Page 94 of Look on the Bright Side

“But what’s your endgame?” Grace had asked. “Don’t you want to patch things up and stay married?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Then what will you do, Ellie?” Grace was more upset with her ambiguity than with Gerald’s little sidepiece.

But Joy…Joy seemed to understand. “You really just want to time travel back to before he started messaging that slut,” she said as she sipped a margarita, petting Connery, who was splayed in her lap, belly exposed for rubbing. “To right before he took that first step, so you could see what he was thinking.”

“Yes. And I could behead him right then and there. Use his life insurance.”

Joy laughed. “Here’s to beheading.”

Today, Ellie was at Long Pond Arts, currently locked in her office, once again chafing with energy and simmering rage, which had replaced the stunned hurt and fear she’d felt initially. She’d been letting Meeko earn his keep, honestly not caring how well the gallery did this summer. She had bigger problems. She went there to check in, to paint, to do a lap around the rooms, maybe eat lunch in the courtyard. Otherwise, she’d been driving a lot. Riding her bike. Sitting on a beach, staring at the water. But she missed home. She wasn’t sure what exactly she needed there, but she wanted to see her house, minus Gerald.

Her phone dinged. How much longer are we going to not talk, honey? Can we see a marriage counselor?

Not ready for that. When will you be out of the house so I can stop by?

I’m working at urgent care in Orleans. You could go now. I’ll be back at 7:30 or so.

Oh, so now he was able to work? Yes, she had instructed him to do just that, but it was irritating that a meltdown had been required to get his head out of his ass and see that she was worried about money.

She grabbed her bag, told Meeko she was leaving and walked out into the bright July sunshine. Said hello, nodded, smiled to tourists and locals alike.

“Ellie!” cried Jane, who worked at Preservation Hall. “Where have you been? We were hoping you’d do one of your wonderful classes this summer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t this year, Jane. Good seeing you, though.”

She kept walking, not breaking from her fast, hard stride. Well, well, well. She’d said no. Good for her. Winnie, her toughest child, would be proud of her. Tough in the good sense…not battered by insecurity or fear, just a straightforward badass.

She’d been avoiding the kids, texting them rather than calling, because they knew something was off. She saw Lark in passing, and often. That young man she’d had with her the other night, the firefighter, felt like a huge shift in her daughter’s life, but Ellie knew better than to comment on it. She’d gone to Addie’s the other day to see the girls, and Addie had sniffed around like a bloodhound until Ellie told her to stop. Harlow was giving her space in a most annoying and sensitive way, and Robbie didn’t seem to care too much, though he sent her a nice photo of a two-masted schooner. Thought you might like this, Ma. That was it, but still. Sweet (and unusual) of him to think of her.

She turned onto her street. In a town where each house was prettier than the next, the Smith household was a bit of an eyesore. Sort of a nothing style, the kind the 1970s had been famous for. Not a Cape, not a Colonial, not a bungalow, not modern…just a rather uninspired house they’d only been able to afford because it had needed so much work. New roof, new septic, a sump pump in the basement. They’d had plans to do more renovations—the beautifying kind—but they’d never gotten around to it.

She immediately saw that the lawn mower was out of the driveway. Gerald would have to get a sticker for that. Likewise, the rotted portion of the fence had been removed, and there was some new wood lying on the ground. The branch in the backyard had been cut up and stacked for firewood.

So what? He’d managed to finish a few things. Atonement chores, like Robbie when he was a little boy. He’d get in trouble for a bad report card or for ruining something of Winnie’s or for sneaking out, and suddenly his room would be clean. Fixing the fence did not erase the fact that her husband had been deceitful.

She went inside. The house was tidy and still, and the smell of home made her chest ache. Their aging cat, Buster, had died in his sleep over the winter, and suddenly, she missed him horribly, his creaky little meows and bony back. Tears flooded her eyes. Sweet little Buster.

Home. The family room, with its rather ugly, squat fireplace and cheerfully crowded bookcases, the kitchen with its cheap Corian countertops and mismatched chairs. The electric stove they’d always meant to replace with gas. The mudroom, which had once burst with coats and boots and backpacks, now a place for old newspapers and, when she was living there, whatever had to go back and forth to the gallery. To the left was the half bath, with its blue toilet and blue sink. She’d let the girls paint it when they were in middle school—coral, for some reason. It hadn’t looked good then, and it didn’t look good now. She’d asked Gerald to paint it at least three times in the past few years, and he said he would, and nothing ever happened. She stopped asking, because what was the point? She figured she’d do it someday when Gerald went away for a weekend. Which he never did, not without her.

Husbands seemed to become toddlers after a decade or so of marriage. You had to direct them, arrange playdates for them, be their friend, entertain them. Do you think you can paint the bathroom this weekend? No? You don’t want to? Okay, then. Why don’t you call Matt and see if he wants to shoot some pool at the Governor Bradford? No? Don’t you think that would be fun, honey? Please? You want me to play with you? Oh. Okay.

That was the truth. The other truth was that Gerald was her best friend, the person she most admired, the only one who really knew her, every insecurity, every bad moment, and loved her anyway. Her biggest fan, and the one who broke her heart. Because make no mistake…her heart was cracked right in half, a jagged, ugly break that she wasn’t sure would ever heal.

She went upstairs. As the eldest, Harlow had always had her own room. Addie and Lark had shared another until college, and Winnie and Robbie had been roomies until Harlow left for college, when Robbie was, gosh…eight?…at which point, Winnie got Harlow’s room. It seemed so long ago, all those kids under the same roof, like a happy dream whose details were fading.

And here was the primary bedroom. Their bed was under a skylight, which had fogged with age and poor installation. A giant bureau, since they lacked a closet. Pictures of the kids and grands and the two of them on the walls.

Their bed. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. They still fell asleep touching, after all these years, just a foot or a hand, maybe. Whenever she had a bad dream, she’d reach out for his solid shoulder, which had grown hairier and rougher over the years. He had always made her feel safe. Everything will work out. That was his motto. Was that true now? Would they work things out?

“Hello? Gerald? Are you home, son?”

Her father-in-law, famed for stopping by without checking first.

“Hi, Robert,” she called. “I’ll be down in a second.”

She went into the bathroom and blew her nose, splashed some water on her face, then headed downstairs. “Hi. How are you, Robert?”

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