Someone Else's Husband(22)

“I love Richard,” Brooks said, his mouth seeming to stick on Richard’s name. Like it was a piece of jagged glass. “He’s a great guy. One of my best friends, and he’s charming as hell. But he doesn’t exactly have the pedigree your parents are looking for.”

“My parents will love him,” Gretchen said. “Just like I do.”

But the truth was, even Richard had voiced concerns. He’d brought her parents up a few times after Gretchen kept inventing excuses for them not to meet.

“Maybe you should just tell them I didn’t grow up going to a country club,” he’d offered. “Give them time to get used to the idea.”

“Please, my parents don’t care about that!” Gretchen had lied with a flap of her hand. Of course, that was pretty much all they cared about. They’d built a marriage on appearances. They’d rooted the life of their only child in those shifting sands. Richard would never be able to charm them. They were immune to authenticity.

No, they found it confrontational.

Even to Gretchen, Richard did seem a little rough around the edges. Only if you looked very closely, really. Richard was smart enough to have picked up on how to dress and proper manners and all that. The basics. And he didn’t mind when Gretchen corrected him on things like which fork to hold. Some things you couldn’t fake, though: knowing which of the back bowls at Vail were the least crowded in the afternoon, for instance, or exactly how to order the right bottle of wine from a pushy sommelier. But rough edges could be smoothed over time. You could not grow a heart where none existed.

For his part, Richard was unapologetic about being the son of an electrician and a nurse. And he was not ashamed that his father had been an abusive alcoholic and gambler who, after years of beating Richard regularly, disappeared when he was thirteen, leaving them badly in debt. And then his mom had started drinking, too. Eventually, she was let go by the hospital, and Richard had spent high school working nights parking cars to pay their bills. His mother had died when Richard was a senior in high school. He’d lived with a friend until he graduated, with his scholarship to Dartmouth in hand. And yet he stayed so hopeful. Perhaps that was what Gretchen admired most.

But of course Gretchen’s parents were going to care that Richard’s blood was decidedly un-blue. She’d just been trying so hard to pretend otherwise. At least Richard had gotten into Dartmouth all on his own and with a full scholarship. He was captain of the crew team, for heaven’s sake. Her parents cared about achievements, too. They just frowned upon the messiness of bootstraps or the dirtying of hands required to pull them up.

“I love Richard for who he is. That’s what matters.”

Brooks narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Live in a fantasy world,” he said. “It’s not fair to Richard.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

Brooks shrugged and gently pulled his book from her hands. “Make a different choice. For both your sakes.”

“Love isn’t a choice, Brooks.”

“Of course it is, Gretchen,” he said without missing a beat. “Everything is a choice.”



* * *



*

“Mom, Mom.”

Cassandra’s face hovered right above Gretchen’s, wide-eyed and terrified. There were other grave faces, too. Strangers all ringed by light. Had Gretchen’s eyes been closed? Why was everyone looking at her? She was so confused.

The stroke. Now she remembered.

“Am I dead?” Gretchen asked.

A man with soft, cool hands and large brown eyes cradled her wrist carefully in his fingers, taking her pulse. He was about Cassandra’s age and very striking. “Do you know what day it is?” he asked her. “And the month?”

“Friday, September twelfth.”

“Do you remember where you are?”

“Ophelia’s school. Sloan School. The welcome assembly.”

“Okay. Good. Are you feeling better?” The man helped her sit up. “I’m a doctor. I was called over when you passed out.”

She was in the center aisle, splayed out on the floor. The stage was empty, the houselights up. But the auditorium was still full. Everywhere Gretchen looked, there were eyes on her. Everyone was staring. Her skirt was pushed all the way up to her thighs and twisted around her. She tried to tug it down, but before she could, Cassandra swooped in to fix it. Oh, God, this was humiliating.

“Listen,” the man continued, addressing Cassandra now, not Gretchen. “She probably just got overheated. Maybe dehydrated. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about—but someone her age, she should probably get checked out.”

Someone her age. Was he even old enough to be a doctor?

“Oh, poor Ophelia,” Gretchen said, remembering her darling granddaughter. She’d made such a spectacle at her show. Of all places. “I’m so sorry. Cassandra, please tell her that I’m very sorry.”

“Mom, she’s completely fine. All the kids are backstage. They can’t even see what’s going on.” Cassandra turned back to the man. “Thank you, Whit. We’ll take her to the doctor right now.”

Whit? As in Whitney? Not that striking after all, and a woman’s name.

“Is she dead?” Gretchen heard a little boy nearby ask. “She looks dead.”