Dune Road (26 page)

“Oh God,” he groaned, and they both laughed.

“But seriously,” she said, finishing her plucking and raising her leg on the bathroom sink to shave from the knee down, “don’t you ever feel it would be impossible to start again?”

“What do you mean, start again?”

“I mean, here we are, we’ve been together for years, and we know all each other’s disgusting habits. I could never get divorced and be with another man. Actually, I’d never find another man who would put up with me.”

“I hope you
don’t
find another man.” Adam shot her a strange look, but he was used to her musings.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Kit muttered, contorting her body to shave up the back of her legs. “Two children later, with my saggy boobs and varicose veins, not to mention my whiskers, who’d have me?”

“Ah, my lovely furry wife”—Adam blew her a kiss—“
I’d
have you.”

“Damn good job.”

But it was true, once they had actually gotten divorced Kit did wonder who would possibly find her attractive again. When she met Adam she’d been young, hard-bodied, not a hint of cellulite or middle-aged spread.

Now, even with yoga, she has a pot belly she’ll never get rid of, lumpy veins in her legs that she blames her father for, and orange-peel skin on her thighs, which no amount of anticellulite cream seems to remove.

Not that she cares particularly. In a community where looks and youth are so prized that the housewives all indulge in Botox, Restylane, laser resurfacing treatments to continue looking good for their wealthy husbands, Kit doesn’t bother.

Yoga is less about keeping her fit and more about keeping her calm. As for joining a gym and leaping around doing circuit training or, God forbid, having a personal trainer come to the house once a week, she just can’t be bothered.

One benefit of the divorce was unexpectedly losing weight (she can even fit into her wedding dress again), but as for firming and toning, forget it.

Until now.

Steve unbuttons her shirt and, as a reflex, she pulls her stomach in and stretches out to try to elongate her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, moving up to kiss her on the lips, before disappearing down her body. “Relax.”

And she does, forgetting about her belly, her cellulite, her sag, not thinking about anything, just feeling Steve’s lips on her skin.

 

“Will you stay?” she says later, much later, when they are cuddled up by the dying fire.

“I wish I could.” He smiles at her and kisses her on the nose. “I have conference calls to Europe at five o’clock in the morning. Next time. What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Does he mean day or night, she wonders. Does he want to see her tomorrow? “Nothing much. Just work.”

“Ah yes. Assistant to the famous author. I’d forgotten. Do you like it?”

“I love it. Why?”

“No . . . I—I just see you as something more than an assistant.”

Kit sits up, startled. “It’s not demeaning. It’s wonderful. I love it. What do you mean?”

“Oh God, not that it’s demeaning. I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant I saw you as running your own business. I don’t know . . . something that’s all yours.”

Kit smiles. “Funny, I always wanted to own a clothes store.”

“You did?”

“I know. Weird. Especially since I’m not exactly the fashion queen, but I always saw myself as having this great little independent store, with inexpensive comfortable chic clothing, and a great bunch of loyal customers. I had visions of a cappuccino machine in the corner, and building a community of wonderful people.”

“I think it’s a great dream. Maybe you should start thinking about how to turn that dream into a reality.”

“Now? I don’t think anyone’s able to turn business dreams into a reality in these times. Tracy’s trying to open another branch, and I think she’s having a horrible time raising money.”

“Tracy?”

“Who runs Namaste? You know. She’s always in the front. Tall gorgeous blonde? Don’t tell me you don’t remember her. She’s the one who told me about you!”

“Of course.” He smiles and draws her closer to kiss her. “Isn’t she dating someone?”

Kit laughs. “You’ve obviously been listening to too much yoga center gossip. She’s kind of seeing my boss, I think. I’ve barely seen her. I don’t know what’s going on but it feels like she’s avoiding me. Which is awful.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry,” Steve says. “You should sit her down and talk to her, tell her how you feel. So much of the time these tiny things blow up into something huge because people just don’t know how to communicate. Tell her. I bet she has no idea you feel she’s avoiding you.”

Kit smiles gratefully. “You’re so right. Thank you.”

“Listen, if I don’t see you tomorrow, if this work thing takes over—which it might—will you come on Saturday? Your neighbor Edie has already phoned to confirm that I’m in for tennis,” he says, and groans. “Will you come and cheer me on?”

“I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll come and cheer you on. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Kit says, then covers his face with kisses.

Chapter Twenty

C
harlie pretends to be busy with the children, so intensely focused on them that she doesn’t have time to look at her husband. A distracted good-bye with no eye contact being about the best she can manage these days.

Her resentment is huge. How could he have let them get to this stage? How could he have pulled the wool so firmly not just over the eyes of everyone they know but, far more worrying, over her eyes, his own wife’s?

For there had been times over the years, so many times, when she had asked him if they could afford it.

“Can we really afford this house?” Her eyes, she recalled, had been large when they had first seen it, when Keith had been so determined to make an offer. It had been the biggest house of any she knew, a fairy tale, a house that would instantly make her the envy of all their peers.

“Of course we can,” Keith said, explaining about leveraging and interest rates, and how their money, put to use elsewhere, was working harder; and she didn’t think to ask what money, because Keith was, after all, a banker. He was supposed to know about such things.

“I make more money than ninety-nine percent of this country,” he would say, defensively, if she ever questioned how his salary, while substantial, could possibly be enough to carry their ever more elaborate lifestyle.

“I’m on track for a million-dollar bonus,” he would say, to allay her fears, and then come up with an excuse when the cash bonus never materialized, and what he got instead was almost entirely in company stock. The stock that is worth nothing today.

“You should have a Range Rover,” he said, indulgently, a couple of years ago, standing in the Land Rover showroom and riffling through the papers, waiting to sign the lease. “It’s what you deserve.”

