Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (7 page)

“Can’t do coffee on an empty stomach. Besides, you girls are skinny enough.” He serves up these guilty pleasures with a chuckle before queuing up for his own preferred brew.

I can’t help but marvel at his gamesmanship. Beating DeeDee in this messy divorce may mean winning friends and influencing frenemies. And if our little coffee klatch is any indication, both are in abundance here in the Heights.

“
Mmmm
, not bad,” murmurs Isabelle. By the way she’s eyeing Harry’s well-toned backside, I take it she’s not talking about the coconut bourbon cupcake she’s just wolfed down.

“Right, a real sweetie. What’s that saying again? Oh yeah: ‘Beware of strangers bearing gifts.’” Only Margot, suspicious as always, refuses to indulge. From her frown, you’d think the cupcakes’ icing was sprinkled with polonium-210. To make the point that she won’t allow Harry’s interview to be, quite literally, a cakewalk, Margot flicks a glazed coconut flake off Isabelle’s cheek.

By the time he’s back at the table, Margot has nudged her reluctant minions into line. Now they won’t dare melt under the heat of his clear blue eyes or the warmth of his smile.

The inquisition begins.

My bet with Harry was that the women would wait at least half an hour before the grilling commenced.

I am wrong. After only fourteen minutes of polite chitchat, in which Harry liberally sprinkles subtle compliments to each woman between questions about their children’s ages, the care and feeding of their lawns, and the sports teams their husbands worship, Isabelle murmurs none too subtly, “A shame. About you and DeeDee, I mean.”

Harry’s smile turns down just slightly at the corners. “Yeah, I think so too. I guess it happens in the best of families.”

Colleen takes up the baton. “Is it true that—well, that someone else was involved?” Then, all doe-eyed innocence, she adds, “Oh! I’m sorry! Look, really, don’t feel you have to answer that.”

Liar.

If he doesn’t answer, they won’t trust him.

And if they don’t trust him, they won’t accept him.
Ever.

It is Harry’s moment of truth, his rite of passage, and doesn’t he just know it. His eyes catch mine for a mere nanosecond, as if to say
BRING. IT. ON.

Dear Harry, be careful what you wish for. . . . 

“It’s funny you should ask, Colleen.” Harry shifts slightly closer to her and oh-so-gently grazes her little finger with his own, creating the kind of intimacy that this perennial sports widow with three hyperactive sons and an obsession with romance novels has only dreamt about. “Since—well, since she left me, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

Brooke’s perfect pout falls open. Her disappointment is obvious. “Then you don’t know
for sure
?”

He gives Colleen’s hand a light pat before turning those piercing baby-blues on Brooke.

“No, Brooke, I can’t say that I do. All I know is that she—
we
—quit talking about a month ago. I don’t mean that we stopped chitchatting about the usual stuff: the kids, finances, you know, those ‘Hi, honey, how was your day?’ comments. But one day those really deep conversations we both lived for
just went away
.” As he looks down at his coffee, the women exchange glances, and I know why. Harry Wilder has just presented the ultimate fantasy:

A husband who actually wants to have a two-way conversation.

“At first I just assumed she was a bit preoccupied. Temple has just started kindergarten, and now that Jake’s in the eighth grade, all of a sudden he’s discovered girls.” Tammy, Brooke, and I chuckle appreciatively. We all have boys in middle school, and have seen a big change in their behavior. “But DeeDee’s never been one to complain.
She’ll ask for help only when she’s done everything she can on her own. Frankly, that’s one of the things I love about her. I assume you noticed that about her too.”

The women smile and nod absently, then drop their heads guiltily. The truth is that none of us were ever close to DeeDee. In fact, just hearing Harry talk so lovingly about the woman renowned for her frigid air makes him even more of a saint in our eyes.

“Of course, I assumed that eventually she’d mention whatever was bothering her. But she never did. Little did I know that I was the problem.”

“Surely there must have been some telltale signs. There always are. . . .” Even as Tammy says this, it’s obvious to everyone at the table that she is grasping at straws.

“You know, I’ve thought about that. Were there times she was sad? Or angry? Did she leave me notes, asking to talk things out? No. She’s always grace under pressure.”

