She ground out her cigarette with one foot and shimmied like she was doing the twist. The truth was as ugly as the crushed, lipstick-stained Marlboro butt.
Discontent choked her far more than any smoke could. Lillian did nothing meaningful. Nothing that reached beyond Wynnefield or reflected her own interests. She had so much and did so little. Sure, Peter donated to charities and Lillian organized the Purim Carnival each year, but what had happened to the girl who stuffed envelopes, who stayed up all night chatting about a better world? What had she done to create one since then?
She had once wanted to be a teacher, then a librarian—both ways to help educate the next generation. Perfect for women with degrees. You could even keep working if you were married. Not if you became pregnant, of course. She didn’t remember releasing those dreams. They had been replaced by fulfilling the expectations of marriage and family.
What was wrong with her? She must be a horrible person. Selfish, self-involved, ungrateful. Except she wasn’t.
So she must be misguided, off course. Was it too late to find her way?
Women were happy with much less than Lillian had. She knew that. She opened her mouth, but instead of words of self-consolation, an understanding struck her.
Doing all the right things for a husband and family didn’t guarantee happiness.
Lillian wished someone had warned her.
As manners maven of Wynnefield, and as someone known to be a distinguished housewife, simply because she was married to a Diamond, Lillian had kept the door on her inappropriate thoughts bolted. Now they swelled and exploded as if ignited by dynamite.
She should tell her students. She should tell her daughters.
Here was her new raison d’être—she must use her God-given voice.
If she could do it without blowing up her life.
A few hours later, her daughters were home and in bed, though Lillian knew Penny would read by flashlight until she conked out.
She poured herself a gin and tonic at the rolling glass bar cart Peter had purchased to add a little pizzazz when hosting parties. So unnecessary. Their house screamed opulence—wasn’t that pizzazz with extra pizzazz?
The cocktail warmed her inside and out.
She had a good life. Did she really have to rock the boat now?
Maybe she had overreacted to the failed attempt at time alone with Peter. She’d spent years waiting for the perfect feelings to arrive, and now it might be too late to do anything about it.
Perhaps she could tell Peter she wanted to get a job at the synagogue or a library （not retail, for heaven’s sake）。 Not for the money, but to keep busy. She wouldn’t change her family, just her habits.
She could explain that the right job, when she found it, would add meaning to her days. That she’d be contributing something to society, even if in a small way. The girls weren’t babies anymore, and she could use her wages for gifts, lunches out. They were affluent. People knew she didn’t need to work, so no one would question why she wanted to work. Peter would let her work because he loved her.
A man’s inattention was not the world’s worst offense.
Peter stepped into the living room and stood next to Lillian. He fixed himself another Tom Collins—his weeknight choice—as she sipped her drink and stared straight ahead, daring herself to be honest with her husband.
“I have that meeting tomorrow,” he said. “I have to get everyone on board with this new plan for imported fabric.”
Peter leaned over a little too far—from drink, perhaps—and Lillian slyly propped him up, kept him from falling. There was something satisfying about being a pillar. “George Sullivan will be there, right?”
“He’d better be. He’s the holdout.”
Lillian took a step away from him. “Peter—you need to cut him some slack. His mother died in May, so if he is there tomorrow, say something nice and go easy on him. By the way, Jay Martin’s son just went off to Princeton, so remember to congratulate him. Are you catering lunch?”
Peter said nothing. This was like pulling teeth.
“If you are, remind Wendy that he’s allergic to shellfish and that Barry Jones has an intolerance for dairy. Eat so they eat. You know they spend more on a full stomach. We’ll have a light dinner—I’ll get cold cuts from Manny’s. I’ll see what Sunny has prepared and I’ll adjust the menu.” Lillian could alter meals; that wasn’t cooking. “Oh, and don’t make their drinks too strong, so they can sign the contract.”
Peter ran his hand through his hair, betraying his nervousness.
What was he worried about? They’d done this dozens of times before. Lillian prepped Peter on personal details and reminders before a meeting, a dinner, a party. He had never asked her to do it—it was just what she did.
What would happen if she stopped?
Lillian imagined the neighborhood’s social hierarchy melting like a sandcastle at high tide. That would leave her with a shapeless mess—or the job of rebuilding.
The next morning, with a good night’s sleep behind her, Lillian tried to embrace the status quo. Life always looked brighter in the light of day. She eyed Peter in his custom-tailored blue suit, smoothed his collar, and kissed his cheek, being careful not to leave a lipstick smear.
“For luck.”
He smiled, planted a kiss on her forehead, and departed. Peter’s affection was as inconsistent as his golf swing. If only it received half as much time and attention.
With Peter gone and the girls already in school, Lillian was all alone. Face it, she mused, she was alone even when Peter was there. She poured a quiet cup of coffee and drank it black, staring out the kitchen window, across the driveway, into the morning gray of her neighbor’s kitchen. She didn’t know Faye well, only that she was in her early fifties, was married to a cardiologist, and puttered around her kitchen wearing a robe each morning, whereas Lillian dressed before heading downstairs every day.
Faye’s robe did not reveal whether she wore flannel or lace beneath, just as the faraway cup she raised to her lips did not reveal its contents. Coffee with cream, milk, sugar, saccharin? Tea with lemon? Honey? Wine? Something more potent?
Unintentionally, her mysterious neighbor revealed a truth about Lillian. Lillian knew only part of her own story as well.
She’d married a nice Jewish boy, moved to the best neighborhood, and lived in one of the nicest homes. She had the most modern appliances, a maid three days a week, two healthy, beautiful daughters, and at last count, a secret stash of almost seven hundred dollars, which she didn’t need, in a Maxwell House tin hidden in the back of her closet. Her life was everything she’d ever wanted. More, even.
Why was it, then, that Lillian felt like she was suffocating?
Chapter 11
RUTH
Before dawn, Ruth sat up in bed, but Asher didn’t budge, not even a bit. She gazed at his sweet, sleeping face. A soft whistle came from his nose, and his dark, loose curls fell on his forehead. When his eyelids fluttered, Ruth decided his lashes were longer and darker than any gentleman’s had a right to be. She found these noises and unconscious movements endearing—alluring even. She kissed his forehead like a mother might kiss a sleeping baby—the way she’d seen her manly brothers kiss their sons, besotted.
Love in all its iterations sparked behaviors and decisions some would call erratic, out of character, foolish. Ruth had moved away from her home, her family, and her friends because she wanted this love—this marriage. Maybe she’d have to wait a little while before she could be honest with everyone about her career, but that would happen soon.