One

Best Day

I’ve always told my therapy patients that endings are inevitable; it’s best to understand feelings and move on without looking back. Having survived my share of losses and goodbyes, I knew that as soon as one door closed, another opened.

These were heavy thoughts for a Tuesday at 8 a.m., but Rachel was starting a new elementary school. Transitions were on my mind.

I headed down the hallway, wood floors creaking, causing my heart to do a little butterfly flip. It had only been a couple of weeks, and I still hadn’t adjusted to all the sounds and scents. Our new house was full of them—and who knew what else. Well, what did I expect; the place was built before women had the right to vote.

Rachel’s room looked like a disaster relief site, with cartons and cast-off clothing at every turn. She sat on the bed, staring into her laptop: a photo of several girls at a back-to-school picnic. I glanced at her leggings and T-shirt; they were identical to those in the picture. My little Margaret Mead, conducting field research on the first day of her new school.

“Come on, Rach. Let’s get moving.”

We got into the car and made our way over, taking the shortcut. It was muddy, littered with leaves and twigs. Driving to a nearby cul-de-sac and cutting through the back meant we didn’t have to deal with the scene in the parking lot. I’d heard it took forever to get out of there, and I had to get to work.

We were almost at the path to the entrance. Several girls who looked to be about Rachel’s age pushed past—why were fifth graders wearing makeup and pointy boots? And why was every car in the traffic line a gigantic SUV? My daughter was poker-faced, staring straight ahead and gripping her phone. I felt a stab of guilt; she’d been through a lot already without having to switch schools.

Thinking about all of the recent changes brought me back to a dark time only six months earlier. Once-buried details resurfaced in my mind: clear blue skies, the rectangular building at the edge of the floral district, a labyrinth of hallways leading to the Justice’s chambers. The three of us had stood, bodies knitted into a tight semi-circle.

Now I closed my eyes, hoping to will the sadness and anger away. But it was too late; memories of that terrible scene at the altar flooded in.

Despite the presence of scores of friends and relatives, their folding chairs running the length of the room, it was my late Great Aunt Pearl’s voice I’d heard over and over that morning, her well wishes uttered over the phone, from her bedside at the retirement community in Boca: “I hope you have the best day, my dear girl.” She was almost 94—too old to make the trip.

Aunt Pearl’s words and the image of doors closing had been etched in my brain, forming an unexpected pairing, sort of like Colin and me. I glanced across at him, thrilled by his smile.

Colin and I were getting married! My chest prickled with excitement at the thought that my daughter and I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Instinctively I reached over to squeeze her shoulder. At ten years old, she was proud of her first salon blowout. Her brown hair and silky white dress was an identical match to my dark chignon and plain sheath. The basket of petals captivated Rachel; with every toss, each bloodred flutter, her face split into a wide grin.

Colin grabbed my hand. His chocolate-colored eyes stared straight into my soul. He was smart, handsome, and successful, a partner at his law firm. A bookish psychologist and single mom, I could hardly believe I’d met someone who cared for me and was good to my daughter.

The Justice was speaking about blending—how Colin, Rachel, and I were now one—I bathed in the warmth of her words, part of a family for the first time since my parents’ fatal car accident my senior year of high school. I’d been mostly alone after that, until Rachel came along.

Glancing over the sea of dark suits and deep green, navy, and red dresses, I took it all in: The beautiful ceremony, my daughter and I surrounded by love. Everything had happened quickly: Colin and I meeting eighteen months ago and moving in together last spring as we finalized the details of the wedding. It was almost too good to be true. I fought off shivers of doubt. How well can you ever really know another person? If things didn’t work out, would Rachel be scarred for life? Would I? I glanced back at Colin’s parents, seated in the front row and radiating approval. Behind them were friends and colleagues, along with families from Rachel’s school; nods and smiles in every direction.

The Justice continued: “If there is anyone who knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him or her speak now.”

There was no sound, except for a communal swish of air, heads turning until everyone was satisfied that there were no objections.

“Victoria,” the Justice was beaming in my direction. “Would you like to read the vows you have written?” I nodded and gripped Colin’s hand as I recited the words I’d composed and memorized: “You came into our lives after we’d been alone for so long. You made everything fun and helped me to believe in happy endings.” Rachel was giggling, pleased that the service we’d rehearsed over the past few days was finally happening. I cupped her under the chin and shifted back to Colin: “You treated my beautiful daughter as if she were your own child.”