Translation: DeeDee’s frozen smile was a Kabuki mask that never came off. Not even for her husband.

“As for our lovemaking—well, quite frankly, if I were to describe it, I guess I’d say we went at it like teenagers. Particularly after a business trip . . . Sorry, I’m speaking out of school here. Oh, what the hell. I’m among friends, right?” Sheepishly he looks down at his coffee. Everyone’s eyes focus on the way his large, broad hands easily envelop his mug. I can just imagine what they are thinking:
Large digits, large dick . . . 

To break the spell, I ask the question that is on everyone’s lips: “How exactly did she walk out?”

“It happened on Halloween. I’d had a low-grade fever that morning, so I came home from work earlier than usual. My garage door opener wasn’t working, so I parked in the driveway and tried the front door, but it was locked. I let myself in through the back. At first I didn’t hear anything at all. Only when I got into the bedroom did I realize that DeeDee was in the shower, with . . . with . . .” He stops
for a moment, closes his eyes, and rubs his forehead. Obviously, the memory of the day still leaves him dumbfounded.

Well, that’s too bad, because the suspense is killing the rest of us. Even the ever-snide Isabelle is enthralled. I can tell because she’s stopped midgobble on her third cupcake to choke out, “With whom?”

The spell is broken. He looks over at her, surprised. “
Whom?
No one. She was alone. But she was fully dressed. Crying. Sobbing in the shower. It was as if she’d—
cracked
somehow.”

In her
clothes
?

That was the very last thing the others expected—or wanted—to hear. Out of her clothes would have been more like it.

And in some other man’s arms.

Especially
since they now know a shower was involved. . . .

No one says anything at first. It is Brooke who finally breaks the awkward silence. “So, what did she say when . . . you know, when she finally came out?”

“You mean, when I
pulled
her out? That she loved me. That she knew I loved her too, but that she was no longer—how did she put it? Oh yeah, that she was no longer
in love
with me. That she could no longer pretend that everything was just fine, or that she was living her life on terms that worked for her. That something—something
big
—was missing. And it would always be that way if she didn’t get out.
Now.
Just what the hell does that mean, exactly?”

He’s addressing that not to any one of us, but to all of us. If we were to be honest with him, with ourselves, we’d have to admit that we’ve all been there at one time or another.

“Listen, I want to thank all of you for just—well, for listening to me go on like this.” We see the pain in his frown. “Maybe if DeeDee and I had had conversations like this, even a month ago, we might still be together. I guess it’s not fair to blame her for something I didn’t do well myself.”

Harry doesn’t exactly tear up, but his eyes are glassy. He is unsteady as he rises to his feet. The comforting pats he receives from
Tammy and Isabelle assure him that he has won the redemption he seeks. Colleen and Brooke actually jump up and give him kisses on his cheek.

He is still their Perfect Guy. Better yet, he’s now their friend too.

Only Margot is still a nonbeliever. “Truly touching. But I, for one, would be interested in hearing DeeDee’s side of it.”

The others flinch at her bluntness, but Harry smiles as if she’s paid him a compliment. “You and me both. But I guess that’s wishful thinking on my part. Because, despite what happened, I’m still in love with her.”

Her response is a shrug.

Time is up. Harry has given it his best shot, but the reality is that Margot refuses to fold. And because she insists on full submission from her minions, eventually they will find reasons to dislike him too.

Just when I think all is lost, he turns to Margot with a sideways glance. “Wait a minute. You said your last name is Hardaway? Wow, then you must be the mom of that adorable kid Laurel.”

Bull’s-eye!

Margot blushes. A genuine smile breaks out on her lips. Truly, there is no greater sound to a mother’s ear than praise for her offspring. And Harry’s compliment is all the sweeter because Laurel, the leader of the middle school’s posse of mean girls, nets her mother more enemies than friends. (In that regard, the nut does not fall far from the tree.) “You
know
Laurel?”

“Of course. We
are
talking about the Laurel who cheers at the middle-school boys’ basketball games, right? My Temple thinks she’s the cutest one on the squad. Jake is the team captain, you know. In fact, I think he’s got a bit of a crush on her. Of course, he probably wouldn’t like it that I let that out of the bag.”

