Chapter 19
Gwen had gotten the hang of walking in the boot. She managed reasonably well, and the pain was gone. The break seemed to be healing, and she was grateful to be back at home. She was alone, since Duncan was most likely still at the golf club. He usually spent the entire day there, playing eighteen holes, eating, socialising. It was his happy place. And she often joined him—she liked spending time with their friends at the club. But not today. Today, she’d spent the morning at her potluck brunch as she often did on Saturdays. And this afternoon, she intended to get to work organising the Surf Club fundraiser.
There was a lot to do. The location of the event was easy—it would be held at the Surf Club. They were raising money to support the club’s life-saving efforts. The annual fundraiser provided a large portion of their budget for the year and was a must-attend event for the local business community.
It was her understanding that the woman who’d agreed to organise the fundraiser had been through some kind of family drama, and as a result, they were three weeks out with nothing done. She’d communicated a theme, Marie Antoinette. Gwen wasn’t sure it was a very applicable theme, given the event was being held at a small-town surf club on a tropical island, but the committee had assured her the theme was non-negotiable, as it was too late to change the marketing and ticketing that had already gone out.
The food should be French. She made notes on a notepad, her foot resting on an ottoman placed strategically in front of her leather armchair. What would work? She picked up the phone and dialled Joanna’s number.
Joanna answered with a sleepy voice. “Hello?”
“Hey, Jo, I’m working on this Surf Club fundraiser. It’s a French royalty theme. Any ideas for the menu?”
Joanna hesitated. “Oh, hi, Gwen. I was just napping.”
“I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”
“That’s okay, I needed to get up.” She yawned loudly. “French food? Okay, let’s see. Bouillabaisse is a traditional French soup. You can serve it with seafood, to make it coastal, and crusty bread sticks.”
“That sounds delicious,” Gwen replied, quickly writing it down.
“Pizzas, of course, but with creme fraiche instead of tomato sauce. They’re called Flammekueche, and they’re delicious. They’re from the province of Alsace. Oooh… Or you could do mini quiche Lorraines. That would be simple and yummy.”
“I like that idea,” Gwen replied. She was starting to feel hungry. “It has to be something I can serve to over two hundred people at the same time.”
“Will you do a sit-down meal or finger food?”
“Finger food would be best since the entire place will be packed.”
Joanna laughed. “Oh, you’re going to upset some people.”
“I don’t want to do that. But I’d like to have a live band, dancing. And I want to fit as many people into the club as I can, without the costs getting too far out of control. We’re meant to be raising money, not spending it.”
“I think that’s a great choice,” Joanna said. “As long as you can back it up, and I think you’ve done that well.”
In the end, they decided on the following menu.
Cheese, crackers, bread, olives, dips and deli meats placed on grazing platters around the room.
Mini Quiche Lorraine
Mini Bacon, Cheddar and Onion Quiche
Dijon Chicken Wings
Short Rib Bourguignon
King Prawns in a Garlic Rouille
Braised Artichokes
Mini Butterscotch Soufflés
Chocolate Eclairs and other assorted pastries
It was an ambitious menu. Gwen wasn’t sure they could pull it off, but she would talk to the catering staff and see what they thought of it. Of course, they’d pair it all with local wines to keep the costs down and to support local industry.
She was putting the finishing touches on an email to her contact at the Surf Club when she heard the garage door whirring open. Duncan was home. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. She’d barely spoken to him for days. She hadn’t seen him since she left to go to Debbie’s. Had he noticed her absence? Would he care? She’d decided to talk to him about the issues between them but wasn’t sure where to begin. They needed to have a discussion, but was this the right time? She’d never been one to choose conflict. She generally avoided it as long as possible. But perhaps that approach was what had landed her here, in a marriage she barely recognised to a man who seemed not to care about her the way she did for him.
He marched into the kitchen and flung his things down on the bench as he always did. Usually she put everything away for him, but with her broken ankle, she’d hoped he might think to do a few things for himself.
When he stepped into the living room, scotch on ice in hand, he paused at the sight of her.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “I didn’t see you this morning.”
“I stayed at Debbie’s. Remember? We spoke about it?”
His brow furrowed. “Oh, that’s right. Did you have a nice time?”
She’d called it. He hadn’t even realised she was gone, let alone that she was upset with him. He walked around in his own little world. Did he think about her at all?
“It was good to spend some time with her. We had the Sunshine Potluck Society brunch today as well. I thought you might come.”
He sat in his favourite armchair with a chuckle. “You ladies don’t want me there. I’d spoil all the fun.”
