh, cute!” Liz said.
We talked about mini tortes, whose phone carrier is the
worst, Karen’s daughter’s (nonexistent) modeling career and Botox for the next
two hours until I walked home unsteadily with my plate of cookies that Gillian
gracefully sent home with me. I had to laugh a little at the idea that they met
weekly, like they’d read that much. Made sense now. I tossed The Catcher in
the Rye in Brianna Cunningham’s garbage can, which she’d failed to pull
back into the garage (Tammy actually made mention of that particular oversight
earlier in the evening), and I didn’t know if the crushing disappointment of
the evening was worse than going back home to Claire’s bedpan and the mounting
stress of teen angst and Ben’s moods. I wished I could just sit in the
Cunninghams’ yard, drunk for a little while, but someone would see, and it
would be discussed at some other neighbor’s book club.
The temperate dusk air was dense with mosquitoes and the
chatter of crickets. I took my time walking back. When I approached our house,
I saw Collin in an orange rectangle of warm kitchen light. He was washing
dishes, sort of, but mostly looking past the kitchen island at the TV in the
living room. I concentrated on appearing more sober than I was as I entered the
kitchen. I sat at the table, pulling off my shoes, and he offered me a glass of
wine.
“No, thanks.” I got up and filled a plastic Bob the Builder
cup under the tap, then sat on a counter stool. He pulled one up next to me.
“Was it fun?” he asked, hopefully, wanting me to find an
outlet—some joy in my life while things are so tough. I didn’t know if I should
tell him the truth or make him happy, so I went down the middle.
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Eh. Not exactly the literary minds I was hoping to connect
with.”
“I’m sorry.” He squeezed my hand. “I took Ben to pick out a
new chapter book at Classics tonight.”
“Oh fun. What did he pick out?” I asked, thinking Collin was
changing the subject.
He handed me a little postcard advert. “There’s a writers’
group starting next week.”
I looked over the glossy square and it had details welcoming
any local writers to join the weekly Thursday group to workshop their writing.
Before I could dismiss the assertion that I’m a “writer,” he pointed to the
bullet point that stated “all levels welcome.” It was so incredibly sweet that
he brought this for me, not only to encourage me in pursuing something I care about,
but was also willing to hold down the fort every Thursday. I kissed him.
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“But?” he asked, anticipating a “no,” but I didn’t have a
reason to say no. I mean, except that I had no writing to present to the group.
I could write a critical essay on The Catcher in the Rye. That was about
it. It sounded thrilling though. Maybe some accountability and pressure would
be just what I needed. I glanced past Collin into the living room and saw
Bennett asleep in front of WWE SmackDown! on the TV. I gave Collin a
look.
“Well, he’s asleep, isn’t he?” he defended himself. Ismiled
and shook my head, pressing my thumb into the crumbs on his plate and tasting
the remnants of the cookies I left behind for the kids to eat.
“I guess I can try it,” I said, standing and rinsing the
plate. Words I’d give anything to take back.
Excerpted from Such A Good Wife by Seraphina Nova Glass,
Copyright © 2021 by Seraphina Nova Glass. Published by arrangement with
Harlequin Books S.A.
Author Website
Twitter: @SeraphinaNova
Facebook: Seraphina Nova Glass: Author
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