Mommy Tracked (32 page)

“Okay. Oh, and Juliet?” Trish stepped forward, looking worried. “About the twins’ earrings—I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have had their ears pierced without asking you first.”

Juliet was stunned. She could not remember her mother-in-law ever apologizing to her about anything. And that included the time that Trish took it upon herself to throw Juliet and Patrick a surprise wedding reception after their elopement, even when they had specifically forbidden her to do so. They showed up for dinner one night and were greeted by seventy-five guests. Even worse, Trish had invited a priest, insisting that since Juliet and Patrick had a civil ceremony in Vegas, they weren’t officially married according to Catholic law. She’d then attempted to force them into repeating their vows. Juliet, who was not Catholic, had firmly refused, not backing down even when Trish cried.

So an apology—this was no small thing. Trish was actually waving a white flag.

“Thanks, Trish. I appreciate that,” Juliet said.

Trish smiled and self-consciously smoothed her hair.

“And thank you for all you’ve done with Izzy and Em this week. They were telling me all about it at lunch today. They’ve had a wonderful time,” Juliet said.

“Oh, well, it’s a grandmother’s prerogative to spoil her grandbabies,” Trish said.

Juliet smiled briefly and wondered what kind of grandmother her own mother would have made. Lillian had been a disappointment as a mother, but maybe she would have tried to make up for that once she was a grandmother.

Who knows?
Juliet thought.
Stranger things have happened.

She felt Patrick’s eyes resting on her, and when she looked up at him, he had a quizzical expression on his face.

“Shall we go?” Patrick asked her quietly. Juliet nodded and exchanged a brief smile with Trish before following Patrick out the door.

They left their shoes by the wooden stairs that led down to the beach and strolled barefoot down toward the water. As they walked, Patrick kept his hands in his pockets and Juliet crossed her arms in front of her. The tide was coming in, rolling toward them in large, white-capped waves. A few high-school-age boys were surfing, or trying to, doing their best to show off in front of the teenage girls lounging about in skimpy bikinis. Juliet could see a few boats off in the distance, looking small against the horizon. Gulls swooped down before them, bickering over the remains of picnic lunches.

“I quit my job,” Juliet said.

Patrick came to an abrupt stop, and Juliet had to turn to look at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I quit my job.”

“But…
why?
When?”

Juliet looked down at her toes—painted the same garish purple as her fingers—sinking into the wet sand.

Should I tell him about Alex?
she wondered, clenching her hands so tight, her nails dug into her palms.

She wanted them to have a fresh start, to not have any secrets from each other, but she also didn’t want to hurt her husband. Or inexorably damage their already fragile relationship. Even though she hadn’t had sex with Alex, that would be a small consolation to Patrick upon learning that his wife had made out with another man in a hotel room. He wasn’t the sort of guy—if such a guy existed—to laugh off some friendly heavy petting and say, “Oh, well, as long as his penis didn’t enter your body, no harm done.”

And then Juliet had a revelation: If she confessed, she’d be doing it for herself, to alleviate her own guilt. It wouldn’t help Patrick move on; it would devastate him. The kindest thing, the most loving thing she could do, would be to carry her own burden of guilt and not pass it off to Patrick.

“I thought you’d be happy I quit,” she said instead.

“I just…What about making partner?”

“They offered me a partnership. I turned it down.”

“You turned it down?” Patrick’s voice was incredulous.

“You said that something had to change. So I changed it,” Juliet said simply. She stepped forward and reached out for his hand. There was a long moment where he didn’t reach back to her, a moment where Juliet couldn’t breathe, but then…then he did. He entwined his fingers with hers, and they held their hands between them like a bridge.

“And now what?” he asked.

“Come home. I miss you. I miss the twins. I miss my family,” Juliet said, her voice soft but steady. She tried to ignore the nervous
thump-thump-thump
of her heart and the breath that seemed trapped in her chest.

“I’ve missed you too,” Patrick said quietly.

“And if you want to go back to work, we’ll find a way to make it work,” Juliet said.

“What about the twins?” Patrick asked.

“Well, their school has an after-hours program. They’d probably really like going to that. And I’m going to find a job that will let me have more flexibility. Maybe one where I could work at home a few afternoons a week,” Juliet said. She hesitated. “I’ll almost certainly have to take a pay cut, though.”

Patrick didn’t say,
There are more important things than money
. Nor did he puff out his chest and say,
Don’t worry, I can support us
.

Instead, he said, “Would you be okay with that?”

And the fact that he understood her so well, that he actually
got
her, caused Juliet to feel a warm whoosh of love for him.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m okay with that.”