“Oh . . . yes, that’s my Laurel. And, no! I won’t say anything about Jake. And, um, feel free to invite Laurel over anytime. To babysit Temple, I mean.” Jake is the class hunk. Even Margot knows
that. The last thing she’d want to do is throw a wet blanket on her daughter’s crush. How would that play out in Laurel’s twice-weekly therapy sessions?

Mine is the last SUV to leave the lot. I’ve just pulled up to the light when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but the voice is unmistakably Harry’s. “So, what do you think? Did I pass inspection?”

“I’ll say.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “As of this moment, you officially walk on water. At least as far as my board is concerned.”

“Yeah? Great. Then you think they bought it?”

“‘Bought it?’ Bought what?”

“The bit about the shower.”

“That wasn’t true?” I’m so shocked that I almost ram the BMW in front of me. “But—but it sounded so real!”

“Good, because it was supposed to. What, do you actually think DeeDee would dare jump in the tub in designer duds? No way. Total fabrication. But what the hell, I had to do something to warm up that crowd. Those girlfriends of yours are a frigid bunch. And I wasn’t counting on a heckler to boot.”

“Yeah, Margot can be so obnoxious sometimes. But, Harry, why did you do it?”

His pause is so long that I start to think the cell connection is broken. “Because DeeDee is going for full custody, as well as the house. I can’t let her win. I
won’t
let her.”

Harry is right. All is fair in love and divorce. Even ugly lies, which, in this community, spread quicker than kudzu during a wet and steamy Georgia summer. Now, even if DeeDee does win in court, she’ll always wonder why she’s getting so many pitying sidelong glances from the neighbors she has always snubbed.

“But what if one of them runs into DeeDee and brings up what you said about her?”

“Seriously, do you think any of them would have the guts to do
that now?”

No, come to think of it. Not after they saw the pain in Harry’s eyes.

And certainly not now that Margot is his new best friend.

I can’t help but feel just a tiny bit jealous. . . .

“I owe you big, Lyssa. I presume you want to be paid in cupcakes?”

“You wish. No, you can’t get off the hook that easily. For your penance, you’ll have to cover Olivia one afternoon.”

He signs off with a laugh, but I know the morning has taken its toll on him too.

I glance down at the dashboard clock. What? We were sitting in there for
only forty-eight minutes
? This little outing has taken a year off my life. I am sweating as if in early menopause. A shower would feel good right about now—

I don’t think I’ll get into one again without thinking about DeeDee in soaking wet Phillip Lim cashmere, thanks to a standard feature in all Paradise Heights master baths: the Hansgrohe Raindance Royale 350 showerhead, with its fourteen-inch face and air-injection technology.

“Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit
each other. Perhaps they should live next
door and just visit now and then.”

—Katharine Hepburn

Monday, 11 Nov., 1:23 p.m.

So, what would you guess is Harry’s favorite color?”

Tammy’s question seems innocent enough—except that we are in Nordstrom next to a counter filled with men’s boxer briefs. In one hand she holds a box of 2(x)ist’s electric blue soy-fiber “comfort trunks,” while the other lovingly strokes a pair of C-IN2 bamboo mesh trunks that are the color of a Mexican sunset, or
rumba
, if you go by the color on its box.

It also claims that the trunks have something called a “Trophy Shelf Pouch
^™
for a bigger, better profile,” whatever that means. I’m assuming Tammy doesn’t know either, since the word
trophy
has never crossed her lips when describing her Charlie’s penis.

Inchworm
has, however.

“How the hell would I know what color he likes? And why exactly are you buying underwear for Harry, anyway?” I try not to sound so upset, but really, I am disgusted. It’s been almost a week since the Starbucks meet-and-greet. Since then, each member of the Paradise Heights Women’s League board has made Harry her very own pet project. While Isabelle thoughtfully picks up little items for him at the grocery store and Colleen leaves casseroles in his fridge, Margot
indulges Laurel’s crush on Jake by sharing carpool duty with Harry, and Brooke is his new tennis doubles partner.

Tammy, on the other hand, has become his domestic goddess Friday. Thus far this has included rearranging his kitchen and bathroom cabinets.

Obviously she has worked her way into the master bedroom too. Which makes me wonder: Does she have intimate knowledge of Harry’s need for a Trophy Shelf Pouch?