If You Only Knew
Page 58
I go out to my car, and Kathleen follows. “Hey. We should have lunch or coffee sometime,” she says.
“That’d be great.” I smile, and for the first time tonight, it feels a little genuine.
“Everything okay, Rachel?” she asks.
I pause. It would be awfully nice to unload on someone other than Jenny. But Kathleen and I don’t know each other that well. “Yeah. Thanks, though.”
“You bet.” She sighs. “Well. Back to the great works of literature.” She rolls her eyes and goes back into Elle’s.
I get into the car and head for home. Time to bake the cupcakes and show the world who I am.
* * *
The next day, Adam surprises me by showing up at the girls’ play. A stir goes through the assembled parents and grandparents... Sexism still reigns supreme at these types of events, and most of the parents here are mothers, with the exception of Gil Baines, who’s a firefighter and has a flexible schedule, and Maury Benitz, who’s running for mayor again this fall and is here to remind people how wonderful he is.
Adam has never come to a nursery-school event before, unless it’s after-hours, like the art show. But today, at ten-eleven in the morning, here he is.
“Oh, my God, you’re so lucky,” Claudia murmurs. “Adam! Hey! How are you?”
“Just here to see my little princesses,” he says easily, sliding an arm around me. “And my queen, of course.”
“You two are sickening.” She smiles and looks at the stage.
“This is a surprise,” I murmur, not quite looking at him.
“I want to do better,” he whispers, kissing my neck. My skin either crawls or breaks out in gooseflesh. Or both. Miss Cathy, the girls’ teacher, gives us a wave. Look at the Carvers! Such a great couple!
For the next half hour, we watch our daughters, who are each daisies, wriggle up from a brown blanket, demonstrating the growth cycle. They sing a song about sunshine and raindrops, and I feel my eyes watering, as they so often do at these kinds of things. The children are all so beautiful and innocent. Especially mine. I may be biased.
They deserve a happy family. I grew up in the safe, warm embrace of just that until the day my father died. My girls deserve that, too.
Adam hands me his handkerchief. He still carries one, every day. I should know. I wash and iron them. I wonder if he’s ever had to give Emmanuelle one. Or why. I can’t bring myself to use it. Picture her falling down the escalator again.
Except women like Emmanuelle don’t fall. Even if some spurned wife pushes them, they somehow make things work in their favor.
The girls are so happy to see their father after the play. They wrap their sweet arms around him and ask if he could hear them, and if he wants to meet Tyrion or Jennasys, their friends, then drag him to visit the bathroom, which is one of the highlights of nursery school, since the toilets are tiny.
“You’re so lucky,” Miss Cathy says. “What a wonderful guy.”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Not only is he gorgeous, he’s here,” Claudia murmurs. “If he’s good in bed, I may have to kill you.”
“It’s so nice that your husband came, dear,” says an older woman, a grandmother, judging from the fervor with which she shoved her way to the front to film the entire performance. “In my day, husbands never did things like that.”
It’s time to go; one of the frustrations about these special school events, of which there are at least three a month, is that they warrant early dismissal. No Me Time today. Good thing we pay thousands of dollars for the girls to come here.
No one mentions my cupcakes. I was up till three last night, finishing them, taking care to sterilize the counters, the muffin tins, the bowls, the mixer, the spatulas, so Aria Temkowsi wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, so Cash Boreas wouldn’t get a rash. I frosted them in a swirl using my special Williams-Sonoma set, and they’re beautiful, these damn cupcakes.
But all anyone can do is make cow eyes at Adam in a rush of good-daddy hormones.
“I have to run,” he says as we go into the parking lot. “Girls, you were so wonderful!”
“Who was best, Daddy?” Rose asks. This is something she’s picked up recently. Competition. I wonder if she senses something from me, and my resentment toward Emmanuelle.
“You’re all my favorites,” he says. “You’re all the best.” He kneels down and kisses and hugs them.
He is a good father. I know that.
“See you at home,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me, gently, on the lips. “Love you.”
“See you later.” His eyes flash disappointment that I didn’t say the words back. Words I used to tell him four or ten times a day.
His patience isn’t going to last long. The thought hums like a tuning fork next to my ear.
I buckle the girls into their seats, and get into the driver’s seat. “Wait!” Grace bellows. “We didn’t get cupcakes! Where are cupcakes!”
“Nooo!” Rose wails.
“Mommy! No!” Charlotte adds.
There’s no way I’m going back inside that building to hear more about how wonderful Adam is. “You know what?” I tell them. “We’re getting ice cream instead! Who wants ice cream? I know I do! And guess what else? You can get whatever you want on top!”
This stuns them into silence. “Really?” Grace asks.
