Lucy
Lucy assumed she’d never hear from Harrison again. A week after he failed to kiss her in the parking lot, though, he texted to ask her out again. How did she feel, he wanted to know, about getting together for a drink? For starters, shocked. She’s full of dread, too, and nauseated by the prospect of saying yes. But she’s also afraid that if she says no now, she’ll never put herself out there again. She said she’d love to.
This is how Lucy finds herself sitting on the flipped-down toilet seat with her chin in Vivian’s hand a few days later. She’d asked for a natural look. “Of course,” Vivian had said. That was seven products ago. Her wedding makeup took less effort than this.
“Hold still and look up,” Vivian says, leaning in with a mascara wand.
Lucy stiffens. Their faces are inches away. The intimacy is nerve-racking.
“I wish I had lashes like yours,” Vivian says. “I got lash extensions once, but they’re too expensive to maintain.”
She can’t fathom what Vivian might deem “too expensive.”
“Oh, really? Thanks.”
The compliment shouldn’t mean much, but it’s the first time Vivian’s ever openly envied something Lucy has. Around her half-sister, Lucy’s used to feeling like the “before” half of a movie makeover montage—not the “after.”
With a spritz of perfume, Vivian pronounces her work complete. Lucy gets up to check herself out in the mirror. She’s surprised she really does look natural—that is, if she were born with smoother skin, more defined cheekbones, and hypnotic eyes. Side by side with barefaced Vivian, Lucy looks like the one with places to go.
“You like?” Vivian asks, admiring her handiwork.
“Wow,” Lucy says, astonished. “You did an amazing job.”
“I know.”
“It’s not too much, right?”
“Not at all.”
Lucy stares at herself, feeling polished but uneasy. “I don’t know how to do this. I can’t bring up Dad because I’ll cry. And—no offense—but I don’t want to tell him about you, either, because that’s a lot of drama to dump on someone. Do I tell him I’m separated? I mean, what if…”
Vivian’s eyes bulge. “Oh, boy.”
“I know what Patrick said, but…” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“Forget about Dad. Forget about me. Forget about Patrick.”
Lucy laughs bitterly. “What?”
“You’re your own person. You have a life outside all of that, don’t you? Talk about it.”
Does she, though? Lucy feels like she’s scrambling for answers to a test she never studied for. Vivian’s advice is only making her feel worse.
“Okay, but…”
“If it comes up, you just say, ‘By the way, I’m separated.’ And then move on.”
“What if Patrick and I get back together?”
Vivian gives her a pitying look. “I don’t think…”
Lucy presses her steepled fingertips to her face.
“Don’t ruin your makeup,” Vivian admonishes her. “ If that happens, you deal with it later. It’s just a date. Relax.”
Far easier said than done.
Once again, Harrison had offered to pick up Lucy for dinner and drinks at Foxy Roxy’s, and once again, she diverted his plans. Instead, she suggested they meet at a spot Patrick hasn’t set foot in for years, first stopping at the grocery store to pick up provisions.
“So, where exactly are we going?” Harrison asks as they gather a newspaper, marshmallows, graham crackers, a sleeve of Hershey’s chocolate, and two cans of hard apple cider.
“I don’t know if this place has a real name, but everyone calls it the Pond. Kids party there sometimes. It’s pretty.”
The hope was that it’d be a more romantic spot than the Clam Shack. (A low bar. Nobody’s ever swooned over tartar sauce.) From the grocery store, he follows her car two miles out of town before they turn onto a winding dirt road hidden almost entirely by trees. She cruises around a deep pothole Paige’s front wheel once got stuck in, and parks in a clearing where two other cars already sit.
They take a well-worn footpath that kisses a stretch of sand. There’s a firepit, a rope swing, a pair of mottled benches, and beyond that, tree-stump seats ring a small pond. A few college-aged kids are sprawled out on a picnic blanket with an open cooler between them.