There were sniffles and cooings from behind me. “I love you . . . .” The room was still. Then, an explosion of activity erupted as everyone was suddenly on their cell phones, grasping and hissing, metal chair legs pushed backward by the jerking of bodies and shifting of feet. It was the unexpected screeching of the furniture that caused me to turn toward the crowd.

Julie, my closest friend since grad school, caught my eye and waved frantically from the first row. Though technically a bridesmaid, we agreed she should sit it out with her young daughter and newborn, who’d been sleeping in a portable car seat atop one of the folding chairs. The seat backs were joined by winding strands of leaves that had been woven especially for the occasion to symbolize the bonds of eternity.

My body tensed. Usually the bride didn’t have to compete with swooshes and pings. I was about to telegraph a withering glance, shush the audience. Whatever it was could wait. But Julie’s look stopped me. In the seconds that followed, she placed her husband’s hand on the baby carrier and stood up, walking toward me. All I could think was that I finally understood what was meant by the phrase “ashen complexion.” Hal, her husband, was trying hard not to look my way.

My aunt’s “best day” comment ran through my mind as Julie stepped quickly. I shrugged at Colin and squeezed Rachel’s hand, wondering what to do.

But it wasn’t up to me. There was another explosion of whispering, gasping, and shifting, along with a chorus of pinging. My panic rose. Something really bad must be going on, like a terrorist attack or other international crisis.

“Excuse us,” Julie said as she began dragging me toward the private room at the side of the chambers. I couldn’t help noticing how pretty the contrast was between her auburn hair and teal blue shift.

I hissed, “What on earth?”

She shut the door, encasing us in a small, paneled room that held only two winged chairs upholstered in a faded red. There was no air. But I hardly noticed because so much was going on at once: Colin began pounding on the door, Rachel was calling from the hallway, and Julie was shoving her iPhone at me.

There was pity all over her face.

“Vic, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was shaking.

“What’s going on?” Whatever made her drag me out of my own nuptials had to be bad. I wanted to feel the reassuring grip of my daughter’s hand and steel myself against my fiancé’s shoulders. “Let’s get Colin and we’ll figure it out together,” I said, moving toward the locked door. But Julie grabbed my arm: “NO!”

I heard his voice: “Vic, open the door.” His tone was highpitched, almost a whine.

“Mom?”

Rachel sounded upset. I tried to wrench myself away from Julie, but she pulled me back and pushed her phone at me. “You need to look at this.”

The video was grainy and poorly filmed. A beautiful and naked blond woman was on all fours, grunting with pleasure. Her long, yellow hair swayed as she moved back and forth, groaning.

Her moan became insistent as she threw back her head: “Yes. Yes, baby. Yes.”

What did this X-rated display have to do with me? Tasteless though it was, I couldn’t avert my eyes. Time slowed as Colin pounded on the door and Rachel begged me to let her in. My mind fought to make sense of why a blond with exposed butt cheeks had interrupted my wedding.

“Baby, more. More.” She turned to the camera briefly, lifting a brow and flicking her hair, then moved slightly to reveal the chest and arms of the man below. His back arched in pleasure as he groaned.

“Smile for the camera baby,” she urged him.

“Huh?” The man’s voice was sleepy, confused. He slowly propped himself up on one elbow, revealing first his jawline, then cheekbones, until finally the chocolaty-brown eyes came into view.

I fell against one of the red chairs as the small screen went dark. There was no mistaking what I’d seen.

“Victoria!” Colin’s pounding was like a jackhammer.

Julie was crying and telling me how sorry she was. For the next several moments as my heart raced and chest closed, I didn’t know what to believe. “Maybe it’s an old video?” I whispered.

Julie shook her head. “There’s been a barrage of stuff throughout the ceremony: this video, Facebook posts, tweets.” As Colin pounded for me to let him in, Julie showed me her phone. It was open to Instachat, a popular social media app, to an account named Nymphette, which appeared to belong to the same willowy blond in the video. I grabbed one of the chairs to steady myself. In a post that was dated yesterday, the two of them stood arm-in-arm, my fiancé dressed in a shirt we’d picked out only a couple of weeks before. My insides felt like they were collapsing.

Tears running down my face, I steeled myself as Julie scrolled through her phone until she found a Facebook post taken at a demonstration in Paris the previous week. It had been all over the news, and there was no mistaking the scene: Americans chanting in front of the Eiffel Tower. Only this time, it was Colin and the blond front and center. As Rachel called for me again, I did a rapid calculation: Colin had been in Paris on business and had dismissed my questions about Americans protesting.

I sputtered, “What the hell?”

