To: mamayasmin@yahoo.com
From: queenie229@gmail.com
Subject: Man trouble
Yasmin, hi-
I know I’ve shared with you that my partner’s name is George and that George is not Bart’s father. The truth is that I was married to Kelley Quinn, Bart’s father, for twenty-one years but for twelve of those years I was conducting a one-weekend-a-year affair at Christmastime with the man who served as our Santa Claus. That man is George. Last year, shortly before Bart deployed, I decided to leave Kelley for George, and I moved with George across the Commonwealth to Lenox, Massachusetts.
I’m beginning to think that I’ve made a monumental mistake. Possibly, the stress of Bart going to war clouded my judgment. I should have forsaken George and clung to Kelley; instead, I did the opposite.
It has been a miserable year for me, not only because of Bart, but because I have been living with a man I do not love.
I do not love George.
Mitzi stares at the screen of her phone. She can’t believe she has just written those words.
The words are true: She doesn’t love George. She doesn’t care that George is having lunch with Mary Rose. She’s relieved that he’s found a friend because this means there is no pressure for Mitzi to be cheerful or play along at enjoying the activities of Stroll weekend.
Yasmin, I am writing to ask for your advice. What should I do? The man I really love is Bart’s father, Kelley-but I have done so much damage to the relationship that I fear it can’t be repaired. Please let me know your thoughts. I know we have never met in person, but right now you are the woman I feel closest to because of our shared sorrow.
God Bless Our Troops,
Mitzi
Mitzi presses Send, then she pulls on her jeans and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her hair is beyond help; she will have to wear a hat. She applies moisturizer, but no makeup. She hasn’t bothered with makeup in months and months; it’s pointless.
George will be back in the room in twenty minutes but Mitzi won’t be here. She is going out to get a drink.
KELLEY
Saturday is very busy, which is a good thing because it keeps Kelley from thinking too much about Mitzi.
Kelley wakes up at six o’clock and heads to the kitchen to brew coffee and get started on breakfast. He cooks three pounds of bacon on the griddle, some soft, some crispy, and mixes the batter for his famous tri-berry cornmeal pancakes. Mr. Blount, room 7, comes down for coffee at six thirty and a few seconds later, Isabelle appears to do the mise-en-place for her omelette service.
Kelley says, “How did the baby sleep?”
Isabelle waggles her hand. “Comme ci, comme ça. She wakes up twice.”
“You should go back to bed and make Kevin come out here to cook breakfast,” Kelley says.
Isabelle laughs. “Eggshell omelettes.”
Busy, busy, busy-far too busy to think about Mitzi. He fills the cream and milk pitchers, and the sugar bowl. He takes out the trash. The Wiltons from room 4 are early risers and Mrs. Wilton helps herself to over half the bacon. She might weigh ninety pounds soaking wet; possibly, she’s bulimic. Kelley puts more bacon on the griddle as Isabelle takes the Wiltons’ omelette orders. Kelley does dishes.
Jennifer comes down to get breakfast for the boys. The boys love bacon. Kelley puts even more bacon on the griddle. He really prefers sausage mornings.
There’s a rush at nine fifteen-three rooms eating at once. Pancakes, omelettes… and the coffee is gone. Kelley brews more coffee. Kevin pops into the kitchen with the baby.
Kelley says, “The coffee is going to be a minute. Do you want me to hold her?”
“I’ve got her,” Kevin says. “You look busy.”
But Kelley is never too busy for Genevieve. At four months, she has learned to hold up her head, which is covered with the softest blond fuzz. She has round blue eyes the color of sapphires; Kelley is not exaggerating. Sometimes, in the mornings, he will stand over her crib and whisper, “Wake up and show me the jewels.” Genevieve has a tiny rosebud mouth and of course those luscious, satiny-soft baby cheeks. He can’t find anything in nature to compare her to except a perfect ripe raspberry, maybe, or a fluffy cumulus cloud. He is smitten with this baby. Everyone is smitten with this baby. She is, quite possibly, the most beloved baby in all the world.
“Let me take her for a second,” Kelley says. “You flip the pancakes.”
“I’ll mess them up,” Kevin warns, but he hands the baby to Kelley and wields the spatula.
“Hello, sweet bug,” Kelley says to Genevieve as he dances her around the kitchen. “I’m going to take her out to say hi to the guests.”
“I’m going to stay here and screw up the pancakes,” Kevin says.
Kelley shows Genevieve off to the couples who are eating; he is a shamelessly proud grandpa. The women all coo and wave and tug on Genevieve’s tiny socked feet, but then Kelley notices Mr. Rooney clutching his empty coffee mug, and Kelley heads back to the kitchen.
He can pour coffee with one hand; he has learned, again, how to do everything one-handed so as not to set Genevieve down. Was he this enamored with Bart? He wonders. Bart had been colicky. He screamed all the time, six or seven hours a day, which sent Mitzi into a frazzled state. She tried everything: she set the baby seat on the clothes dryer, she bundled Bart in his snowsuit and drove him around the island, she put him in the swing and the vibrating chair-nothing would stop the kid from screaming. Mitzi read that colicky babies were supposed to be very intelligent and high-functioning as adults, that was fine to know, but it hadn’t been particularly helpful in the moment.
Kelley remembers that Mitzi went to the health food store and came home with drops that were supposed to magically cure colic. Mitzi had given Bart the drops-and sure enough, he had instantly stopped crying. Kelley had thought, The holistic approach works! He had squeezed Mitzi in congratulations as Bart kicked contentedly in the middle of their bed.
“Well,” Kelley had said, “I think we’ve finally found the cure.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Bart started screaming again. Mitzi had blamed Kelley; she had said he jinxed them.
When Kelley saw Mitzi the night before, his overwhelming feeling was that he missed her. His anger on the one hand and his renewed friendship with Margaret on the other hand-and, of course, his overwhelming anxiety about Bart-had all served to mask Kelley’s hurt, his pain, and his sense of failure that Mitzi had left him. She is his wife. He loves her. He misses all the things they did as a couple: they used to take a canvas bag to the beach, loaded with towels and Mitzi’s New Age reading, and they would carry it between them, each holding a strap. They bought matching leather sandals that both Kevin and Ava declared were “the ugliest shoes in the world,” and even Kelley had to admit, they were sort of ugly, but their ugliness only accented the beauty of Mitzi’s slender ankles and feet. He misses Mitzi’s voice when she wakes up in the morning. He misses the nicknames they used to call certain guests-“Mr. Busy Bee Atmosphere,” and “High-Maintenance Betty.” He misses doing kind things for her-clearing her windshield of snow, bringing her a hot mug of his homemade shrimp bisque-and seeing her face light up. She has, by anyone’s standards, a glorious smile.
The night before, as they sat on Bart’s bed side by side, Kelley had reached for her hand and both of them had squeezed as though their squeezing alone might bring Bart back safely.
And then, Kelley had offered to drive Mitzi back to the Castle. She was drunk, which wasn’t a state he’d seen her in often, and he couldn’t just let her walk. When he’d pulled up in front, she said, “You know, I’m not as happy with George as I thought I’d be.”