Chapter Eleven
Vivian
He cannot be here. Why is he here? She blinks. He’s still there, wearing a gallant smile that shimmers with hope. On the front porch stands Oscar, gripping a hefty bouquet of lilies.
Stunned, she says, “Oh my God, what?” before letting him in.
He drops a leather duffel on the kitchen floor, sets down the flowers, and takes her face into his hands to kiss her like he’s a war hero returning to his devoted darling instead of a restaurateur trapped in a loveless marriage. Vivian feels faint.
She steps backward and sputters. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I told you. I really needed to talk to you.”
She drinks him in: He’s in black jeans and a rain-splattered short-sleeved button-down, slightly rumpled from the trip. His posture seems confident, but the labored rise and fall of his chest and the intense gaze give away what might be nerves. He studies her—barefaced, barefoot, in a boxy T-shirt that’s nothing like the silk, lace-trimmed Kiki de Montparnasse slips he likes to buy for her—as if she’s the most precious thing in the world.
“How did you get here?”
“I flew to Portland, rented a car.”
“It’s Saturday. Who’s at Della?”
“They’ll live without me for a night.”
“You could’ve just called me.”
He grins. “You might have noticed—I tried a few times.”
She can’t deny this. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when she craved his attention like nothing else. But his showing up unannounced on her doorstep is not remotely what she had in mind.
He raps his knuckles on the counter and looks around. “It’s beautiful up here. Rustic.”
Maybe outside, yes, but inside? Oscar scans the appliances pulled out of another millennium, the mismatched cabinet knobs and ugly linoleum, the speckled water damage from generations of wet feet and dripping bathing suits. Perspective is a funny thing. To Lucy, every inch is rich with family history; to Oscar, it’s probably a hovel.
“I take it you didn’t come all this way to sightsee,” she snaps.
“I’ve been going crazy without you.” Sweat beads along his hairline; his voice softens. “And I’ve been worried about you.”
“Oh, really? Funny way of showing it, dropping off the face of the planet.”
He’d discarded her so easily, like she was nothing more than meal scraps, soiled napkins, popped corks at the end of a dinner shift.
He looks grim. “The timing couldn’t have been worse.”
“Got it, I’ll keep that in mind the next time a parent drops dead.”
He winces. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Vivian. I love you.”
“Do you? Or are you ‘so over the moon’ about your ‘sweetest secret ever’ with your wife?”
She makes aggressive air quotes and practically spits out the last word. Once upon a time, she was his “sweetest secret,” not that he’d ever describe her in such cloying terms. She barely recognizes this version of herself, this hard, unflappable wrath in Oscar’s presence. Normally, she’s putty in his hands, but his abandonment has broken his spell over her. She’s always sort of known, on some subterranean level, that if he’s betraying Carla now, there’s a chance he could betray her in the future. She just never fully acknowledged it until it happened.
“You forgot to mention you’re having twins.”
He holds her gaze. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought it’d be better to tell you about the twins later, so you didn’t have to deal with so much all at once, but obviously that was a mistake on my part.”
“Obviously,” she echoes acidly.
With an earnest look, he says, “I want to hear how you’re doing. I’m here for you. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” she scoffs.
“I mean it.”
“Sure.”
Exhilarated, he says, “Vivian, I left Carla.”
She stares. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” he says with a glint of satisfaction. “It’s done.”
“You actually told her you want a divorce?”
He kisses her and squeezes her shoulders. “Mhm.”
Vivian is speechless. Dumbfounded. Flabbergasted.
“What about Della? Carla’s dad?”
“The Times just cemented us as one of the best restaurants in the city. It’ll be fine, even if her dad pulls out.”
Could that possibly be true? “She can’t be taking this well.”
Guilt flashes across his face. “No, but I think she’ll come around.”
That sounds highly improbable. “I mean, there are kids involved now.”
“I know,” he says calmly. “She and I made each other miserable. This is going to be a good thing for her in the long run. A healthy thing—for all of us.”
“Did you tell her about me?”
“Are you kidding? Absolutely not,” he says with a dark laugh.
She hardens. “You can’t keep me a secret any longer.”
The plan was to move carefully, one step at a time. They’d wait months—maybe even a year—after the separation to go public with their relationship, and then they’d feign that it had just begun. But now hiding is the last thing she wants to do. She needs a man who’s proud to be seen with her.
He nods. “Okay, okay. I get that. I’ll tell her.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will,” he says, approaching her gently, as if she’s a skittish cat. He rests his hands on her shoulders.
She shakes him off. “You say you’ll do a lot of things.”
Hurt ripples across his face. Clearly he thought this conversation would take a different route.
