Page 9 of Chasing the Horizon

“I was married to Bree for many years,” he said, his voice sharper than he’d planned for.

“And now Bree’s sick,” Esme pushed it. “And Victor doesn’t want to talk about that, either. I just lost Larry, and I’mheartbroken about it. I imagine Victor’s struggling. I wish he would talk about it.”

Victor’s neck and chest were steaming. He tugged at his collar, wishing he’d worn something lighter in weight. The October winds swirled outside, tossing red and orange leaves from the trees. He couldn’t fathom how the next fifty-three minutes would go.

Not well, he imagined. And he was right.

When it was over, Hannah suggested that Victor and Esme go to therapy on their own, as well as together. Esme already was, and she hoped Victor would find someone.

“I think it’s important to think of all these different sessions as building blocks to a better life,” Hannah said, speaking to Victor as though he were a child.

“I don’t see that happening,” Victor said.

Hannah didn’t seem surprised. She stood and extended her hand. “If you’d like, I’ll send out a few recommendations for therapists.”

“Send the email.” Victor shook her hand. “Appreciate it, Doctor.”

He snapped out the door, telling himself he didn’t have to take her recommendations if he didn’t want to. He’d agreed to couples therapy. But he hadn’t agreed to sit in a room with a therapist alone, poring over every intricacy of his thoughts. He hadn’t agreed to be cracked open.

But on the way home, Esme was quiet, sliding lotion through her hands and staring out the window as Victor drove. Victor sniffed and rolled his shoulders back, trying to find something to distract her from the therapy session.

Finally he landed on, “I don’t really think she’s qualified to help us. What do you think?”

And Esme said, “I don’t think anyone can help us if you don’t open yourself up.”

“Is it my fault the psychiatrist is bad at her job?” Victor asked.

Esme was quiet. She reached for the radio knob and turned it all the way up.

It was Hall & Oates again. It was the same song as before.

This time, Victor decided he really did hate it. Esme was right.

Chapter Four

The Siasconset mansion was like something from the 1920s Jazz Age. Valerie parked in the driveway and got out, putting her hand over her eyes to shield herself from the sparkling October sunshine, waiting for the go-ahead. Was it possible to just walk up and knock on the door?

That was when Catherine appeared.

Catherine Marrow was a thirty-nine-year-old socialite who spent half the year in Nantucket and the other half in Manhattan, specifically Greenwich Village. Now, as she glided from her mansion in an ocher dress and a long dark green velvet coat, she echoed quiet power and beauty. Her baby bump—five months along, now—was prominent and adorable, and Valerie sensed that Catherine was flaunting it.

“Valerie!” Catherine called. “Welcome!”

Valerie hurried to greet Catherine with a hug. Not often did she feel so close and comfortable with new clients, but Catherine’s excitement about her pregnancy was infectious. She’d sent Valerie an enormous bouquet upon learning that Valerie, too, was expecting. The card had read: There was always time for us to have every happiness.

Valerie wondered if they would have bonded half this much if they weren’t “older” moms who’d assumed motherhood couldn’t happen for them. But she was also so grateful for Catherine. She imagined them years from now, their children playing on the sand as they watched from a distance, laughing and recounting difficulties as they taught their children how to share, brush their teeth, be silly, and sit still.

Catherine led Valerie into the mansion, through long and wide halls filled with sunshine, all the way to the back sunroom where awaiting them was a teapot and two little teacups like something out of England. There were fresh strawberries and fresh scones with cream that Catherine explained was low-fat.

“But my doctor is telling me I need to eat normal-fat everything!” Catherine said with a small laugh, sitting down and gesturing for Valerie to follow suit. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

“I know what you mean.” Valerie recounted how her doctor told her she could eat sugar, exercise, and live far more than she was allowing herself now. “It’s like I want to walk around on eggshells, you know?”

“But it’s no way to live,” Catherine declared.

They held the silence for a second, then burst into smiles. Catherine reached over to take Valerie’s hand and squeeze it. “I’m so happy for you, Val. Nobody deserves it more than you.”

Valerie and Catherine got started on baby shower preparations. Catherine showed a list of potential guests—nearly sixty women, most of whom were prominent members of some Manhattan “scene” that Valerie only vaguely knew existed. They spoke about potential menus, cakes, how much should be vegan and how much should be meat-based, plus how Catherine wanted the party to be decorated.

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