“I invited you.”
“Thanks, hon. But I don’t see myself attending anytime soon. Who was there?”
“Debbie, Joanna and Emily. Aaron was working.”
“Oh? How’s he going?”
“Settling in, I think.”
“Glad to hear it. He’s a good man. You should tell him to come down to the club and hit a few balls. It’d be good to see him.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t sure what to say. Where do you begin on a lifetime of grievances? She shouldn’t have let it get this far. Should’ve addressed things as they arose. But she’d been busy raising children, and complaining seemed out of place. What did she have to complain about, really? And so they’d drifted apart, stopped communicating, and now they lived very separate lives.
Was it her fault, or his?
She didn’t want to cast blame. But it took two to ignore the cracks in a relationship. And she’d played her part, even if she’d spent most of her life doing everything she could to make him happy. By burying her own happiness and letting him trample over her needs and wants, she’d helped to build the wall between them.
He picked up a book and began to read. With one leg crossed over the other, a glass of scotch on the table beside him and a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he looked older than his sixty-five years. They’d spent a lifetime together, yet looking at him like this, she felt she hardly knew him. But she did. She knew him well. Knew every part of him. What he liked to eat or drink. How he slept. Where he went when he was feeling stressed. The clothes that made his skin itch or the food that gave him a stomachache. She knew him better than anyone else in the entire world. But right now, he was a stranger to her. What was going on in that head of his?
“Did you miss me?” she asked.
He glanced up at her. “Huh?”
“When I was staying at Debbie’s. Did you miss me?”
He smiled. “Sure, yes, of course I did.”
“Would you mind if I moved in with her for a while?”
He frowned. “What? Why would you do that?”
“I’m feeling a little unappreciated.”
He sat up. “Unappreciated? Why? What happened?”
She swallowed as anxiety made a ball in her gut. She hated tension, arguing. Better to leave it all beneath the surface. But the tension would merely fester. She had to get it out into the open, no matter how hard it was. “Well, you and the kids expect things of me. And you don’t seem to appreciate all I do for you. When I’m gone, you barely notice. None of the kids called to check on me. You didn’t realise I was upset. I don’t know how to get through to you all.”
He closed his book and set it on the table. “You were upset? What about?”
“When I broke my ankle, you took me to the hospital and left me there. You didn’t stay to help me or make sure I was okay. You all went back to the beach and finished the nice picnic that I had set up for you. Then you didn’t unpack any of the picnic when you got home. You left a huge mess in the kitchen for me to clean up, even though you knew I was in pain and on medication.”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his grey hair. “Here we go. Back to this same old argument. I don’t do enough around the house. Well, I work for a living, Gwen! You know that. You chose to stay home with the kids. And I’ve provided a very nice life for us. Don’t you think?”
Her breath caught in her throat. He’d raised his voice to yell at her. She wanted to leave and hide in her room. “Yes, you’ve done very well. You’re a good provider and a good father. I don’t think that means I should never speak up about anything that bothers me, though.”
“So, now you’re accusing me of silencing you? Not letting you speak?” He stood to his feet. “I don’t know what to say, Gwen. This is coming out of nowhere. All these accusations.”
“I didn’t accuse you, Duncan,” she said, wringing her hands together. “Just that you don’t show me a lot of appreciation for all I do around here. The kids don’t either. They assume I’ll watch the grandchildren for them—they don’t ask. And they never say thank you. I’m tired. I raised four kids. And now I would like to have some fun. I love my grandkids, but I don’t want to be their primary carer. I want to enjoy time with them, spoil them, feed them lollies and then go home. I want to travel and see the world. We always said we’d do that and we never have. You’ve travelled for business, but not with me. You’re always gone playing golf, working, spending time at the gym or with friends. It feels as though I’m an afterthought.”
He shook his head. “Where is all of this coming from? No one is stopping you from doing anything, Gwen. If you want to travel, then do it.”
“On my own?” she asked.
He laughed. “I’m busy. I have work to do. I can’t go flitting off around the world at the drop of a hat. But you can. So go on. Do it.”
He stomped out of the room. She watched him go, a lump growing in her throat. That hadn’t gone the way she thought it would. He completely misunderstood what she was saying. His defensiveness was the reason she struggled to share things with him. It always went like that—she’d share a concern, and he’d get angry and upset, assuming she was criticising him. Then the conversation would end with him storming out and nothing resolved. It was why she generally preferred to bury her feelings and wear a smile on her face instead. Conflict never got her anywhere. And now she felt even worse than she had before.