Chapter 7
My phone rang at seven-thirty in the morning, and I knew it was Brett before I even looked at the screen. He always called early when he traveled, some misguided attempt at maintaining connection across time zones and hotel rooms and whatever else kept him away from home.
"Morning," I said, settling deeper into the lumpy cottage bed while ocean waves crashed outside my window. The sound was peaceful in a way that made everything else feel manageable, like problems couldn't follow you to places where the horizon stretched endless and blue.
"Did I wake you?" His voice sounded different. Warmer, maybe. Less distracted than usual. "I know you guys stayed up late last night."
"We did. Watched some terrible family comedy that had Devin laughing so hard.
Brett laughed, and the sound caught me off guard. I couldn't remember the last time I'd made him laugh.
"That sounds perfect," he said. "God, I miss you."
I miss you. Three words I hadn't heard from my husband in so long.
My heart did something strange, hope maybe, or just the muscle memory of what it used to feel like when he said things like that and meant them.
"I miss you too," I said, and meant it. Whatever was happening between us, whatever I suspected about Alison Crawford and expensive dinners and hidden jewelry, this moment felt real. Brett sounded like the man I'd married instead of the stranger who'd been living in our house.
"How are the meetings going?" I asked, trying to stay normal instead of suspicious.
"Long. Really long. We've got European partners flying in from three different countries, and everyone has opinions about regulatory compliance and market positioning.
" He paused, and I could hear him moving around what I assumed was his hotel room.
"But good. Really good. If this goes through, it'll be the biggest expansion in company history. "
He sounded excited about work in a way that reminded me of when we were younger and his ambitions felt like something we were building together instead of something that pulled him away from our family. Back then, his success felt like our success. His dreams were dreams we shared.
"That's amazing," I said. "I'm proud of you."
"Thank you. That means everything, Lauren."
Something in his voice made me want to cry. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition that I'd been supporting his career for twenty three years without asking for much acknowledgment in return.
"How was the party?" he asked. "Did your mom like the perfume?"
"She loved it. She actually teared up when she opened it. She kept saying how thoughtful you were to remember what she liked. I think it meant more to her than all the other gifts combined."
"Good. She's a remarkable woman. I should have been there."
Another apology, and acknowledgment that his choices affected other people. This new version of Brett was throwing me off balance, making me question everything I'd convinced myself about our marriage and his priorities, and the slow drift apart that had felt inevitable until this phone call.
"She'd love to talk to you if you have time," I said. "She's still sleeping, but I could wake her up in a few minutes."
"I'd like that. I really would."
We talked for another few minutes about family and travel plans and whether Devin was nervous about his UConn visit. Normal married couple conversation that felt strange because it had been so long since we'd talked like people who actually enjoyed each other's company.
When I hung up, I sat in the cottage bedroom listening to waves and trying to process what had just happened.
Brett had sounded happy. Not stressed about work or distracted by whatever crisis needed his immediate attention, but genuinely happy to be talking to me.
He'd apologized for missing the party, asked about my mother with what sounded like real concern, and said he missed me like he actually meant it.
Maybe I really had been overthinking everything. Maybe marriage counselors were right about communication solving most relationship problems, and all we needed was to start talking to each other like human beings again instead of just coordinating schedules and managing household logistics.
The possibility that I'd been wrong about Alison, about the affairs I'd convinced myself were happening, about the inevitable end of my marriage, felt like the sun coming out after weeks of gray weather. Relief so intense it made me dizzy.
By the time I made it downstairs for breakfast, the cottage was buzzing with the sort of controlled chaos that made family gatherings simultaneously exhausting and wonderful. Gary was making pancakes.
Cheryl was organizing a complicated coffee rotation that involved three different types of beans and very specific instructions about cream versus milk.
Aunt Paula was reading the newspaper aloud to anyone who would listen, providing commentary on political developments that mostly involved criticism of people younger than seventy.
