12

We are still late for our reservation even though Mia moved it back. I knew we would be. It’s Friday night, and tourists like us have arrived at the lake. We are stuck in traffic. I take a deep breath. There is nothing I can do but try to relax. I’ve called the restaurant, and they will hold our table. It’s a special table, for a special night. I’m thankful for their understanding and will tip the host. I hope Mia brought cash.

“Let’s call Claudia and check on the boys,” I say. I know Mia is tense beside me, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She probably is worried I am upset with her for our late arrival at the restaurant, but I will show her I’m fine. Calling the boys is a peace offering. I am a normal, loving husband and father.

“They aren’t home. They’re getting pizza,” she says.

“Well, Claudia can answer her cell phone at a pizza joint, can’t she?” I ask. Logical question, I think.

“Let’s not bother them during dinner,” Mia says. That’s odd. She is the person who has called Claudia at least four times since we left home this morning. “I mean, they’re getting pizza at the movies. There’s a new animated superhero movie out today. I told her to take them. I planned ahead and bought tickets for them online.”

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Is my wife lying to me? I wonder. This does not make sense, not at all. I refuse to believe that is the case. I know my wife. My wife loves me, and logically, I know I should trust her as much as she should trust me. We have two sons and a life together. She thought ahead and bought them all tickets to the movie. That is thoughtful, she is kind. I need to relax.

Love is such a complicated thing to us humans. We overanalyze, we fret, we try to understand it. It’s easier to understand if you think of us all as animals, with needs and desires. That’s what we are, all of us. Here, consider this: my wife loves me almost as much as Gretchen does. Gretchen benefits from the carefree Paul, the Paul without obligations. Mia, well, she gets a slightly less shiny version of the Paul who Gretchen sees, the version of me that Gretchen loves. Mia had that once, at the beginning of our relationship, but now she has two kids and, well, a history with me. The good and the bad. Hopefully, she still remembers the early, shiny years.

Ah, Gretchen. She’s the one I’ve been fighting the urge to call since we left home this morning. She’s the one who has called me a few times since we left. Sweet girl. I know she misses me. She tells me it’s our six-month anniversary this weekend. But it isn’t appropriate for me to talk to her on this day. I have rules. I don’t want you to think less of me because of Gretchen’s existence, so please don’t. Our relationship doesn’t harm anyone; it simply brings more joy to the world as a whole.

We are together almost every day now, and the fact I haven’t touched her or talked to her today stings. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t above Mia in my mind, she’s distinct. Gretchen is fun, while Mia is family. Gretchen is youth and fucking—pardon, great sex. Mia is family dinners and strawberry patches and Scrabble. Am I explaining things well enough for you? They don’t have anything to do with each other, and they’ll never meet. I am the only overlap, the circle in the middle of the Venn diagram that depicts Gretchen’s circle on one side, Mia’s on the other. Their lives will never converge; they never will meet even though Gretchen lives in the next suburb over, a five-minute drive away. That is the way my world works. It is neat and orderly. Defined. I’m in control.

Nevertheless, Gretchen is angry that I’m away this weekend and have told her we will not speak on the phone. I am surprised she has called me since she knows the rules. She understands the way things are. I told her going in that I love my wife, and that I’d never leave her, although between you and me, there are no real absolutes in life, are there? Gretchen and I have something special, but not as special as what I have with Mia. I know this is confusing to you perhaps, but my relationship with my mistress doesn’t have anything to do with my relationship with my wife. They are wholly separate, but both valued. Tonight’s not the night for me to be thinking about Gretchen, but my mind is busy for some reason.

Yesterday, we ate lunch in bed, and Gretchen wore a navy silk nightgown that hugged her thin frame, accentuating her generous breasts. She’s a gorgeous brunette, in her late twenties, who works at a lingerie store at the mall called I See London. We met six months ago, when I went to the mall to kill time, maybe buy a gift for Mia. I had suddenly found myself with too much time on my hands during the day, and going shopping seemed as good a pursuit as any. I told myself if I saw anyone I would explain it was client research for a new account. I mean, only women go to malls in the daytime, everyone knows that. But I had a business reason.

I wandered into the store bursting with silk finery in all shades of the rainbow. As soon as I saw Gretchen, I felt that familiar attraction—the buzz, the electricity—and I knew she and I were meant to be. I started by asking her to help me pick a lingerie set. We moved on to a discussion of the quality of the silk—given my extensive travels to Asia, I wanted only the finest and I knew how to spot it, I told her.

Her eyes glistened the moment I mentioned travel, and I knew she was nibbling the bait.

“Let me take you to the high-end lingerie area,” Gretchen said, turning and tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder.

“I’ll follow you anywhere, my dear,” I said, adding my signature smile and wink.

It’s as if no one else was in the store, no one else was in the entire mall. Gretchen and I flirted for at least an hour, as she held up options for me to consider, as our fingertips lightly brushed over the silk goodies, as we talked about our shared love of jazz music (yes!), our shared dream of moving to the beach (why not?) and spending a New Year’s Eve in Paris (let’s do it). She was captivating, young, enthusiastic, and the attraction was intense, instant. I wasn’t looking, promise. I may have left my wedding ring in the car, but that was just an accident.

“So who is the lucky lady who will be wearing this?” she asked as she finished wrapping my purchase in a thick white gift paper, tying it with a red silk bow. She handed the package to me. Her fingers were blissfully unadorned, I had noticed early on.