“I mean it.” He takes out his phone and pulls up Carla’s contact info. “I’ll call her right now.”
Vivian watches in disbelief as his thumb hovers over the call button. His mouth is a solemn line. He’s really serious this time.
“Wait.” She grabs his wrist. “Okay. I believe you.”
“You want me to tell her?”
She’s so overwhelmed, she’s nearly lightheaded. “Not like this. She deserves better than that.”
He hesitates, then sets down his phone. “I agree.”
“But you’ll tell her in person when you’re back?”
“I will.” He’s unshakable.
She’s cloaked in relief. Oscar wraps her in his arms, and with her forehead tipped against his chin, she starts to cry.
When Vivian was a little girl, she believed in Cinderella and Prince Charming and happily-ever-afters. Overhearing her dad’s phone call popped those delusions like a needle would a balloon. She was disappointed and disgusted by him—and if someone so outwardly normal and respected could cheat on his wife, couldn’t anyone? At first, she was swallowed up by despair, which burned off into cynicism, before eventually crystalizing as cool, numb detachment.
The next year, when she was fifteen, her mother published Jilted in Jackson Hole , which was about a woman who discovers her husband’s torrid affair with his personal trainer while they’re on their tenth-anniversary trip. When she asked Celeste what inspired the book—she’d been pleasantly surprised by Vivian’s interest in her work—her mother showed her a Town the arrangement felt worldly and progressive. He invited her out for coffee at La Lanterna, a glass-domed Italian café on the edge of Washington Square Park. Over espressos two days later, she stared at the biscotti crumbs clinging to his beard as he explained the plot of his favorite book in excruciating detail. “You’d love it. Though it’s better in the original Norwegian, of course.” His wife’s name was also Vivian, which he found hilarious enough to joke about four times in ninety minutes. She politely declined his invitation for a second date. A few days later, he texted, Vivian and I have been talking it over and we really think you should give me one more chance. How about drinks this Friday? She never wrote back.
Despite that, Vivian did see where the poly couple was coming from. It didn’t seem realistic for two people to pledge to be with each other and only each other until death did them part. Monogamy was a romantic ideal, but humans were flawed by nature.
So, that night at Della when she kissed Oscar for the first time, she knew her choice was bold. But it didn’t feel wrong—not when he was unhappy and they were drawn to each other like magnets. Fidelity was just a pipe dream anyway.
Vivian isn’t able to resist Oscar anymore. She’d been trying so hard for weeks, ignoring texts and deleting voicemails. For what? Her dad is dead, and maybe it’s Vivian’s fault. Lucy hates her. Choosing to follow her instincts in this moment can’t make her life any worse.
She leads him all the way upstairs to her bedroom and kisses him. At first, cramming into the narrow bed feels juvenile, but anywhere will do now that he’s left Carla for good. God, how she missed this—his hum of satisfaction when she pulls him closer, the feel of his hand slowly caressing her jaw, even the gentle scratch of a day’s worth of stubble against her cheeks. They’re alone in this big house, and even after all this time, privacy is still a precious luxury.
Vivian hadn’t really believed she’d ever be back in Oscar’s arms again, and so she luxuriates in every second, committing to memory the firm press of his fingers interlacing hers and the pleasant heft of his weight over hers. She’s forgotten why she’d ever deny herself the pleasure of kissing Oscar. Yes, he’s married, but he and Carla never should’ve gotten that far. It was a mistake. Aren’t people allowed to make mistakes? This is what he should’ve been doing all along.
His mouth moves hungrily over hers. She plants a row of kisses down his neck and into the hollow of his collarbone, making him groan softly with heavy-lidded eyes. His hand skims up her bare thigh, catching on the hem of her shorts. His thumb skates over her hip, then into the notch of her waist. She pulls him in even closer with her other leg. They have lost time to make up for.
His breath is hot on her ear as he whispers, “I want you.”
She’s known this for two years, but the words still send a tantalizing ripple of electricity throughout her body. She can’t imagine ever getting tired of hearing that out in the open, not after all that time spent hiding away, deleting texts, suppressing their spark whenever others were around. Sneaking around wasn’t thrilling. It was suffocating.
They peel off their clothes. She’s more bronzed than he’s ever seen her. He cups the places she’s still pale, untouched by the sun. After nearly two months of pain, this is a blur of pure pleasure. She relishes the sturdiness of his torso under her palms. He’s really here. He’s married and she gave him the silent treatment, and yet still, somehow, he blew up his life for her. Vivian is so wanted, cherished, loved. This is all she needed.