Patrick swung their hands gently back and forth between them.

“It hasn’t just been your job,” he said seriously. “You’ve been distant—even when you’re around.”

“I know,” Juliet said, remembering how many hours she’d wasted fantasizing about having a relationship with Alex. “That’s going to change too.”

Patrick let go of her hand and squinted into the sun. Juliet got the feeling that the jury was now deliberating, weighing the persuasiveness of her promises against the cold reality of her past behavior. But Patrick surprised her.

“It wasn’t just you,” he said suddenly, thrusting his hands back in his pants pocket. “I get some of the blame for this too.”

Juliet thought of Alex again and shook her head. “No. This was all me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Patrick said firmly. “I knew why you were working so hard. I knew you were doing it for us, for the girls. And I didn’t exactly make it easy for you, always nagging you to come home early and putting you on guilt trips.”

“I deserved the guilt trips.”

But Patrick shook his head. “We’re supposed to be partners, not adversaries. We’re supposed to support each other.”

‘That’s what I want. More than anything,” Juliet said.

“Me too.”

Patrick smiled at her then, and relief coursed through Juliet. She knew then that it was going to be okay. Patrick pulled her close, wrapping his long arms around her waist, until her body molded against his. She felt his chest rise and fall, and she matched her breath to his.

“We’ll figure it out,” Patrick said, kissing the top of her head.

“We’ll figure it out,” Juliet repeated. And she held Patrick close, not wanting to let go.

nineteen

Chloe

A
s she fumbled
with her keys, Chloe nearly tripped over the bouquet of tulips lying by her front door. Just the sight of the flowers enraged her, and for a moment she considered punting them off the porch. Or maybe getting out her kitchen shears and leaving a pile of mutilated stems and petals by the front door of the ridiculous trailer James had insisted on parking in their driveway.

“When is he going to get a clue?” Chloe muttered to herself, pushing the flowers off to one side with her foot.

Every evening since she’d kicked James out of the house, there’d been a bouquet waiting for her by the front door. And every evening, Chloe had ignored the flowers, stepping over them as though they weren’t there. The next morning, the bouquet would still be languishing there, pathetic and wilted in its raffiatied cellophane. And each evening, the old flowers would be whisked away and new ones would appear in their place.

And every time Chloe saw the flowers, it pissed her off even more.

“Hello,” Chloe said, as she walked into the kitchen and set her purse down on the table. Mavis—her neighbor and Wills’s new babysitter—was sitting in her usual seat at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her. “How’d he do?”

“He was perfect,” Mavis said. “I gave him a bottle an hour ago, and then he went right to sleep. Sweet as a lamb.”

“Oh, good. Thank you so much for watching him,” Chloe said warmly.

“Always happy to,” Mavis replied. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

“I did, thank you. I met a few of my girlfriends out. One of my friends is the restaurant reviewer for the newspaper—”

“Oh! I’ve read her column. ‘Silver Spoons,’ right?”

“Yes, that’s right. We were trying out that new Italian restaurant over on Olive Street,” Chloe said. “And, I’m happy to report, the food was excellent. Although Anna thinks they knew who she was, since the waiter brought us over a complimentary bottle of wine.” Chloe looked closer at Mavis. The older woman’s face had clouded over, and she was twisting her hands nervously in front of her. “Mavis, is everything okay?”

“Well…” Mavis paused, and when she began to speak again, the words came out in a breathy rush. “He asked me not to tell you, but I thought you should know—your husband stopped in while you were out. He wanted to see the baby,” Mavis said worriedly. “I hope that’s okay. I wasn’t sure if I should let him in, but I also didn’t feel like I could tell him he couldn’t come into his own house.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Chloe said soothingly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, really, it’s fine if James wants to see Wills. I’m sure he misses the baby.”

Mavis’s face cleared. “Oh, good, I was so worried. And, just between you and me, I think he’s a little lonely,” Mavis said, as she stood and picked up her cardigan sweater and novel off the kitchen table.

“Really? Why?”

“He stayed for a while, even after I put William to sleep. We had a cup of coffee and talked. He seemed so sad,” Mavis said.

“He did?” Chloe asked, and the thought of James being so lonely and despondent that he’d pour out his heart to this nice old lady caused her anger to defrost a bit.

“He said he doesn’t even understand why you got so angry at him, especially since you hired me to babysit again.” Mavis’s expression became reproachful. “I hate to think that I’m the one who came between you two.”

And back came the deep freeze.