Devin was at the kitchen table inhaling pancakes and bacon. He looked relaxed in a way I rarely saw at home, where he was constantly thinking about practice schedules and college recruitment, and maintaining the GPA that would keep his athletic scholarship dreams alive.
"Sleep well?" Cheryl asked, handing me coffee in a mug that said "Cape Cod or Bust" and had probably been in this cottage since the 1980s.
"Great. Brett called this morning. He wants to talk to Mom when she's up."
"That's sweet," Gary said, flipping pancakes. "How's his big business deal going?"
"Good, apparently. Lots of meetings with European partners.
" I took a sip of coffee and watched my family move around each other with the ease of people who'd been gathering like this for decades.
"He sounded different. Happy, I guess. Like he was actually enjoying what he was doing instead of just getting through it. "
"Work stress can make anyone miserable," Cheryl said, settling at the table with her own coffee and a plate of fruit. "I went through a phase where I was so wound up about hospital politics that I barely recognized myself. Then the situation resolved, and I went back to being myself."
Maybe that was all this was. Work stress making Brett distant and irritable, and me interpreting normal business pressure as something more sinister.
The European expansion was huge for his company, the kind of career-defining deal that would establish his reputation in the pharmaceutical industry.
Of course, he was putting everything else on hold until it was finished, and spending long hours with legal experts who understood international regulations.
The relief I'd felt upstairs got stronger, settling into my bones like warmth after being cold for months.
An hour later, I knocked gently on my mother's bedroom door and found her awake and dressed, sitting in the rocking chair by the window looking out at the ocean like she was waiting for something to appear on the horizon.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she said, turning to me with eyes that were clear and focused. One of her good days, when the fog lifted and she was completely herself. "Isn't this a beautiful view? I could sit here all day just watching the water change colors."
"Brett wants to talk to you," I said, settling on the edge of her bed. "He wanted to say hello and thank you for letting him miss your party again."
Her face lit up with pleasure. "He doesn't need to thank me for anything. That man works so hard to take care of your family."
I dialed Brett's number and handed her the phone, watching her expression brighten as his voice came through the speaker.
"Brett, darling, how are you?" she said.
Despite his frequent absences from family events, my mother had always been fond of my husband.
She respected his work ethic, his dedication to providing for us, his polite consideration of her opinions even when they disagreed about politics or social issues.
I couldn't hear his side of the conversation, but I could tell by her responses that he was being charming.
Asking about her birthday, complimenting the ocean view she'd described, making her laugh with stories about business meetings that probably weren't actually funny but sounded entertaining when he told them.
"The perfume is beautiful," she said. "Chanel Number Five, just like I used to wear when your father-in-law was courting me. You have excellent taste, and such a good memory."
She listened for a moment, nodding like he could see her through the phone.
"You take care of yourself, and don't work too hard," she said. "Success is wonderful, but not if it costs you your health or your family time. Lauren and the children need you home safely."
After she hung up, she sat quietly for a moment looking pleased with herself.
"He's a good man," she said finally. "Busy, but good. You're lucky to have found someone who loves you enough to work so hard for your future together."
I nodded and squeezed her hand, feeling guilty for all the doubts I'd been carrying around like evidence in a trial that might not need to happen.
Two hours later, we were loading cars and saying prolonged goodbyes that made leaving feel like a major production.
Aunt Paula needed help getting settled in Gary's passenger seat, complete with pillows and books, and enough snacks for a cross-country road trip.
Cousins were exchanging promises to stay in touch better, well-intentioned commitments that would last approximately two weeks before everyone got distracted by their regular lives.
I watched the assisted living van arrive to take my mother back to her apartment, feeling the usual sadness that came with watching her return to a life that was safe but smaller than the one she'd built over seventy-eight years.
She waved from the window like she was going on vacation instead of back to institutional meals and scheduled activities and the gradual narrowing of independence that defined her current existence.