“I don’t know much. The woman in that, uh, sex video, has been posting stuff about her and Colin all over Instachat, Facebook, and YouTube.

“Who is she?”

Julie put her arm around me and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Should we sit down?” I managed to shake my head.

“Who?” I repeated in a toneless voice.

“I’m not sure. Apparently Lynetta Larkin is her name. I don’t know much, but I did a fast look at ‘friends’ in common, and she was in the same sorority as Colin’s cousin. They all went to college together. All I know is this Lynetta person’s been posting and tweeting throughout your entire ceremony. My sister-in-law called Hal during the Justice’s remarks to try to tell us. He ignored the call, but she wouldn’t stop ringing and texting until he looked at his phone.” Julie paused for breath. “I love you, Vic. I’m so, so sorry.”

I imagined jumping out a window and running away with Rachel. Obviously I would have to take some action, though I didn’t think I could find the energy to walk the two steps toward the door. I used the back of the chair to regain my balance—and remaining shreds of dignity.

I saw myself reflected in Julie’s eyes, a woman about to face the guillotine. “What are you going to do?”

My thoughts were spinning. I had to keep it together for my daughter. “Well, now I am going to totally fake it and comfort Rachel. When I say the word, though, I want you to take her back to the chambers, okay? First, tell the guests we’re sorry for the delay and we’ll be back out shortly. Please don’t say anything more.” I crossed my arms, fighting the impulse to open the door so I could lunge at my fiancé and put my hands around his neck. “I guess I’ll also have to listen to what Colin has to say.”

I braced myself and reached for the doorknob. “Coming now,” I said, then realized that was an unfortunate choice of words. The worse things got, the darker my humor. Pulling the door open, I zeroed in on Rachel.

“What took so long?” she demanded.

“Sorry, honey. Aunt Julie needed me.” I stared into my daughter’s eyes, averting Colin’s gaze as he stood, arms crossed. I’d heard it said that the line between love and hate was thin. Right now there was no line and no love where Colin was concerned.

“Listen, sweetie,” I said to Rachel, doing my best to conceal the pain. “You and I are going to talk a little later. I’m sorry I can’t go into details this second, but I want you to stay with Aunt Julie for a couple of minutes.”

“But—” Rachel was still clutching the basket of rose petals. Her eyes were wide.

“Everything is fine.” I forced myself to lie as my fury and shame rose. I’d have to face the seventy-five nearest and dearest who’d just watched my fiancé in his small-screen debut alongside the blond with the perfect butt. My humiliation was complete. I hoped Rachel couldn’t tell how upset I was. “Listen, sweetie. It’s okay. When I come out to talk to everyone, promise me that if I say anything that seems strange, you’ll keep your questions to yourself until we can speak privately, all right?”

She nodded. “Are we still going on vacation?”

I quashed the impulse to tell her that Colin was a selfish, immoral dirtbag, and I was seconds away from canceling our planned island retreat. “Probably. I’ll be out soon, okay? Please go with Aunt Julie, and remember what I said.”

Rachel looked like a life-size balloon that was slowly deflating. Her arms were limp and she’d hung her head in a frown. Julie and I exchanged a glance.

“Rach, want to give me a hand feeding baby Maeve? If she’s awake, I could use a helper!”

Thank you, Julie. I heart you. I watched them step away as Colin entered the small room. I heard Julie asking the audience to quiet down.

I turned the knob and heard a click. Colin and I were alone.

“Vic,” he began, hand on hip, speaking sharply, sounding almost out of patience. The nerve. I stared into the familiar brown eyes I’d loved so much.

“It’s not what you think.”

How did he know what I was thinking? “What is it then?”

“She, that woman . . . most of that stuff was taken years ago. I can’t believe she’d do something like this, it’s just so aggressive and crass.”

I fought back tears, not knowing whether to call him on the deflecting—blaming someone else for his participation in the wild romp—or pounce on the words he’d chosen, an admission he’d been cheating. I led with my heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘most’ of the pictures?”

“Victoria . . . .” He gazed into my eyes with a deep and penetrating look, one that used to melt me, but was now making my blood boil. Selfish jerk. He actually thought he could explain this away.

“It was only a couple of times. You have to believe me. She means nothing. I love you.”

