“Got it.” Peter saluted like a Boy Scout and grinned, also quite like a Boy Scout—resolute, yet coy. “Wish me luck.” He kissed her forehead.
“Luck,” Lillian said.
Peter walked out the kitchen door to his last golf-game-plus-business-meeting of the season. Earlier, he’d promised to sink a hole in one for his company, and then he’d laughed. His own best audience, Peter had been trying to sink that particular “hole in one” for Diamond Textiles since July. It would be a big account, a generous addition to the family’s income. Constance, Susan, and Peppermint. Lillian was doing her part.
You’re welcome.
Lillian set a large cup on a saucer, lifted the coffeepot, then filled her cup to the rim. Saturday morning coffee on her own was indeed “good to the last drop.”
There was a time, maybe ten years earlier, maybe less, when a Saturday without Peter at home—playing with the girls or ignoring them to wash the car or read the paper—would send Lillian into nostalgic riffs, reminiscences, and longing for more time together. Not today. Not after fifteen years of marriage.
Today she sipped her coffee as steam rose from the cup, reveling in these quiet moments to herself and wondering if she should go to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. She ought to tolerate Peter’s time away, not look forward to it—what was wrong with her?
Reality had upended her youthful imaginings, and the disparity between them flashed in Lillian’s mind like déjà vu. That was it.
Oh, come on, she chided herself. She loved Peter and still found him attractive （and judging by some of the men around the neighborhood, with their balding heads and double chins, that likely wasn’t true for all wives）。 She relied on Peter for their beautiful house, full icebox, and comfortable life, and to provide for their girls. Her husband delivered without complaint. But.
Was Peter the one responsible for hemming in Lillian’s ideas for a more fulfilling life? Hardly. Why, he hadn’t a clue what those ideas were. He knew she was up in the middle of the night, and he worried about her mental health. Was that genuine concern or just concern about how things would look to the outside world if she were to become unstable, like her mother?
Tap, tap, tap. Her fingernails worked against the wood of the table as if they were trying to give her a Morse code message. What was really troubling her?
Ruth’s visit crept into her thoughts. Something still bothered her about that. Ruth had accused Carrie’s husband, a respected vice-principal, of terrible things. But surely this wasn’t her problem. Lillian would keep Ruth’s problems to herself.
But she’d promised herself she would stop avoiding difficult truths, so that younger housewives might feel they could challenge the status quo too. So that her children would have choices as they grew up.
What was stopping her from keeping that promise now?
Peter and Lillian had dinner out, just the two of them. It had surprised Lillian when Peter had requested that she book this specific restaurant yesterday. It was undoubtedly romantic. There were candles at the table, and a piano player who was skilled at ballads, but didn’t play so loudly it kept them from enjoying each other’s company. Lillian chalked Peter’s good mood up to the fact that he had finally scored that hole in one with Philip Tanner. Maybe he did appreciate her help.
So she was allowing herself to enjoy tonight more than she thought she would.
Perhaps she spent too much time focusing on what was wrong with her life—and not enough on what was right. Like the way Peter was smiling at her from across the table. The cute way he cut little bits of his steak and swirled them in the sauce like he was rounding up fall leaves.
They arrived home before eleven. Lillian checked on the girls, awake but in bed. By the time she slipped into their bedroom, Peter was already under the covers. She eyed him reading his book and had to admit, she did find him sexy.
Lillian flipped the door hook into the latch. Peter looked up from his novel, then returned to it.
She meandered around the bedroom. Earrings, necklace, and rings each returned to their own compartments in the oversize mahogany jewelry box. It was a bridal shower gift from Peter’s grandparents. That, and the traditional and old-fashioned cedar hope chest. Both were monogrammed.
She set her shoes in the box in the closet and then placed the box back on top of the shelf along with her clutch. When Lillian picked up her hairbrush, she noticed the photo of her parents that she’d discovered in the album and propped it up on her vanity.
She took one more look at the family, caught at that happy moment on the beach. She had memorized the details, but the image itself captivated her. The tilt of her mother’s head, the smile on her father’s face. The way they each rested a hand on her shoulder. Lillian could have stared at their faces all night, but she turned away when she felt Peter’s eyes on her.
On the bed, he was waiting for a signal. The signal.
The bedroom etiquette lesson flashed in Lillian’s mind. The subtle and not-so-subtle things she would suggest to the girls. Keeping a husband happy in the bedroom could offer a little leverage, she’d say.
Peter expected romance tonight but would not demand it. He wasn’t always tuned in or attentive, but he was always a gentleman. She was grateful for that—it showed he respected her.
She stood at the foot of the bed, the soft, semisheer nightdress and robe draped over her arm.
In a grand, unmistakable gesture, Lillian laid the robe on the folded-down bedspread. She carried only the negligee toward the bathroom and did not lock the door.
Once back in the bedroom, she left the lights on and welcomed Peter to her side of the bed.
The next morning, Lillian brewed coffee and defrosted some of Sunny’s kamish bread. Peter sauntered into the kitchen and kissed her on the lips. The girls were still asleep, so she kissed him back and lingered. They had been friends all these years. Peter had been a true friend, moving her mother into a better institution, never complaining about paying for her care. Never throwing Lillian’s family history of mental illness in her face. Not even the other night, when he mentioned the psychiatrist. He only seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare.
“I thought I’d rake the leaves first thing,” Peter said when they broke from the kiss. They had hired a gardener, but this chore was one Peter had always liked to handle himself. He seemed to derive a mysterious pleasure from working on the fall cleanup.
Lillian added cream and two sugars to his cup. “I’d like to visit my mother?” She posed it as a question, which was not how she meant it.
Peter blew into his cup to cool the coffee. “When?”
“Today.”
He sipped and stared at Lillian, a look of concern in his eyes. “Why today, Lil?”
She didn’t expect her own answer. “Peter, I miss my mother.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
Surely she had. She tried to remember, but nothing came to mind. So Peter was right. Lillian gulped, ashamed of her omission. But she did miss her mother now—and she wanted to ask her about the past. Whether it was because of the beach photo, or Maryanne, or her restlessness, Lillian didn’t know.
“I didn’t realize I missed her. I found a new photo from when we were all together; it had been stuck behind another in the album. Happy times at the beach. I thought she might want to see it. She doesn’t have much to look forward to. It might bring back good memories.”