Lucy
If the lake house really does have a ticking timer attached, Lucy wants to squeeze the most out of it while she can. She’s not eager to spend another night in her childhood bedroom, and a cool, rainy night like this one practically begs her to cozy up by her dad’s beloved fireplace. She invites Paige to join, not just for her company but also to serve as a buffer between Vivian and herself. She isn’t necessarily surprised when Paige says she can’t make it ( wish I could, I’m just about to put N down ). Given Caleb’s friendship—or whatever it is—with Vivian, he’s not her first choice. But she’d rather ask him than go solo.
Just please be on my side this time.
Don’t worry, I gotcha
Back at the lake, she’s surprised to find the driveway cluttered: the truck Vivian’s been driving, Caleb’s, and another car she doesn’t recognize. She’s worn out, not remotely in the mood to have a stranger in her house. She parks on the side of the road and runs inside.
Caleb is pacing the kitchen alone with a hand clapped over his mouth. Footsteps scramble down the stairs.
“What’s going on?” Lucy asks him, kicking off soaked flip-flops.
“Lucy? Caleb?” Vivian calls from upstairs, sounding a touch frantic.
“I just got here a minute ago,” he says, halfway between shocked and amused. “Vivian told me to wait down here. I think she has company.”
“Hi,” Vivian says, bounding into the kitchen. She stops awkwardly with her hands on her hips and flushed cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“You didn’t think I’d come back?” Lucy asks.
From above, there’s the unmistakable clink of a belt buckle, then feet on floorboards.
“Who’s here?” Lucy asks.
“Oscar came up for a surprise visit,” Vivian says with a frozen smile, a silent Crazy, right?
Whatever’s happening here, Lucy wants nothing to do with it.
The man himself arrives, lightly grazing the small of Vivian’s back as he extends a hand toward Lucy.
“Oscar Delgado. You’re Lucy?”
He’s older than Lucy expected but has the kind of freakish Hollywood handsomeness that guarantees he glides through life easily. With molten chocolate eyes and just the right amount of scruff, he doesn’t look like the owner of a restaurant so much as the actor hired to play one in a sexy HBO show.
“Yeah, hi,” she says, not quite sure what to make of him being here.
It’s his left hand, though, that makes a real impression.
Oscar catches her staring at his wedding band. “It’s not what you think,” he says sheepishly.
Vivian winces.
“And…Peter?” Oscar tries, offering another handshake.
“Patrick’s my—my ex-husband,” Lucy corrects, sulking through every syllable.
She’s surprised Oscar got even halfway there. Vivian bothered to mention him?
“I’m Caleb. Lucy and Vivian’s friend.”
Oscar glances at Vivian. “A good enough friend to come in without knocking?”
He says it like a joke, but there’s a sliver of an edge to his voice.
Unruffled, Caleb grins. “Good enough boyfriend to show up unannounced?”
Vivian shoots Caleb a strangled look. “We never really lock up,” she explains to Oscar.
He nods gamely. “Safe.”
A tense silence sprawls out until Vivian says, “Anyone hungry?”
Vivian
Here lies a dead female, thirty years old, in otherwise reasonable health. Cause of death may include mortification (Caleb) and shame (Lucy), not to mention stress and shock (Oscar). He is here , and God forbid they ever get a minute of alone time. Vivian needs to talk to Lucy and Oscar, but not at the same time and not in front of Caleb. If her lives had to converge like this, she’d prefer it happen in a place with walls. Nobody’s that interested in frozen pizza, but she busies herself by unwrapping it and sliding it into the oven anyway.
“Lucy, could we talk?” she says quietly, a useless gesture toward privacy.
Vivian isn’t thrilled to leave the two men alone together, but it’s the best of a slew of bad options.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re selling the house, end of story,” Lucy says flatly. “I’m going to go enjoy it while I can.”
“Oh. Okay,” Vivian says, stepping to the side as Lucy goes to the living room.
There’s an awkward beat. Caleb gives Vivian an apologetic look.
Over her shoulder, Lucy asks, “Caleb, can you grab firewood?”
From the front porch, he retrieves a hefty armful of logs, turning his biceps into the kind of thing that would inspire Michelangelo to sculpt a masterpiece.
He gives Oscar a nod as he passes back through the kitchen. “Nice to meet you.”
Oscar shoots him a smooth smile, the one reserved for customers who send back exquisitely cooked steaks because they aren’t overdone, then have the gall to be offended when the entire check isn’t comped.
“Likewise.”
When the pizza’s ready, Vivian slices pieces for Lucy and Caleb and brings them out to the living room—a peace offering. He immediately chows down on his, whereas she gives a clipped “No, thank you.” At least Vivian tried. She returns to the kitchen with a plate and an eye roll.
