Chapter 7
Morgan
“Family meeting!” Courtney’s voice echoes through the house from the foyer downstairs and I have to cover my mouth to hide the laugh bubbling up from my gut. That’s my girl, I think proudly, bossing everyone around at all times, no questions allowed.
Standing, I school my face into something akin to the confused worry I should have if my children showed up en masse unexpectedly.
I realize my timing couldn’t have been more perfect as I come down the stairs because Kimberly is walking into the foyer from the guest hallway, selling her story that the bedroom there is getting more use.
I watch my children’s eyes go from her to me and back again before they look at each other, horror growing while their brows climb their foreheads.
“Shit,” Abi hisses under her breath.
“What’s going on? Are you all okay?” I ask once I’m in front of them. I intentionally don’t pay any attention to my wife and also leave two feet of space between us to sell our scripted narrative.
“You tell us,” Ross orders.
“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Kimberly’s saccharine sweet tone sounds fake as hell, the same placid politeness she’s brought to business dinners over the years when I was negotiating deals I’d have preferred to avoid altogether.
She doesn’t give Ross a chance to answer either, running roughshod over anything he might say with an invitation to the living room.
“Come, sit down. Would you like a scotch? Or wine? Tea?”
People like to think Courtney is my clone, but truth be told, she’s more like her mother than most people realize.
Kimberly is the true powerhouse in our relationship, it’s simply a different type of power – not as flashy and loud, but so much more impactful with its ruthlessly deployed civility.
She can make anyone do anything she desires, with the right nudge here and the slightest pull there, as evidenced by where we’re all standing – aka, exactly where she wants us.
She ushers the children into the living room, not one of them arguing in the slightest, with Karl following as though awaiting drink orders.
“We’re not here for pleasantries, Mom,” Abi declares. More kindly, with the manners she was raised to have, she tells Karl, “We’re good. Thank you. We didn’t mean to disturb your evening.”
“You could never be a bother,” he replies, his smile warm and believable until he turns his back to the kids and only Kim and I can see his expression. That’s when he gives us a hidden, triumphant thumbs-up. “I’m going to get a cup of warm milk. Let me know if you need anything.”
Translation: he’ll be eavesdropping from the kitchen.
Ross, Courtney, and Abi sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch and I wonder if they’re unconsciously in age order or if Courtney took the middle because she intends to run this impromptu meeting.
Probably the second.
I take a seat in one of the armchairs and our children’s eyes drift to Kimberly.
I can’t even count how many times she has perched on the arm of this chair to sit at my side.
Or, when no one else was around, in my lap, sprawled out across my legs with her head on my shoulder while I mindlessly twirl her hair and we recount our days.
But tonight? She delicately steps past me, not so much as brushing my knee as she passes, to sit in the other armchair alone.
Well played, my darling.
“It’s so good to see all of you tonight,” she says brightly. “A bit unexpected, but this is home. You’re always welcome.”
“Can the niceties, Mom,” Abi snaps. “We know what’s going on.”
“You do?” I balk, surprised they figured it out so easily.
Thankfully, my wife saves me from the misstep of overplaying our hand. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is going on?”
Ross leans forward, eyes narrowed as he informs his mother. “Dad had a salad.”
Kimberly’s eyes jump left and right, as if she’s looking for some hidden meaning in the oddly timed information. Finally, she turns to me and says, “I’m glad you’re taking your nutrition more seriously. It’s about time.”
I snort, then cover the laugh with a cough. “About time?” I echo. If I didn’t know what was going on, I’d swear it was the slickest put-down I’ve ever heard. I’ve seen my love’s acid tongue in action before, but never against me.
Knowing it’s fake doesn’t make it sting less, but it’s a humorous sting.
Ross falls back to the couch, waving one hand and covering his eyes with the other. “I don’t know. Court and Abi said it was a big deal. Vi agreed.”
He sounds completely exasperated with the women in his life. I make a mental note to have a father-son talk with him after this. He’s a good man, but it’s clear he still has a few lessons to learn on who’s really in charge.
Abi reaches across Courtney to swat at him, but misses entirely. “It is a big deal. Because it’s a piece of the bigger puzzle.”
“I love puzzles,” I offer dryly, scanning my children as if they’re the biggest puzzle of them all.
“Enough,” Courtney declares, throwing her arms out to stop all chatter. All eyes jump to her. “We want to know the truth. Mom and Dad, are you having marital problems?”
“What?” Kimberly gasps, her palm pressed to her chest. If she had pearls on, she’d be clutching them. “Of course not.”
The instantness of the response is what makes it sound the most unbelievable, so I back her up. “We’re fine.”
“Fine?” Ross repeats, giving me an assessing, piercing look that hurts a lot more than Kimberly’s jab. “Shit, you two are right,” he tells his sisters.
“Oh my God, Mom and Dad are getting divorced,” Abi shouts. I see tears springing to her eyes for a split second before she covers her face with her hands, and her shoulders start to shake as she sobs.
“Abi… honey… no,” I sputter in shock, looking from my daughter to my wife in horror. I think we’ve taken this too far.
But I don’t get the chance to explain because Courtney is holding court.
“We compared notes. You had to know we would. Karl is calling Abi for flower arrangements because Mom isn’t smiling,” she points a finger at Kimberly.
“Dad randomly shows up for lunch, but he ordered a salad because he’s watching his figure.
” I get the accusatory finger point on that one.
“He’s playing ‘hide the pickle’ with Eleanor so much that he didn’t even notice that Mom’s sad, and she’s having the downstairs bedroom redone because she’s using it so much.
” Courtney swings her finger around, indicating the guest hallway.
“It’s obvious. You two are about as disconnected as any couple on Divorce Court.
It’s okay, it was bound to happen. It’s the Silver Split, when people who’ve been distracted by life suddenly spend twenty-four/seven together in retirement and realize they don’t have anything in common without the kids.
And maybe don’t even like each other anymore. Or maybe… they never did.”
She tilts her head as though considering that in our specific case.
“Courtney,” Kim says gently. “We’re not getting divorced.”
“Does Dad know that?” Ross snipes. “He’d probably be the last to know because you’d be busy getting all your ducks in a row before you told him.”
I look at Ross sharply, then at my wife, realizing that my son is one-hundred percent right. If Kim was ever going to leave me, she’d have it all set up on her end before I knew a thing. So it’s a damn good thing she’s not and this is all just a ploy. One that’s gotten entirely out of hand.
“Excuse me?” Kim says, offended.
“We’re not getting divorced. We’re not having marital problems. We’re fine,” I announce loudly, wanting to stop this whole charade. “More than fine. We’re great.”
I expect the statement to be met with some degree of disbelief. Apparently, we sold this whole thing better than we intended to and the kids have gone to the fullest extreme in thinking Kimberly and I are on the brink of a complete breakdown.
The children look from me to Kimberly and to prove my point, I reach out for her hand, which she immediately takes, her fingers winding into mine so easily and comfortably after all these years.
I watch Courtney’s eyes tick down to our hands and back to our faces before she leans back on the couch.
Ross and Abi follow suit, sitting back at her side.
“We know,” Courtney says, a new and deadly tone to her voice. “So how about you explain why in the hell you’re trying to make us think you’re breaking up?”
As my children’s generation says… the fuck?