If You Only Knew

“She does. Regular hours and then some.” I take a bite of salad.

Then Adam’s door opens, and in comes Emmanuelle St. Pierre, one of Adam’s coworkers. “So where were we?” she says.

Then she sees me and freezes for the briefest second.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Adam, I thought we were having lunch today. Did I have the wrong day?”

Just let me send him a text.

Him.

And so I know. I know.

Adam is cheating on me with her.

“Emmanuelle, you remember my wife, right? Rachel, you’ve met Emmanuelle, I think. The holiday party at the club?”

I’ve seen your vagina, I want to say.

“Um, mmm-hmm,” I mumble, because my mouth is full of unchewed arugula.

You fucking slut, is my next thought, but then again, of course she’s a fucking slut; she couldn’t be a slut without fucking, could she?

“Emmanuelle and I are working on a case together,” Adam says.

“Really,” I say, swallowing the mouthful of roughage without chewing. Really, Adam? Because you do corporate tax law, and she’s a criminal defense attorney, and even your stupid little housewife knows that you would not work on a case together.

“Adam, I didn’t mean to interrupt your little…picnic,” she says, and her eyes run over me, making me feel childish in my pink sweater, silly with my “trying to be artistic” earrings, like a failure in my little wifey-goes-out-to-lunch dress. She’s wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck dress, Armani, maybe. Jenny would know in a heartbeat. Her glossy, dark red hair is pulled into an unforgiving twist. Tiny gold hoop earrings. A wide, hammered gold ring on her right forefinger. No other jewelry. Black ankle boots with thin, thin heels that must be four inches high. Red soles. Those are… What’s that name? Christian Louboutin, right. Ridiculously expensive.

These details are razor-sharp, slicing through my brain with barely any blood spilled.

I’m wearing a heart necklace. As if I’m in third grade or something.

No. There are pictures of my children inside there. I’m a mother. Emmanuelle is not a mother, no sir.

Not yet.

“I guess I’ll talk to you later, Adam,” Emmanuelle says easily. “Nice to see you again, Rachel.” Then she’s gone. The smell of her perfume lingers like radiation.

Adam exhales. “So. What else have you got planned for today?” His face is studiously bland.

“You fucking liar,” I say, and then I throw his iced tea in his face and walk out of his office.

* * *

THE UPSIDE OF having three toddlers is they don’t leave you much time for thinking. I make the girls supper, read them poems as they eat, then finish their macaroni and cheese, because that stuff is delicious. I let them have a longer bath than usual, and read them extra stories and play Animal Kisses, in which they close their eyes while I woof, meow or moo softly in their hair till they guess which animal I am, or giggle so hard they can’t. For once, they’re all smiling and sweet when I give out their final hugs. No one gets out of bed, no one asks for water, no one cries.

Clearly, I’m the world’s most amazing mother.

I go downstairs, pour what has to be a ten-ounce glass of wine and sit on the couch and wait.

The look on his face, his wet, green-tea-drenched face, was almost funny.

Oily black anger twists and rises inside me. I try to dilute it with a few swallows of wine, but it stays.

I can’t be too angry about this. Well, of course, I can be… I am. But I can’t make decisions in anger. There are five of us to consider, not two.

Jenny has left two messages for me. Does she sense something? I haven’t answered.

Adam has not contacted me. That terror I felt last weekend shudders back to life.

Does he want to leave me?

An image of my daughters in the future flashes in horrible clarity: all three resentful, whiny, confused at having to go spend a weekend with Daddy—and Emmanuelle. They’ll become horrible teenagers, piercings and tattoos, and I’ll find condoms in Rose’s backpack, get a call from the school that Grace beat someone up, that Charlotte sold pot to her classmates. I’m already furious at Adam for doing this to our girls.

Furious, and terrified.

And then there’d be me. Divorced. Alone. I picture myself trying to date again—me, forty, with a cesarean scar and a pooch of skin made by another man’s babies. Me, shy at best, socially terrified at worst, making conversation in the bar in the Holiday Inn while the Yankees are on, a sticky tabletop and a glass of cheap wine, uncomfortable vinyl seats.

Adam comes home at 8:07 p.m. Our girls have always been the early-to-bed types, so I’m sure he’s lurked somewhere—the office, a bar, his whore’s house—until he’s sure they’re asleep. He might be a cheating douche bag, but he doesn’t want the girls to hear us fight.

He comes into the living room, looks at me, sighs and pours himself a scotch. “So I guess we have to talk,” he says, and my eyes fill with traitorous tears, because I love his voice, and now I have to listen to him tell me that I’m right. This living room will never be the same again. It will always be the place where he told me he cheated.

He sits down across from me. I can see the stain from the green tea on his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“How long?” I ask.

“About three months.”

Three months? Holy Jesus! It’s late April now, so most of April, all of March, all of February.