And because Keith always said they could afford it, she believed him; and because he always said they had the money, she continued to spend. And now that he says there is nothing left, she is filled with nothing but burning resentment.

There is nothing left.

The bank has agreed to the deal. Which only means that they will accept a sale price of less than the mortgage. In this market, it means nothing. The only houses still selling in Highfield are the ones by the beach, or overlooking the harbor, with water views.

And even those aren’t selling like they used to. In the old days, you couldn’t buy at the beach, for love nor money. The houses tended to sell off-market, and if they ever did hit the open market they would be gone in days to the highest sealed bid. Now, even the beach area is littered with For Sale signs.

The realtor came yesterday, with a list of directions about what Charlie has to do in order to expedite the sale of the house. She has to clear out the basement, tidy up the clutter, apply a fresh coat of paint in the playroom where Emma has been overenthusiastic with the finger paints.

“It’s adorable,” the realtor said, “but someone coming in may not find it quite so lovely. We want it clean and fresh so they can put their stamp on it.”

“Do you think it will sell?”

“At this price? One point eight? Under normal circumstances it would be snapped up, but . . . these aren’t normal circumstances. Still, I think it will move. Particularly when you have an identical house on the street at one point nine, and this has a better yard. Even now, even in these times, people still need to move, and there’s a huge relocation starting, a company from Boston relocating to Norwalk, and a lot of their employees are liking Highfield because of the school systems. Are you sure you don’t want to put it on for higher? I think you can afford to give it a few weeks at two, or even two point one, before dropping the price.”

That’s just it, Charlie thought. We
can’t
afford it.

She is now waiting for the photographer to arrive. The listing has already gone up on the Web site, with the old exterior shot from when they bought the house. Which means the word will be out, because the wealthy Highfield housewife knows everything about the real-estate market, spends Sundays popping into open houses, knows all about who’s moving, why and where, as soon as it happens.

She can hear the game of telephone now. “Do you know Charlie Warren has her house on the market?” “But they just finished decorating!” “They must be in trouble!” “And you know their nanny, Amanda, is looking for a job—they had to let her go!” “Isn’t it awful?” It is, but they are excited at the gossip, and relieved it isn’t them.

Keith spoke to his parents yesterday. She is speaking to hers today. She still doesn’t know what to do, only that something has to be done.

Going to her parents, whom she adores, means New Jersey. Leaving everything she knows, everything she has built here, and she just doesn’t think she has the energy to start again, not to mention traumatizing the children even more.

Keith’s parents live in Highfield. The children could stay in their drama classes, their Little League teams, they could keep their friends, particularly Paige, who, at thirteen, may never recover from being pulled out of her life if they moved to New Jersey.

And yet staying in Highfield would mean having to deal with everyone knowing, being the center of the gossip, walking into rooms full of people in the certain knowledge that she is the reason for the sudden hush.

How is it possible to go from having everything, to suddenly having nothing? These last few days, more and more has emerged. They were, indeed, living the American Dream, but a dream created by smoke and mirrors, created by the people willing to lend them money, far more than they could afford, far more than they had a right to expect, merely because Keith worked in finance so the potential for gold seemed endless.

Almost nothing they have is theirs. The house is owned by the bank, the cars are leased. The stock is worth nothing, and so they are left with possessions.

Charlie has been making lists. The Persian rugs in the family room—the antique, signed Persian rugs that they bought for seventy-five thousand dollars, thinking they were a steal because they bought them with valuations of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—might be worth, she guesses, fifteen thousand each. If they are lucky.

For who is buying rugs in a market such as this?

The baby grand piano, a William Knabe that cost ten thousand to restore, might be worth—what? Five? Ten? Certainly not the thirty to forty thousand the restorer had said they could expect when they had the work done three years ago.

Her clothes. Her jewels. The huge diamond studs that cost so much, yet would resell for so little.

This morning she went onto eBay, but not, as she has done so many times before, to scout out a bargain, to look for a piece of furniture for the living room, an antique desk, a Swedish table, but to list items to sell.

She is being methodical because it is keeping her calm. Making lists, keeping herself busy, is stopping her from breaking down and screaming.

This morning, the
New York Times
had an article listing wealthy towns that were suffering. Highfield was close to the top of the list. Stores, upmarket designer stores, were receiving countless checks that were bouncing, from people the stores assumed had more money than God.

It should be some consolation that Charlie isn’t alone, but it isn’t. Just keep moving, she tells herself. One foot in front of the other. But right now, while she’s moving, she can’t forgive Keith, can’t do anything other than sit at the kitchen table once the kids have gone to bed and ask him, coldly, what else she needs to know.

He has cried, confessed his idiocy, says he didn’t know how to tell her things were going wrong, didn’t want to hurt her, was trying to protect her, but Charlie is not swayed by his tears.

And then he jumped on the defensive, again. This wasn’t his fault. The world was collapsing around them, thousands of families were in the same boat, how was he supposed to know this would happen? Nobody could have predicted this.
Nobody
.

“You weren’t supposed to know this would happen, but you were supposed to have been more sensible. You were supposed to have taken out a mortgage we could afford. Jesus. I didn’t even know about the home equity loan. What the hell was that all about?”

“We needed the money, and you
did
know. You signed it.”

“Of course I signed it. I signed everything you put in front of me, telling me this was a wise financial move. You know I’m hopeless with money, I don’t understand it. I trusted you to take care of it.”

“You never stopped me.” Keith felt resentment too, and fear at having to shoulder this burden alone. “You could have read it, but you were never interested. Every time I tried to sit down with you and talk about money, you shut down.”

“Oh I see. So it’s my fault? Great. Thanks a lot.”