“Yes. Whatever you want. Two things, even!”
“That’d be great.” I smile, and for the first time tonight, it feels a little genuine.
“Everything okay, Rachel?” she asks.
I pause. It would be awfully nice to unload on someone other than Jenny. But Kathleen and I don’t know each other that well. “Yeah. Thanks, though.”
“You bet.” She sighs. “Well. Back to the great works of literature.” She rolls her eyes and goes back into Elle’s.
I get into the car and head for home. Time to bake the cupcakes and show the world who I am.
* * *
The next day, Adam surprises me by showing up at the girls’ play. A stir goes through the assembled parents and grandparents... Sexism still reigns supreme at these types of events, and most of the parents here are mothers, with the exception of Gil Baines, who’s a firefighter and has a flexible schedule, and Maury Benitz, who’s running for mayor again this fall and is here to remind people how wonderful he is.
Adam has never come to a nursery-school event before, unless it’s after-hours, like the art show. But today, at ten-eleven in the morning, here he is.
“Oh, my God, you’re so lucky,” Claudia murmurs. “Adam! Hey! How are you?”
“Just here to see my little princesses,” he says easily, sliding an arm around me. “And my queen, of course.”
“You two are sickening.” She smiles and looks at the stage.
“This is a surprise,” I murmur, not quite looking at him.
“I want to do better,” he whispers, kissing my neck. My skin either crawls or breaks out in gooseflesh. Or both. Miss Cathy, the girls’ teacher, gives us a wave. Look at the Carvers! Such a great couple!
For the next half hour, we watch our daughters, who are each daisies, wriggle up from a brown blanket, demonstrating the growth cycle. They sing a song about sunshine and raindrops, and I feel my eyes watering, as they so often do at these kinds of things. The children are all so beautiful and innocent. Especially mine. I may be biased.
They deserve a happy family. I grew up in the safe, warm embrace of just that until the day my father died. My girls deserve that, too.
Adam hands me his handkerchief. He still carries one, every day. I should know. I wash and iron them. I wonder if he’s ever had to give Emmanuelle one. Or why. I can’t bring myself to use it. Picture her falling down the escalator again.
Except women like Emmanuelle don’t fall. Even if some spurned wife pushes them, they somehow make things work in their favor.
The girls are so happy to see their father after the play. They wrap their sweet arms around him and ask if he could hear them, and if he wants to meet Tyrion or Jennasys, their friends, then drag him to visit the bathroom, which is one of the highlights of nursery school, since the toilets are tiny.
“You’re so lucky,” Miss Cathy says. “What a wonderful guy.”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Not only is he gorgeous, he’s here,” Claudia murmurs. “If he’s good in bed, I may have to kill you.”
“It’s so nice that your husband came, dear,” says an older woman, a grandmother, judging from the fervor with which she shoved her way to the front to film the entire performance. “In my day, husbands never did things like that.”
It’s time to go; one of the frustrations about these special school events, of which there are at least three a month, is that they warrant early dismissal. No Me Time today. Good thing we pay thousands of dollars for the girls to come here.
No one mentions my cupcakes. I was up till three last night, finishing them, taking care to sterilize the counters, the muffin tins, the bowls, the mixer, the spatulas, so Aria Temkowsi wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, so Cash Boreas wouldn’t get a rash. I frosted them in a swirl using my special Williams-Sonoma set, and they’re beautiful, these damn cupcakes.
But all anyone can do is make cow eyes at Adam in a rush of good-daddy hormones.
“I have to run,” he says as we go into the parking lot. “Girls, you were so wonderful!”
“Who was best, Daddy?” Rose asks. This is something she’s picked up recently. Competition. I wonder if she senses something from me, and my resentment toward Emmanuelle.
“You’re all my favorites,” he says. “You’re all the best.” He kneels down and kisses and hugs them.
He is a good father. I know that.
“See you at home,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me, gently, on the lips. “Love you.”
“See you later.” His eyes flash disappointment that I didn’t say the words back. Words I used to tell him four or ten times a day.
His patience isn’t going to last long. The thought hums like a tuning fork next to my ear.
I buckle the girls into their seats, and get into the driver’s seat. “Wait!” Grace bellows. “We didn’t get cupcakes! Where are cupcakes!”
“Nooo!” Rose wails.
“Mommy! No!” Charlotte adds.
There’s no way I’m going back inside that building to hear more about how wonderful Adam is. “You know what?” I tell them. “We’re getting ice cream instead! Who wants ice cream? I know I do! And guess what else? You can get whatever you want on top!”
This stuns them into silence. “Really?” Grace asks.
“Yes. Whatever you want. Two things, even!”