“There’s a tradition around here—people call it 12:01,” Lucy says. “A minute after midnight, if you’re still here you have to skinny-dip.”
He laughs nervously. “I forgot to mention, my curfew is 11:59.”
“I’ve never actually done it,” she admits. They forage for sticks, then spear marshmallows, sit side by side, and roast them over the shared bonfire. The crackling flames fill the awkward silence. She tries to come up with something—anything—she could possibly say to give the impression that she’s a regular person with a full, normal life. She comes up short. The date has barely begun, and she already feels like a failure.
She hadn’t considered this earlier, but now the memory erupts: The first time Patrick kissed her was at the Pond. They’d been sitting in the sand, talking. He kept fiddling with a box of Tic Tacs, flicking the lid open and shut, popping a new mint into his mouth every few minutes. She was pretty sure he was nervous, and if so, she hoped it was because he was ramping up the courage to make a move. He scooted in close to her, allegedly to flick a mosquito off her knee (if there’d been one, she hadn’t noticed it), then rested his hand on her thigh. She was mid-sentence when he surged closer with a kiss. It was clumsy but thrilling. Here, now, she simply feels alone.
Staring at a curl of smoke, Lucy gives up. “I just wanted to let you know that I…haven’t dated in a while. I’m separated, actually.”
The word sounds so clinical and ugly to her, but he beams. “I’m divorced.”
Divorced? Lucy never would’ve guessed. The comment seems to roll off his tongue easily, whereas her insides are about as sturdy as sawdust. She can’t fathom reaching a point where this is easy to admit out loud.
“So I get it, trust me,” he adds. “How long has it been for you?”
“About two months,” she says, rounding up.
She waits for him to flinch, but he doesn’t.
“I’ve been separated for a year. The divorce was just finalized, though.” Then he flashes her a guilty look. “That’s why it took me a few days to text you back. Too many days, if I’m being honest. I’m sorry about that. This isn’t an excuse, but I’m rusty at this. I was nervous.”
She’s relieved. “That’s okay. Me, too.”
He exhales. “Okay then. Good.”
“I didn’t text you, either,” she points out. “So we’re both at fault.”
She’s so new at this, every interaction makes her feel like a kid wobbling on a bike with no training wheels and two scraped-up knees.
“Two chickens. Perfect.” He shoots her a small smile. “Should we trade war stories, get it all over with?”
There’s not one single thing she’d like to do less.
He sees her freeze, then rushes to add, “Or we can talk about something else. Anything else.”
Lucy racks her brain, coming up blank for longer than she’d like. “No, it’s okay. Tell me about yours.”
Talking straight toward the fire, he opens up. “We were only married for a year and a half, together for four. I probably should’ve known we weren’t right for each other sooner, but I didn’t want to admit it. I loved the idea of being one half of a team to the point where I overlooked a lot of things—I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“It does,” she says, nodding in recognition.
“We just weren’t connecting in the same way anymore. I’ll be honest, I was focusing too much on work and not enough on us. But when I realized things were bad, I threw myself into fixing it: I found a couple’s therapist, impulsively got a tattoo of a line of her poetry, booked a trip at this romantic resort in the Bahamas…I had the room all decked out in rose petals and Champagne. That first day on the beach, I checked the time on her phone and saw texts from her coworker. Not the professional kind.”
Her heart breaks for him. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s not your fault. I wanted to stay and talk it out, but she got on the next plane home.”
When things were bleak, he was loyal enough and dedicated enough to make an effort. That says a lot.
They’d both been watching the fire, but now he turns toward her. Self-deprecating, he says, “There’s no dignified way for a grown man to cry into a pina colada. Multiple pina coladas, actually.”
“You tried, though.”
“I did.” He doesn’t sound bitter, but rather like he’s made peace with the situation. “I had the tattoo lasered off, though.”