“How long has this been going on?” I thought about the clues, things I’d wondered about. Once or twice over the past few weeks he’d canceled last minute, claiming he had to work late. And he’d taken forever to call from his trip to Paris; Orly Airport was so crowded, he’d said. The cab driver had a “no cell phone” rule. And the hotel messed up his reservation. I was worried that something wasn’t right, but didn’t want to be mistrustful. Yet often Colin had seemed attentive and reliable, taking us to his family’s place for every holiday, spending weekends with us, remembering my birthday and Valentine’s Day. And he was always so sweet to my little girl, teaching her how to play ball and do card tricks, reading to her. I really thought we were a solid couple. I could never face our friends or his parents again.

“You took that woman to Paris, didn’t you?”

I watched as his eyes flickered before he looked away. More tears fell as I realized that Julie had been right about how recent the cheating had been.

“I hope you two will be very happy together.” I pushed past him and reached for the door.

“Vic, wait.” He grabbed my arm. Our faces were inches apart. I felt like choking him with his silk bow tie.

“Can we please talk about this some more? I love you.”

“Right now we have a room full of people who are inconvenienced and confused after watching your YouTube performance. Your girlfriend got all your best angles.” I couldn’t help getting in one zinger.

I pushed his arm away and reached for the box of tissues someone had left on the corner table. “How could you? I loved you. And I let you into Rachel’s life. You know how cautious I am about having her get hurt. It’s bad enough that every time I close my eyes, I’ll be picturing your lady friend’s silky blond hair. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself knowing how much Rachel will be crushed. She thought you were her new dad.” I wiped my eyes with my fingertips.

“It doesn’t have to be like that—”

My fury boiled over. “Yes, it does. And I expect you to back me up when I make my announcement. It’s the least you can do.”

Colin nodded grimly and followed me into the room where our guests had been waiting. Everyone was instantly quiet when I took my place at the front, Colin slouching behind me. “Um, hello. We apologize. The wedding won’t be happening after all. Please respect our wishes for privacy.”

I walked back to the antechamber, noticing that the Justice gave me a sympathetic glance as she motioned for the clerk to shoo everyone out. Julie and Hal called the restaurant and told them to donate the party food to a local pantry. Then they texted the band and photographer, and took Rachel to my apartment while I figured out what I would say to her.

I slipped out the back and into the front seat of my car for a good, long cry. I was alone, no parents or siblings; a single mom by choice who’d protected myself against further pain by avoiding intimate relationships and using a sperm donor to have the baby I longed for. There were moments of terror about raising Rachel on my own, but desperation proved to be a great motivator, propelling me through the demands of childcare and my practice. I’d gotten by on my own, never expecting to find someone to build a future with.

Until Colin.

I still couldn’t believe he’d been sleeping with that woman all along. How could I have misjudged him, and what was I going to tell Rachel? At least my ten-year-old didn’t use social media, so she wouldn’t see the sex video. I was grateful for small miracles.

Back at my apartment, I sat Rachel down and told her I’d gotten “cold feet,” a phrase that made her smile, adding that Colin wasn’t the person I was meant to spend the next fifty years with. Rachel nodded as I spoke, her large gray eyes serious, “Okay, Mom. If you don’t want to marry him, that’s your decision.”

I knew there would be questions when I least expected them. Until then I’d have to get Rachel and myself through the breakup. I blocked Colin’s number, and took my daughter on a honeymoon cruise through the Caribbean.

She swam with dolphins and played shuffleboard, while I mulled things over. I was a good mother, my child was doing well, and my psychology practice was running smoothly. But if I was so competent, how had I missed the signs? I was a humiliated wreck; sobbing in our stateroom quietly every night after Rachel fell asleep.

A few days into the trip, I pulled myself together. Where I’d once resisted the typical suburban pilgrimage, I now welcomed change. With memories of Colin and echoes of my recent humiliation at every turn, my first order of business would be vacating the Central Park West apartment the three of us had shared, and in the process, evading the gossips and their judgments. I began to hatch a plan. Kids needed space and a yard. Since the school year was ending, the time was now; instead of squeezing into a tiny one bedroom, spiraling further into a state of shame and desperation, Rachel and I would search out great schools and a tight-knit community.

Julie texted me as we were stepping off the ship. The woman in the video had been Colin’s girlfriend during college and after. The details were scant, but Julie had heard he wouldn’t put a ring on it. As the ceremony began, the blond live-tweeted and messaged a few of her and Colin’s mutual friends and one or two of his family members. What started as a brief flurry of activity took on a life of its own, as guests huddled together over their phones. Within minutes, nearly everyone in the room had seen the lewd video.

Colin had downplayed their relationship. Well, he and Blondie deserved one another, just as Rachel and I were entitled to a baggage-free life. I’d been racking my brain, thinking about what our lives might look like if we started over, when a thought popped into my mind: What about Mayfair Close?