He gave me the locket on Valentine’s Day.

“Tell me everything,” I say, and my voice is choked and brittle.

He sighs, as if I’m exhausting him, the asshole, and starts talking. He didn’t plan it. It just happened. She came on to him. He couldn’t help himself. He’s a guy, and when a beautiful woman comes on to a guy, it’s hard to say no. He loves me. He doesn’t want a divorce. He’s sorry.

And the thing is, I knew. I knew when I saw that picture. I knew when he took me upstairs for sex. I knew before Jenny told me.

Stupid, stupid me.

“Why didn’t you end it?” I ask. My real question is Why would you ever look somewhere else? What am I lacking that made you whip out your dick—my God, my language is deteriorating by the second—and stick it where it didn’t belong?

I can’t look at him. I hate his face. If I look at him now, I might swing that empty wine bottle right at him.

“I did end it,” he says, but there’s too long of a pause.

“Don’t lie to me, Adam,” I say calmly. “You’ve already cheated on me. You lied to me when I showed you that picture, and you’re lying now. Why haven’t you ended it?” There. I manage to look at his face. My own feels as if a swarm of bees is under my skin buzzing and stinging, full of venom.

He shrugs again, not looking at me. “The sex is amazing.”

The room spins.

“Look, you asked,” Adam says, and yes, that’s accusation in his voice. You’re the one who made me tell you! “Rach, I love you. I do, you know that. And I love our life. But Emmanuelle… I don’t know. She’s very aggressive. I turned her down at first, I did!”

Does he want me to praise him? Give him a sticker? Write his name on the kitchen blackboard, like I do when one of the girls does something especially sweet or helpful?

“And then one day she came into my office to talk about a case, and she crossed her legs, and she wasn’t wearing panties, and I couldn’t help myself. It was—”

“Shut up, Adam. Shut the fuck up.”

I’m quite sure today is the first day Adam has ever heard me use the F word. He stops talking.

“I told you if you ever cheated on me, I’d divorce you,” I say calmly.

“I don’t want a divorce. Think of the girls, Rachel.”

“I always think of the girls,” I hiss, the fury writhing in my stomach. “All I do is think of the girls. Were you thinking of the girls when you fucked another woman? Hmm? Is that what a great father does?”

“Look. I’m sorry. I really am, Rachel. I was weak. But I don’t want to lose you.”

How I would love to tell him to piss off right now. That there’s no going back from this. That he can talk to my lawyer.

But just the thought of a divorce makes cold fear shoot through my legs. I don’t want a divorce! No adored husband coming through the door every night, no father in the house for the girls, no “Baby Beluga” sung at bedtime. We’d have to separate our things, all our lovely things that have made our house so welcoming and happy. All the pictures of the girls; he’d obviously get to take some with him.

How could I live without things the way they are now?

My rage has been snuffed out by icy-cold terror.

“When you knew I saw the picture,” I whisper, “did you tell her things had to end?”

“No,” he admits. “I haven’t yet.”

The big question is waiting in the back of my throat like bile. “Do you love her?”

He hesitates. “I… No. Not like I love you. But yes, there are…feelings.”

Oh, God.

My temples throb, and I have to force my teeth apart.

I get up to leave. I’ll sleep in the guest room, take a long bath in the tub, maybe get another bottle of wine. Watch Game of Thrones and…and…

I stumble before I even make it out of the living room.

Adam’s arms are around me. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice is rough with tears. “Please don’t make any decisions now. I love you. I love our family. Let’s not throw that away. I made a mistake. I’ll fix this. We can get counseling, or go on vacation, whatever you want. But please don’t leave me. I couldn’t live without you.”

I love him so much. I hate him so much. He picked me—out of all the women who would’ve loved to have been Adam Carver’s wife, he wanted me. We made this beautiful family, this happy life—well, obviously not happy enough that he kept it in his pants, did he?

“I’m going to bed,” I whisper. “I don’t know what I want right now. Except to be alone.”

“Sleep in,” he says. “I’ll get the girls to school tomorrow. I’ll go in late.”

I can’t bear to look at his eyes anymore. Those beautiful caramel eyes that lied so well.

Feeling more tired than I’ve ever felt in my life, I climb the stairs, holding the railing with both hands. Past the picture of my parents on their wedding day. Past the photo of Jenny and me when we were little, dressed in frilly Easter dresses. Past the picture of Adam, smiling hugely, his eyes wet as he holds three little burritos with pink caps.

Past our wedding photo. Me, in that stunning, amazing dress Jenny made for me, looking more beautiful than I ever knew I could, smiling at Adam with such adoration and…and…gratitude that it makes me sick.

Without thinking, I take the photo off the wall and toss it down the stairs behind me, the sound of glass shattering on tile bright and clear.

“Rachel.” His voice is hard and sharp.

I look down the stairs.