Her marshmallow has warmed to a glorious shade of golden brown. Upon closer inspection, it’s perfect: hot to the touch, a little crispy on the outside and molten on the inside. Strings of sugar stretch gossamer-thin as she pulls it from the stick and sandwiches it between graham crackers. The first crunchy bite tastes like her childhood.
The whole thing—opening the box of crackers, snapping off squares of chocolate—takes enough time that Lucy can reasonably stall. She doesn’t know how to sum up sixteen years of her life into one neat, tidy story like he just did. Instead, what comes to mind is the memory of Patrick attempting to show off for her in high school gym class. That horrible keening sound she didn’t know she could make after he left. How natural it felt to curl up against him on the boat when fireworks burst over the lake.
“We were high school sweethearts, and by the end, I guess we’d sort of grown apart. I didn’t want to give up on us, either,” she says, feeling guilty at her use of the past tense. “But he did.”
Harrison seems to intuitively understand that this is all she wants to share—maybe all she’s capable of saying on the subject. “Sometimes, love isn’t enough,” he says.
Lucy and Harrison have a second pair of s’mores; then she has a third. After that, they slip off their shoes, open a pair of ciders, and wade ankle-deep into the cool pond. Sand squelches nicely between their toes. Harrison tilts his head back to take in the zillion stars. Lucy can recognize the Big Dipper, and he helps her spot other constellations.
“You see that star?” he asks, pointing one out.
She tries to follow his finger. “That one?”
He gently pulls her hand a few inches to the left. “That one.”
The brush of his skin against hers makes her feel as brightly lit as any star. Their hands drop, but he doesn’t let go. Comfort has cracked open between them, and now she’s eager for more. Parched for romance, she wants Harrison to kiss her.
He looks at her tenderly, like he’s having the same thought. Intrigue quirks on his lips. For all that she wants him to make the first move, she doesn’t want to wait another second. She decides to be brave.
Lucy leans in to kiss Harrison. It’s strange and exciting to kiss a new man; he’s taller than Patrick and his lips are softer. His hands drift to her waist, pulling her in closer, and she steadies herself with a palm against his chest. The moment is gentle, sweet, and hopeful, and when they break apart, her heart whirs like a hummingbird. A shy grin spreads across his face before he dips toward her again.
Vivian
Vivian’s little summer vacation with Lucy has been more fun than she’d originally expected. Yes, Lucy can be difficult, rotating between angry, insecure, and dressing Vivian down for her privilege, but it’s all understandable, considering the circumstances—and Vivian is starting to enjoy her company.
Although Fox Hill Lake doesn’t normally inspire much joy in her, she’s found herself appreciating its quiet beauty more now that the tension between her and Hank is gone. She’d never lose face and admit this to Lucy, but there’s something about the serene pace of life here that she actually likes . At home in the city, nothing enrages her more than a slow walker. Here, she ambles at a leisurely clip, taking her sweet time to admire the majestic trees. Her blood pressure is probably lower than it’s been in a decade. Lake water teases out the natural waves in her hair; she hasn’t touched her blow dryer since she arrived. She’s painting again. Even her skin is clearer here.
But like all good things, this can’t last forever. She has a real life to get back to in New York. While Lucy is out on her date, Vivian starts plotting her next steps. She’s made it eleven whole days resisting Oscar’s calls and texts—the number ticks constantly in the back of her mind like she’s a recovering addict counting days—and in that time, she’s decided to move on from Della. (She will, of course, continue accepting Oscar’s paychecks during her bereavement leave. He owes her for emotional damages anyway.) Without him, the prospect of opening a business on her own is too daunting, so she’ll need to find a job.
She sits at the kitchen table with her laptop and a glass of juicy sauvignon blanc and plays Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.” Begrudgingly, she starts sifting through job listings online. Many positions are too junior for her. When she does manage to find roles that match her level of experience, either they pay pennies or they’re located in god-awful Times Square, where bars and restaurants exclusively cater to tourists with bad taste. She imagines winding up at a fourth-rate Midtown steakhouse with laminated menus featuring pictures where she’s required to wear an embarrassing little bow tie. She’d have to serve screw-top chardonnay with ice cubes to women who pronounce it with a hard ch .