We scrolled through the town’s website, Mayfair Memes, which described a rosy, suburban haven. “The village is a peaceful and idyllic community north of the city. Its Victorian houses and leafy streets are home to families drawn by the award-winning schools and lush parks. Exalted former denizens include Felicia Wynn, first female astronaut, and Butch Calloway, famed journalist and sportscaster.”

The town had been on my radar for years. My parents and I spent several summers there when I was a child, visiting Great Aunt Pearl. After Mom and Dad were gone, she and I continued to vacation at the house until I went off to college and she retired to Boca and rented it out.

Aunt Pearl had been my rock, seeing me through high school and holidays, birthdays, and crises. Rachel and I visited her often in Florida, even stopping there after the blighted honeymoon. When the nurse called to say my great aunt had suffered a massive stroke, there was nothing more the doctors could do, all I knew was frantic terror and a disconnected feeling that left my body icy, limbs stiff, and heart crushed.

Except for Rachel, I was officially alone. Again.

My daughter remained stoic when I delivered the news, knitting her brow and concentrating on my face before asking, “Why do people have to die?”

I drew her close and said, “Aunt Pearl was very old, ninety-four. But I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” I added in response to the unspoken question in her eyes. Tears slid down Rachel’s cheeks as her sideways glance told me that she was scared. Me too. And several months after the memorial service, I was still raw. How could I help my child going forward when I was struggling?

Great Aunt Pearl had always been there, saving me in every way. In the end, she’d left me the old Mayfair place with instructions to sell if necessary. Even though I’d known that was her intent, and had notified the tenants and visited the property after the will was read, the timing of her bequest felt like a sign: My aunt was saving me yet again.

We had a house in a suburban town with excellent schools. While I was all in, my “fresh start” was Rachel’s worst nightmare. At the mention of relocating, she’d stamped her foot. “I am not moving to some dumb house and going to a school where I won’t know anyone. No!” She stared down, her hands balled into fists.

“I understand, Rach. But I really think you’ll like it. You’ll have your own room, not a dining alcove like the one you grew up in. There’s cool outdoor stuff, and you’ll meet nice people.”

She’d turned her back on me and glowered at the wall. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but Aunt Pearl wanted us to have the house,” I said. “And the schools there are supposed to be great. Now that I’m not with Colin anymore, we have to find some place to live, and this is the best choice for us.”

Rachel began to cry. “You just talk on the phone with your friends. So what do you care if we move? I don’t want to go and leave my friends.” She wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “This sucks.” We sat in silence.

“I guess I have no choice,” she finally responded, brushing away the arm I tried to place around her shoulders, barely speaking to me for the week that followed. “At least we’ll have a huge backyard,” I said, my best shot at a peace offering.

Our new house sat at the end of a shady road in the part of Mayfair favored by bankers and big firm lawyers. Across town was an apartment complex where teachers, piano tuners, police officers and their families resided. There was a busy main drag with a post office, gas station, dry goods store, and sweet shop, and more modern homes too, clustered around strip malls with big box stores.

Rachel and I motored up a long hill, passing an apple orchard, and following a tree-lined path, finally reaching the large white Victorian with a wraparound porch. After we entered through the kitchen, she bypassed the back staircase and butler’s pantry in favor of the front parlor. “My room is up here, right?” Rachel asked, taking the steps two-by-two. As her mood lightened, I felt myself starting to relax.

We were standing in the doorway of her bedroom, scanning open spaces and a row of windows that overlooked a trio of rose bushes. “Wow, it’s bigger than our whole apartment,” she said, smiling for the first time that day. “Can I invite Zoe and Savannah to sleep over?”

She agreed to give Mayfair a chance and I promised to bring her back to the city to visit her friends. By mid-August we were out of the gate and up to our waists in cartons. It felt like I’d come full circle, relocating with my daughter to the home where I’d spent summers in my youth.

I remembered Mayfair as a sleepy town, quiet and serene. I was relying on distant impressions, watercolor memories formed years earlier.

A bell sounded, jolting me out of my reverie. Rachel and I were now at the doorway of Barnum Elementary, trapped in the rush of kids and backpacks. Surrounded by fresh faces, I saw hope: After Aunt Pearl’s death and that close call at the altar, we were finally on the other side of our difficulties.

Maybe it was naive. Last spring I would have said that live-tweeting during a wedding was the worst possible use of social media, and that the woman behind the stunt was the lowest form of bully.

But now, living here in Mayfair, I know better.