* * *
Marissa is slipping on jeans and a cashmere sweater when her cell phone pings, alerting her to a presence at the front door. Matthew is home, with one minute to spare. He couldn’t have cut it any closer.
As she hurries down the stairs, she hears a voice, but it isn’t Matthew’s. It’s Avery’s. Marissa can’t make out her words, but picks up the rumble of Matthew’s laughter. It’s a sound she hasn’t heard recently.
By the time she reaches them in the kitchen, Matthew is standing by the sink filling a glass with water from the tap while Avery leans against the granite island, seeming to take in everything: Marissa’s half-finished glass of Chablis, the spaghetti pot soaking in the sink, Bennett’s splayed-open lunch box with the crusts of his turkey sandwich and Fruit Roll-Ups wrapper inside.
The tap has a built-in purifier, but Avery wouldn’t know that and it feels overly casual for Matthew to hand her the glass with a drip rolling down the side. Another thing feels awkward: Matthew is still in his dark suit and crisp white shirt. Avery wears a wide-legged black jumpsuit cinched with a silver-studded leather belt and heels, as if she’s come here from a cocktail party.
Marissa feels acutely underdressed.
“Sorry! It took a little while to get Bennett to bed. I trust you found our place okay. Can I get you anything else?”
She realizes she’s babbling as she reaches for the half-full wineglass and tips the contents into the sink.
“Hope you’re not doing that on my account,” Avery says.
Marissa laughs; it sounds forced.
Matthew fills a water glass for himself but doesn’t offer one to Marissa. His face is ruddy, an indication he’s had a few drinks. There would have been wine with the meal, and perhaps an after-dinner Scotch.
“Shall we go sit?” Marissa suggests.
She turns toward the library, but Matthew is already heading in the other direction, into the family room. Not there! she thinks. But she silently follows; she doesn’t want to start the night by contradicting even a small choice of her husband’s.
The room is set up for relaxed evenings, with a big TV affixed to one wall and a large sectional couch and two oversize chairs grouped around a coffee table. Matthew claims one of the chairs, and Avery selects the other one, setting her water on the little side table. This leaves the couch for Marissa.
She hesitates, then sinks into it. Avery remains standing, her tote bag still slung over her arm. She surveys the room, then walks over to the built-in shelves, which are filled with books, knickknacks, and photographs.
Avery stares at the photos for what feels like an uncomfortably long time, her back to Marissa and Matthew.
What captured her attention? Marissa wonders. The photo of the three generations of Bishop men in front of a Christmas tree—Matthew; his father, Chris; and Bennett? The black-and-white formal portrait of Matthew’s maternal grandparents, who could trace their lineage to the Mayflower? Or maybe Avery’s gaze is caught on the silver-framed wedding photo of Marissa and Matthew surrounded by their loved ones—both sets of parents; Matthew’s younger sister, Kiki; Marissa’s younger brother, Luke; plus their bridesmaids and groomsmen.
But the picture Avery reaches for is one of Marissa and Matthew as teenagers, sitting side-by-side on a dock, their feet dangling in the water of the lake where they first met.
Avery turns around and glances at them, then looks back down at the picture. “Is this the two of you?”
“Yeah, back when I had a six-pack,” Matthew jokes.
One of the qualities Marissa loves most in her husband is that he is so confident he can be self-deprecating. She tries to catch his eye to give him an appreciative smile, but he’s avoiding her gaze—just as she did to him when she had something to hide.
The photograph is a bit blurry and faded, but Marissa cherishes it. It was taken shortly after her fifteenth birthday, in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, where Matthew’s family owned a summer house and Marissa’s parents ran a gourmet-food market that was open year-round but did the bulk of its business from June through August. Marissa spent most of those warm days behind the glass counter, scooping lobster salad onto brioche rolls and slicing peaches for her mother’s cobbler, but whenever she had time off, she untied her red apron and headed to the shore to meet up with the gang of teenagers who gathered at a particular narrow, sandy stretch by the long wooden pier.
There were two groups: the summer kids, who owned shiny eighteen-speed bikes and Sunfish sailboats and wore polo shirts with upturned collars, and the locals, who knew the best spots to pick blackberries and which clerk at the convenience store would sell them Coors and Seagram’s wine coolers. The class divide didn’t seem as sharp during the warm nights—everyone had on bathing suits and ate hot dogs around a bonfire and mingled and developed crushes—but they all knew it existed. How could they imagine otherwise when the boy scooping up a girl and playfully pretending to toss her off a dock had a mother who worked as a housecleaner for the girl’s family and had likely made her bed that morning?