Unbelievable
, Chloe thought.
He actually manipulated Mavis into acting as his go-between. Not that I should be surprised. It’s so typical of him, always trying to charm the world into doing his bidding.

“Don’t worry,” Chloe said, as she walked Mavis to the front door. “This isn’t your fault, believe me. By the way, how would you like some flowers to take home with you?”

There was a knock on the door the next morning. Chloe had just finished nursing William and was still in her bathrobe with her hair pulled back in a headband when she answered it. James was standing on the front porch, smiling nervously at her. He was dressed for work in the navy-blue suit she’d helped him pick out and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. There was a small square of toilet paper stuck to his jaw, covering a shaving cut.

Chloe folded her arms and looked coolly out at him. Or, at least, she hoped she looked cool and composed. The sight of her husband had actually stirred up a steaming cauldron of feelings within her: anger, sadness, regret, pain. And, yes, she missed him. She wished she didn’t, but she did. The house had been so quiet without James’s larger-than-life personality filling it.

“I saw you took the flowers in last night,” he said. “I thought it was a sign that you were ready to talk.”

“I didn’t take them. I gave them to Mavis,” Chloe said.

James’s face fell, and his hands played nervously with his blue-and-green-striped tie. “Did Mavis tell you I stopped by to see Wills last night?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, she did.”

“Did she tell you about our conversation?”

“Do you mean how you tried to manipulate her into talking me into taking you back? She might have mentioned something about that.”

“Manipulate…no! That’s not what I was—honey, you’re not being reasonable. You’re completely overreacting.”

The flames of Chloe’s temper began to flicker.

“You don’t get to tell me how to feel,” she said.

“I’m not! I’m just…didn’t you like the flowers?” James asked, his voice small and pathetic.

“No.”

“Oh.” He looked so disappointed that Chloe felt mean. But she was also tired of lying about her feelings to make him feel better.

“I thought you’d think they were romantic,” James said sadly.

“Well, I don’t. They remind me of every other time you’ve screwed up and tried to buy your way out of it by giving me flowers,” Chloe said. She started to close the door, but James reached out an arm to stop her.

“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the flowers, and for leaving William, and for everything,” he said. He looked beseechingly at Chloe. “Just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it. I’ll change.”

Chloe hesitated for a minute. He looked so miserable and so remorseful, she could hardly bear it.

What if I’m making a mistake?
she wondered.
What if we really can work through this? What if this is just the normal growing pains of a couple adjusting to the pressure of caring for a new baby?

And yet…Chloe was just too damned tired of being disappointed.

“I wish I could believe that. But, frankly, I just don’t,” Chloe said. She took in a deep breath. “I’m angry at you.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that,” James said. “But I thought it was time we made up.”

Then James smiled at her. She’d seen that smile before. Charming, engaging, effortlessly charismatic. It was the sort of smile that got him the best seats in restaurants and upgraded when he flew and that caused people to trip over themselves to apologize to him for cutting ahead in line. But now it had the effect of propelling Chloe into a stratospheric rage.

He isn’t listening to a word I say
, she thought.
He never listens to me
.
Never. Not even now, when our marriage is at stake.

Suddenly Chloe was so furious it felt like her head was going to split into two. She opened her mouth and the words that she’d been suppressing for so long finally began to flow.

“You know, I don’t think you
have
gotten it. I don’t think you’ve gotten it at all. I’m not just angry—I’m furious, and fed up, and sick to death of the way you’ve been acting! This isn’t how it was supposed to be! I thought that when William came along, we’d be a real family, that we’d spend time together. But instead, I’ve been doing it all alone. All you do is work, or golf, or hang out with your buddies. Meanwhile, I’m up to my elbows in baby poo, and I hardly get any sleep, and I’m exhausted! You never get up with William, you never change his diaper. And the one time I asked you to stay with him, so I could visit my friend in the hospital, you dumped him on a complete stranger and WENT OUT GOLFING! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW PHENOMENALLY IRRESPONSIBLE THAT WAS? DO YOU? YOU’RE A FATHER NOW! DON’T YOU GET IT? A FATHER! YOU DON’T GET TO ACT LIKE YOU’RE IN COLLEGE ANYMORE!”

Chloe’s voice had been steadily rising as she spoke, until she was screaming. It wasn’t until she realized just how loud she was, and just how out of control she sounded, that she stopped suddenly. She stood trembling, her breath coming in quick puffs. Chloe hadn’t followed any of Juliet’s tips for staying calm during a conflict—she hadn’t squared her shoulders, or lifted her chin, or kept her voice controlled, or coolly laid out her argument.