“Before you break anything else, just…just make sure you know what you want. Think about our life together, and what life would be like apart.” His voice softens. “Our marriage is worth fighting for. I screwed up, I admit that. But it would be smart to go slowly here.”

I turn around again and go into the guest room and close the door.

It seems I’ve just been warned.

Chapter 7: Jenny

“OH, GOD,” ANDREAS says. “Look at the hordes. This is awful.” Though he threatens weekly to quit, I don’t think he will, despite the reverse commute to the city. Who else would let him work on his novel during work hours?

“Hordes are good, Andreas,” I say patiently, looking at the line that snakes down the block. “This is great. It’s our grand opening. Smile. Be happy. And do not open that door until the stroke of twelve, okay?” It’s Sunday, the sun is shining, and the streets of Cambry-on-Hudson are filled with people strolling around, having brunch—yes—shopping. Outside my shop is a huge tin bucket filled with early peonies, bought from the florist across the street. A chalkboard sign says “Bliss: Open House today from 12-5. Come in, look around and enjoy!”

My mother is the first person in line. This does make my shoulders droop a little. But no, no. While my mother will talk endlessly about her wedding to Dad, she at least does it in a highly romantic manner. It could be good for business. Still, it would’ve been nice if she hadn’t worn sweats. She looks a teeny bit homeless. Sneakers, too. Her hair is messy. It’s all part of the “I’m A Widow” package, lest there be any doubt that her life was ruined when Dad died.

As ever, a cold needle pricks my heart.

Well. I have too much to do to rehash the past.

Andreas pops the champagne at the little bar I’ve set up for today. Pink champagne and pale pink-frosted cupcakes from Cottage Confections, the fabulous cake shop conveniently located four doors down. Kim, the owner, and I became instant friends as soon as she welcomed me to the downtown with six chocolate cupcakes. We’ll be referring each other lots. Andreas arranges the napkins, sets out a beautiful notebook so people can write down their emails.

To advertise my skills, the showroom is furnished with dress forms adorned with finished gowns in each of the classic shapes—A-line, mini, modified A-line, trumpet, mermaid, sheath, tea-length and, most popular of all these days, ball gown. The forms stand around Bliss like a beautiful army, shimmering in the pinkish lights of the store, the crystals from the ball gown catching the light and casting tiny rainbows, the satin of the tea-length glowing.

I fluff the cathedral train on the Grace Kelly–inspired dress, fingering the silk mikado. Bliss is not the type of shop that has ready-to-wear dresses. I’m not a salesperson; I’m a designer. But I do keep a few dresses on hand for the women who want to play dress-up.

Another section of the showroom features accessories—veils, belts, headpieces, gloves, garters. I’ll have to make sure my nieces don’t get into too much trouble over there. They tend to view my workplace as their personal playland.

Hung on the brick walls are a huge selling tool—pictures of my brides in their dresses, each one a black-and-white photo, hung at precise intervals. One picture is bigger than the others: Rachel, wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever made.

The back half of the shop is where the work really happens. Of course, there’s the dressing room with its apricot-painted walls and dais with three-way mirror, as well as a couch and three upholstered chairs, a coffee table with a photo album of my work. That’s where I’ll do consultations and fittings, where the bride shows me pictures of dresses she likes, where I’ll ask all the questions they love to answer—what’s your vision for the day, do you have a theme, how do you want to look.

The workroom is across the hall, where Andreas and I painstakingly organized thousands of fabric samples: satin, silk, chiffon, organza, charmeuse, lace—I have more than a hundred samples of lace—and yards and yards of muslin, since I make a mock-up of every dress before cutting the dress fabric itself. In the center of the room is a huge oak table—my work space, complete with four different sewing machines.

Shelves hold tape measures and scissors and thousands of straight pins, dozens of types of appliques, lengths of crystal and beading and accents. I never understood how a designer could be unorganized. It makes me cringe on Project Runway when someone loses their fabric.

I love my job. I love weddings, all types. Me, I opted for a quickie wedding on the beach in Provincetown, a weekend when Owen and I seemed to be the only straight couple tying the knot. Rachel and Adam came, Mom, Owen’s wonderful parents, Andreas and his boyfriend, a few friends from New York. We had lunch at a waterfront inn at the tip of P-town, and the sun shone, and we drank and laughed and ate. My dress was a flowing empire-waist sheath with a pale violet sash that fluttered in the wind, and Owen wore a navy blue suit with a lavender tie.

And look at us now.

The one thing I hate about the wedding industry is that it focuses so much on the one day. People become obsessed with details, enraged with those they love, worn out from planning a few hours of a day that may not mean that much in the grand scheme of things. Even as I’m designing a dress that will cost thousands and thousands of dollars, I’ve always tried to work that message in. Don’t forget that after this day comes thousands of other days. Be careful. Cherish each other. Don’t blow it.

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