Page 30 of Seven Summer Weekends

In the morning she felt inspired to take her sculpting to the next level. She had yet to attempt anything more intricate than a vase or a bowl.

She went out to the studio, where a full-length mirror shoved behind some boxes caught her eye. She happily recalled her sculpting classes in college. At first, she had felt awkward and uncomfortable with a naked man or woman sitting in the middle of a circle, especially a man. She was eighteen when she had started college and had never seen a fully naked man before. It took some getting used to. When she did, she happily found herself transposing their bodies expertly into clay, penises and all.

“Mastering the human form is imperative to mastering any medium,” her professor would preach.

She leaned the full-length mirror against the wall in front of her and stripped off her clothes, taking in her image in detail, the length of her arms, the line of her jaw. She placed a block of clay on the turntable and set up an armature that Gicky had created from plumbing equipment and hanger wire, before slowly mapping out her intentions. Next, she remembered how, with practice, she had trained her eyes to replicate the shapes she was seeing with her fingers. Though rusty, the skill that had taken her years in college to master came back.

She felt happy in a way she hadn’t experienced since being fired. Or maybe way before that.Be in the moment, no judgment, she thought, like the signs she used to scoff at in HomeGoods. She wondered if she was growing orshrinking.

WeekFour

Chapter Sixteen

Kizzy Weinstein was endlessly looking forward to the weekend away with her girlfriends, but first had to navigate the “blessed event” that was her husband’s thirty-second birthday. She strolled up Lexington Avenue and into the famous French patisserie that she had been purchasing madeleines and macarons from since she was a little girl, with the full expectation that the employees would greet her as if they had never seen her before.

“Bon après-midi,” she said, in her best high school French, with no response from the mademoiselle behind the counter.

“An extra-large mille-feuille, s’il vous plaît, withHappy Birthday, Romewritten on top.”

Kizzy had ordered that same dessert, Rome’s favorite, from that same bakery since they were married. Before that, his mother would order it for him. And for most of his life (a little over half) Kizzy had been there to delight in the thousand layers of puffed pastry and cream with the white chocolate card that readHappy Birthday, Romeperched on top.

Kizzy and Rome had dated since freshman year of high school, when he transferred to the posh private school she had attended since kindergarten. They stayed together through college, she at Brown, he, close enough for many a fun weekend together, at Tufts. They married after Rome had finished grad school, and soon purchased a two-bedroom on Seventy-Ninth and Park. It was only a few blocks in either direction from where they had each grown up. Kizzy hoped this would be the year that they replaced the guest room sofa with a crib. They were finally both set in their careers and, at thirty-two, the timing was perfect.

The woman barely acknowledged her before disappearing into the back of the bakery.

Aaah. The French, Kizzy thought as she looked down at the decadent array of pastries and cakes. She had been coming to this patisserie with its checkerboard floor and glass-topped mahogany display counter since she had to stand on her tippy-toes to see over it. As usual, the smell upon entering the shop brought her right back to those Sunday mornings with her dad, their repertoire always the same.

“Can I have a chocolate croissant today?” she would ask.

To which he would take his time contemplating his answer, as he always left the house with strict instructions of no sweets before lunch.

“OK. But don’t tell your mother,” he would say, as if it were a one-time-only event.

The memory made her smile.

A man came out from the back with a boxed cake.

“That was fast,” Kizzy commented.

“I’m a little bit confused, mademoiselle. I thought when you called, you asked for it to be delivered?”

Kizzy felt her cheeks burn. She hated when Rome’s mother took over. She would always call days in advance with things like this while Kizzy was a last-minute, stop-in-on-your-way-home type. Kizzy stood firm that both methods brought the same results. Case in point.

“Sorry. My mother-in-law strikes again.”

“Ah, the dastardly belle-mère. I have one too.”

It may have been the sweetest interaction she’d ever had at the Café Payard, until she looked down at the words scribbled on a yellow slip taped to the box.

Deliver to the Mark Hotel Suite 625 by 3:00.

Her whole body trembled as she walked the three avenues and three blocks to the Mark. Every step felt as if someone were hanging on to her ankles, pulling her back in the opposite direction. She did not give in to it, but instead, glided purposefully through the doors of the swanky European hotel and headed straight for the elevator. That feeling of stepping into a place, acting like you belong, usually brought her a wave of confidence that landed with a proud smile. Not today.

Please don’t let this be happening again, she prayed absurdly as she watched the floors go by.

Two, three, four, five, six. Ding!Life as you know it is now over.

It had been two years and countless therapy sessions since Kizzy had discovered a room service receipt from the Mark Hotel in Rome’s suit pocket. She hadn’t been snooping; it had nevereven occurred to her to snoop. She’d been standing in the doorway of their apartment waiting for the dry cleaner to come for a pickup when she reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a room service bill for Suite 625 at the Mark—specifically buttermilk pancakes, eggs Benedict, and two banana-berry smoothies. The walls had spun around her, and her legs had swayed from side to side as if she were at the epicenter of an earthquake. Her husband was having an affair.

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