James’s smile had faded from his face.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, fidgeting with his tie again. He seemed a bit shell-shocked from the force of her anger. “I’m sorry—really sorry. I want to fix this. Tell me what I can do to fix it. Anything, just name it.”

William started to cry then, with a high-pitched urgency.

“I need to change his diaper,” Chloe said, recognizing the indignant note that had crept into William’s wail. She was distantly aware that she was trembling.

“Chloe, wait,” James said, stepping forward. His face was pale, and his blue eyes were highlighted by smudgy dark circles. “Please. Tell me we can fix this.”

But Chloe just swallowed, and after a moment she shook her head.

“I don’t think we can,” she said. And then she gently closed the door on her husband.

“You’re all over the news,” Grace said, when Chloe answered the phone.

“What are you talking about?” Chloe asked. She was sitting at the desk in her tiny home office, working on a story about diet frozen desserts for
Scale
magazine while William napped. Actually, she was trying to write the article but had mostly spent the afternoon chewing on the end of a pencil and failing to come up with a way to make Fudgsicles sound sexy.

“I was just online, and I saw your story about Fiona Watson on Google’s home page. Listen:
Actress Fiona Watson Disgusted by Breastfeeding. Fiona Watson has made her fame and fortune playing the girl next door. With her all-American good looks and famous smile, she’s graced the covers of dozens of magazines and been compared to the legendary actress Grace Kelly. Her famous blonde locks have been copied so often in beauty salons across the country, the hairstyle has been nicknamed ‘The Fiona.’ And even though Watson failed to win the Oscar for her role as Fanny Price in last year’s screen adaptation of
Mansfield Park,
there’s no doubt: Fiona Watson is white-hot.

“When I met with Watson recently, she was relaxing in her Palm Beach hotel room and preparing to attend a fund-raiser at Donald Trump’s famous Mar-A-Lago resort. My first impression of the actress was that she is smaller and more fragile in person than she appears on screen. But despite her diminutive size, Watson exudes a powerful magnetism. This effervescent charm, which practically guarantees box office bank, was very much in evidence as we chatted about her new movie
, Lamp Light—
or it was right up until the moment when my infant son began to cry in the next room. Despite being a mother herself—although one armed with a battalion of nannies and personal assistants—Watson appeared enraged at the interruption. And things only got worse when my breast milk began to leak through my shirt, a common predicament for nursing moms. Watson was so repulsed at even being in the same room as a lactating woman, she ordered me out of her presence.

“Sound familiar? The entertainment news has picked up the story, and the bloggers are all over it. Apparently, some breast-feeding activists—oh, my God, they call themselves
lactivists
, if you can believe that?—are going to stage a nurse-in at the
Lamp Light
premiere. In this story here, one of the protest organizers is quoted as saying, ‘If Watson was grossed out by the presence of one lactating mother, imagine how she’ll feel when she faces two hundred of us breast-feeding when she walks down the red carpet.’ Wow, a nurse-in. That’s hard core. But you have to admire their spunk,” Grace concluded cheerfully.

Chloe dropped the pencil she had been holding.

“The story’s on the Internet? With my name on it?” she asked. Chloe was shocked. At Juliet’s encouragement, she’d typed up the Watson story when she was still upset over being ejected unceremoniously from the Breakers, but she never thought for a moment that
Pop Art
—known for its sycophantic celeb pieces—would ever publish it. Maia Bleu had practically told her as much when Chloe handed it in.

“It’s great, but I doubt the brass will clear it,” Maia said. She laughed. “I’ve heard rumors that Fiona can be an imperious bitch, but I think this takes the cake.”

But
Pop Art had
published it.
Wow
, Chloe thought, stunned at this development.

“Yes! All of the news Web sites are running with it—Google, the Drudge Report, E! Online—and they’re all mentioning you and your article in
Pop Art
by name,” Grace said. “You’re famous. I’m going to e-mail this article to everyone I know.”

“Oh, my God,” Chloe said. She clicked open the Internet and saw that Grace was right. It had been a slow news day—no one had blown anything up or invaded another country—so the news that Fiona Watson was
anti-boob
, as one Page Six columnist caustically called her, was huge.

“Hey, do you want to come over for dinner on Sunday? I think we’re going to cook out. Louis said he’s in the mood for ribs,” Grace said. “Juliet and Patrick are going to come too. And maybe Anna, if I can ever get hold of her.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” Chloe said distractedly. She was still clicking on the various stories, all of which pointed back to her original story, which was now on the front page of the
Pop Art
Web site. And her byline was there, in prominent fuchsia letters: C
HLOE
T
RUMAN
.