I smiled then, waiting a beat. “I hope you like it. It’s for you.”

Her lovely heart-shaped face flushed with color as I handed the gift to her. “I couldn’t.”

“You can. I insist. I’m sure it will look wonderful on you.” I checked my watch. “I have to run. Meeting at work. It’s been nice talking to you, Gretchen.”

I turned to leave, wondering if my hook had set. I’d reached the door of the retail boutique and was about to enter the mall when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Paul, wait. Can I see you again?” Gretchen asked. Her flush deepened. “I really enjoyed talking to you, too.”

I pulled a business card out of my wallet, a new card, with my cell phone a substitute for where my work number had been. But for that minor distinction it was an exact copy of my actual Thompson Payne card, complete with my title, Director of Account Services. Women love Mad Men. “Call me. I’ve got to run.”

It’s hard to walk away when the currents of attraction are so strong, but that’s what I did that afternoon, fortunately. It makes the eventual first kiss that much more intense, trust me. I know about these things. As I left the store I saw Doris Boone standing next to a potted plant in the mall. She was staring at me like I’d committed a crime. “It isn’t illegal to shop during the day in a mall, is it, Doris?” I felt like saying. Instead I gave her a weak wave and hurried out to the parking lot. Doris saw nothing, I told myself then. I was only doing research.

Gretchen smells of strong perfume whenever she comes home from working at I See London. She says French perfume is pumped through the air vents, a colorless scented gas. The smell is awful and makes me sneeze, like trying to sit on my outdoor porch in Lakeside. She tries to shower before we meet, before I arrive at her door, but sometimes she hasn’t had time and I can never wait. I don’t have a choice. Her skin is flawless, her lips full and pink. Just thinking about her now I feel myself stirring.

But I need to focus on my wife. Just tonight, moments earlier, Mia told a stranger that I don’t have a high emotional intelligence, which is ridiculous, and now she’s lying to me about my children.

“What’s the name of the movie, Mia?” I ask. We’re at another stoplight. The red glow fills the car as I turn to face her. She looks frightened, or maybe it’s just the crimson glow.

“Super Dog,” she says. “It’s new. The boys are super excited. We can call them tomorrow morning. They’ll be in bed before our dinner is finished, no doubt.”

“Let’s call them now. Maybe the movie hasn’t started yet.”

If I expected an argument, I’d have been mistaken. “Sure,” she says. “Call from your phone so it will go over Bluetooth. We can both talk that way.”

I pull out my phone and push Claudia’s number. The light turns green as the phone continues to ring and then goes to her voice mail. “This is Claudia. Leave a message.” Her voice-mail recording sounds as devoid of energy as the actual person. Definitely a druggie.

“Claudia, Paul Strom, and Mia, calling to say goodnight to the boys. If you aren’t at the movies, please give us a call back. Hope all is well. Thanks,” I say into the air. I never did put the money on the credit card. She must be paying for the popcorn and pizza out of her own account. Fortunately, Mia already took care of the tickets. If that is where they are, I remind myself. But really, where else would they be? My wife doesn’t lie to me. I relax my shoulders and put a smile on my face.

“Oh, well, I guess you were right,” I say. I glance in her direction.

Mia nods next to me. I turn on the blinker and we ease into the parking lot of the restaurant. We are here.

“This looks nice, Paul,” she says as we stop in front of the valet. Not many restaurants at the lake have valet parking. I’m glad she is impressed, as am I. The young man opens Mia’s door and I watch his face as he checks her out. Not bad, his face registers.

“Welcome to Ciao Bella,” says a second boy who is opening my door.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the ticket from him and hurrying to my wife’s side. I slide my arm around Mia’s waist and look down at my wife, feel her in my grip. She’s so sweet and kind. Why does my mind imagine her doing anything devious? We walk up the steps of the restaurant and into a sanctuary of dim lighting, attentive service and dark paneling. I’m instantly pleased with my selection, my fine taste.

“This is lovely, Paul,” Mia says. A hostess escorts us to the promised window table, a corner table with views of the lake. I need to slip this young lady some money. All I have left in my wallet is a ten-dollar bill. I hope that suffices. As I hand it to her, she nods and smiles. Suddenly, I wonder if my wife has brought her credit card. I watch as she hangs her purse on the back of her chair, and I feel relieved.

“Welcome,” says a man who appears to be about my age and also appears to be our waiter. He has white hair and frosty blue eyes and a complexion almost as pale as the white linen tablecloth. He wears a black tuxedo jacket, black pants. Quite formal. I like it. “I understand this is a special evening. May I ask: anniversary, birthday?”

“No, just the best day ever,” I say. Mia laughs with me. I like that sound.

“Well, that calls for some champagne, I’d say,” the waiter says.

I look at Mia. It is polite to allow your date to answer.

“Sure, that sounds good,” she says. “Is that okay with you, Paul, or would you like a cocktail?”

My wife also is so polite, so lovely.

“I’d love to drink some champagne with you, honey,” I say.

“Wonderful,” the waiter says and scurries away.

We both stare out the window. I notice a lighthouse perched on the rocks at the end of my line of sight, its bright spotlight warning boaters of the dangers there. As the spotlight turns, it leaves a darker blackness in its wake.