Don’t be a snob, Vivian tells herself sternly. This is not the time to be picky. The Olive Garden on 47th Street is hiring a beverage director at a respectable salary, so she decides to whip up an application. She’s never actually been to an Olive Garden, so she googles their menu in order to write a hopefully convincing cover letter.
She can’t find a full wine list anywhere—that is, if they have one—but stumbles across a page featuring “Italian-style cocktails” with pictures (of course) that sends her into a fugue state. She stares at a fluorescent-blue vodka drink that’s apparently “inspired by the vibrant blue waters of Italy’s Amalfi Coast” and something called an Italian Rum Punch that’s instantly nauseating. The steakhouse nightmare comes surging back, except this time, she’s carrying a Blue Amalfi over to a customer hunched wrist-deep in a bottomless well of free breadsticks. When she places the radioactive cocktail on the table, the gray-faced woman looks up with a haunted stare. It’s Carla. A trail of breadcrumbs curves over her enormous pregnant belly.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be drinking this,” Nightmare Vivian says.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be fucking my husband,” Nightmare Carla replies.
Vivian snaps back to reality and slams her laptop shut.
Vivian needs to have more faith in herself. She’s smart enough to figure out how to run her own business. She’ll study entrepreneurship, seek out mentors, buy that Tony Robbins book men love to quote—whatever it takes. She’ll make it work. Over the past few months, the only thing that kept her happily distracted on lonely nights when Oscar was with Carla was dreaming up ideas for their business. That passion is still there. Now, though, the bar will be hers alone.
In her imagination, the walls are a moody blue. There’s thick, old-fashioned crown molding and an original pressed-tin ceiling. Lamps with asymmetrically scattered bulbs cast a warm glow. She serves classic crowd-pleasers, rare gems, and funky natural wines; cheese, charcuterie, other nibbles. She offers themed flights—maybe one showcasing female winemakers; maybe even a time-travel flight documenting the trendiest tastes of each decade: a white zinfandel for the ’70s, a merlot for the ’90s, a rosé for the 2010s. Oscar thought the time-travel idea was basic. That won’t be his problem anymore.
The more Vivian thinks about it, the sillier it seems that she’d been afraid of going out on her own. She actually knows plenty about running a business: At Della, she’s in charge of inventory and balances her department’s budget. As Hank loved to remind her, she had the best education money could buy. She knows how to work hard and dedicate herself to a lofty goal; memorizing the annual harvest conditions in every major and minor wine region around the globe was nothing to sneeze at, after all. Yes, she will be fine flying solo. Which means that regardless of what Lucy would prefer, it really is time to sell the house.
Vivian steps out onto the back porch. Above her, the stars are endless. Cicadas sizzle through the air, and crickets chirp rhythmically off in the distance. If she’s honest with herself, she’ll miss this place. It’s grown on her. She can always rent a different cabin on the lake if she wants—and Lucy can, too. She knows Lucy will be upset, but Vivian can’t sacrifice her career to keep someone else happy.
Hopefully, this won’t kill their relationship. After all, Vivian never promised to take the house off the market for good. Maybe they could do Thanksgiving together sometime. She’ll spend the rest of the summer relaxing with Lucy while Hank’s Realtor friend and his real estate lawyer son do walk-throughs for potential buyers and negotiate the sale. She’ll cross her fingers that Lucy won’t hate her forever. Regardless, it’s a risk she’s willing to take. The irony of it all is that this—opening a business—might have actually impressed Hank. Finally.
With the burden of job applications and this decision off her chest, she feels positively buoyant as she calls the Gray office. She gets their voicemail—it’s after-hours; she isn’t surprised.
“Hey, Harrison, it’s Vivian again. I’m ready to sell the house. For real this time. Can you send over that contract you wrote and let your dad know we’re ready to go?”