“She seems delightful,” Oscar says in a low, teasing voice.
“Mm.”
“C’mere,” he says, wrapping her in a hug.
She burrows into him. It actually helps. His touch slows her pulse, melting her frustrated anger down from a seven to a five. Vivian is grateful she doesn’t have to soldier through another fight with Lucy on her own.
As Vivian prepares their own plates, Oscar peers at her makeshift wine collection. “You didn’t find these here, did you?”
She glances over at the row of bottles. “I did, actually. Hannaford’s, the market up here—don’t underestimate it.”
She hasn’t ordered a shipment from New York in weeks.
“Hm. I brought something. Snuck it into the fridge when you weren’t looking.”
With a hint of pride, he pulls out the same bottle of Champagne he’d popped when she landed the job. She hasn’t felt cared for like this in a long time. The gesture softens something in her chest; she can feel herself glowing as she nips a kiss.
“Glasses are over there. And before you say anything about them being the ‘wrong shape,’ those are dishwasher-safe and practically indestructible.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Your house, your rules.”
Lucy and Caleb had been talking in the living room, though not loudly enough for Vivian to parse anything. At “your house,” Lucy halts. Vivian can practically feel her resentment seep across the first floor. When Oscar pops the cork, she doesn’t dare cheer.
“Let’s eat out here,” Vivian says.
They sit under the covered front porch, a dry place to talk with built-in white noise and no eavesdroppers. Vivian gestures for Oscar to take the Adirondack chair with fewer cobwebs.
“You picked a hell of a time to come. Lucy and I had a huge fight yesterday.”
“About selling?”
He takes his first bite, and though he doesn’t say anything, Vivian can tell exactly what he thinks about the pizza.
“Mostly, yeah. It’s honestly my fault. I didn’t tell her I was serious about selling again.”
“Hm.”
Embarrassed, she adds, “And we fought about, uh, you.”
“Me?”
She dreads telling him this part. “I didn’t mean to say anything, but we were arguing and it just slipped out—Carla and the twins.”
He grimaces. “Okay.”
“I’m so sorry. I feel like an idiot. Lucy won’t tell anyone.”
Vivian has no idea if that’s true. Probably not. She’d gone two whole years without raising suspicion, then gave her dad a heart attack and alienated her half-sister with the news in the span of a month.
“What do you think of Lucy?” she asks.
“She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
“We were kind of actually getting along.” She’s almost embarrassed to admit it.
“Really?”
“It’s been nice having someone to talk to about my dad. And she’s not so bad—she’s like this sheltered, earnest dork. She didn’t grow up with cable, gets drunk off two sips of wine, says things like ‘oh my gosh.’ She’s nuts about romance novels, she’s been reading all my mom’s stuff. She introduced me to her friends, too.”
“I had no idea.”
She reaches for her drink. “You could’ve asked.”
Oscar sighs. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Though I guess it doesn’t matter much if she never speaks to me again. She hates me.”
He gives her a playful nudge. “Then she has terrible taste.”
She’s too glum to respond.
“How much does her friend know about us?” he asks.
“Just that we broke up.”
“Not how we met? Or anything else?”
“I’m not dumb enough to tell everyone I meet.”
“He seems jealous.”
“He’s not.”
“You sure about that?”
Vivian’s never had any reason to tell Oscar about her long-ago rural fling and has no interest in dredging up the story now, not when things are so fragile and fresh.
“He’s just a friend. He knew I was upset. Of course he’s going to take my side.”
Oscar looks skeptical. “Sure.”
Back home, she almost never plays her trump card, but now it feels right. “You’re really going to make a big deal out of me having a single guy friend when you’ve been married this whole time?”
His face falls like a row of dominos. “Fair. Fine. We’re almost in the clear, I don’t care if people talk about us up here anyway.”
“It wouldn’t bother you if this got out?”
He laughs to himself. “Who are they going to tell?”
Vivian wants to be thrilled that Oscar is here—actually here! —but something is off. Maybe he’s tired from the trip. Maybe she’s having a hard time whiplashing back into wanting him after weeks of trying to scrub him from her heart. Maybe she can’t shake off the shock of him showing up on her doorstep, or maybe they’re just rusty, or maybe, maybe, maybe. They have such little experience with being out in the open together; they’re always either keeping a careful distance at Della or sequestered in her apartment. In front of an audience, though, it’s harder to find a rhythm. She’d like to ignore the tension between them, which is ticking louder every minute. But she can’t.
She gets up and brushes crumbs from her hands. “Mm. Okay.”