Chapter 1 #2
For a very long time, he had been a great husband and father. It’s just that his career trajectory hadn’t left much room for family. Rory eventually ran for mayor of Burlington and won. I remember feeling extremely happy and proud, but I had no idea how much his new job would consume him.
Toward the end of his first four years, when he started to talk about running for the senate, he checked out of our family. Point being, if I get carried away in the developing story and let some of my anger toward him surface, please remember that he had been my dream man for many years.
Things got in the way. Isn’t that what often happens?
In addition to having been a chaser of fairy tales, I must admit that I also had been afraid of being alone.
That’s easier to see now. After you’ve spent twenty years with someone, you can’t imagine saying goodbye.
No matter who he becomes or what he does or says, he’s a part of you.
Go find a couple that has gone through a miserable divorce, and I bet they will confess—possibly under extreme torture—that they’re still connected.
Not only was it nearly impossible for me to imagine trudging through the rest of life without a partner, I also couldn’t imagine fighting over custody of our son.
How could we possibly do that to Jasper?
I would happily sacrifice my happiness to give him a secure childhood in a two-parent home.
It was the second week of December when I noticed my plan was backfiring.
It had begun as a New Year’s resolution in January.
Almost one year in, and I was unraveling.
But I told myself that often the struggle becomes strongest when you’re close to winning.
I couldn’t give up at that point. My parents were still together, and I wanted to celebrate the same longevity with my husband.
I had spent the entire year doing everything I could to turn our relationship around, including losing weight, cutting my hair, letting Rory do whatever he pleased, and loving him when he didn’t respond with even an iota of love back.
How could I have stopped mid-plan? I believed if I kept trudging through, he’d wake up and realize what he had—what we had.
Back to the mad Mary Poppins story, only an hour before I sprinkled the powder into Rory’s drink.
It was Christmastime in Vermont, and I was singing a much different song.
I was high on the Christmas spirit, singing “Deck the Halls,” and easing down our long driveway that traversed through a forest of tall snow-covered evergreens.
I’d left to pick up several extra bags of ice for the party we were hosting that night, but I wasn’t worried about the ice melting on the way back.
I was in no hurry. The holidays were my favorite time of year, and I did everything I could to slow down the moments.
As I passed the last trees of the forest, our century-old white Victorian home with a wraparound porch came into view, standing proudly in the middle of several acres of snow.
The array of lights and decorations on and around the house brought vibrant reds and greens to the all-encompassing winter white.
Many people decorate for Christmas around Thanksgiving time.
That seems to be the American rule. I cheat and string lights on the Friday before Halloween (yes, you read that right!), and by Thanksgiving our house and property were so covered in Christmas decorations that we could have charged money for people to visit.
I think I jumped into my role as a homemaker like I dove into my past acting roles, giving it everything I had.
Lights and topiaries hung from the lampposts that lined the last part of the driveway.
Rory had let me get away with putting a life-size sleigh, Santa, and all his reindeer on the lawn near our front porch. I waved at Santa.
Parking next to my husband’s Cadillac by the side of the house, I stacked up the bags of ice in the snow and planned to return later to retrieve them.
I typically enter through the side door, but on that day, I wanted to make sure the front remained neat for the company arriving later.
I climbed the front steps and admired my handiwork.
One of the most beautiful wreaths on planet Earth adorned our red front door.
Through a window to the left, I could see the largest of our five Christmas trees twinkling by the fireplace in the living room.
I pushed open the door and was greeted by Bing Crosby’s jolly voice.
There were rules in my house during the holidays.
Only Christmas music was allowed. We were a festive bunch. By “we,” I mean “I.”
Most Decembers, I had the pleasure of entering our home to hear Jasper playing a holiday tune on his grand piano in the living room.
But our teenage son was attending a winter music camp through a school exchange program.
I’d like to claim credit for some of his musical virtuosity, but his piano talents extended far beyond my ability.
Yes, I had majored in music, and I had made a career at it before I’d met Rory, but I had only a fraction of Jasper’s musical ability.
Before he’d even turned ten years old, he was tearing through Liszt, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff and had won every competition he’d entered.
We knew scholarships were in his future and that we wouldn’t be paying for college.
So long as Rory and I—and our mess—stayed out of the way, Jasper would achieve any piano dream he could imagine.
Philippe, my young terrier mutt, heard the door close. First, I heard him barking, and he soon came barreling clumsily around the corner, slid across the floor, and smacked into my legs.
I knelt down and let him lick my face. “Hey, my little babushka,” I said. “Did you miss me?” Judging by the number of licks, I knew he had. I petted his wiry gray hair, and his darling tail wagged with glee.
With Philippe at my heels, I did a quick walkthrough of the rest of the downstairs, making sure we were prepared for tonight.
Rory and I were hosting yet another fundraiser.
At least I think it was a fundraiser. We’d hosted so many events that year that they all ran together.
If we weren’t hosting, we were attending something.
I had no idea how social one could be until I married Rory.
Even as a practicing lawyer in our early years, he’d loved to go out on the town and say hi to people.
Now that he was the mayor, we never stopped.
He could shake a thousand hands a day, and it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his inner extrovert.
For this reason, winning the mayoral election came so easily to him.
His most amazing skill was that he didn’t forget names.
For every hand he shook, he knew the names of that person’s family members.
He could even remember the names of their pets.
Rory’s unending craving for the support of other people was what started us on our downhill slope.
His pursuit of a political career became his mistress, and I faded into the background.
My not remembering which fundraiser we were hosting doesn’t mean I was against helping people.
Not at all! I was going through a lot, working my plan with everything I had in me, and trying not to acknowledge the deep pain in my heart.
I had become a zombie. Fundraisers were a great thing, and as Rory and I hit the political world, I embraced helping on a larger scale.
At first, I even thought Rory’s new shoes as mayor were the perfect fit, and I was even more attracted to him.
But hosting and attending those numerous events were certainly wearing me down.
I sashayed into the kitchen, where my team of University of Vermont culinary students were finishing up the hors d’oeuvres.
My parents had instilled in me a love for the cooking process, and when I left the stage, I satisfied my desperate need for creativity by spending more time in the kitchen, creating another form of art.
Fortunately, Rory and I were in a financial position that afforded me the luxury of not working outside the home unless I chose to.
In my case, I had chosen to live the life of a homemaker, putting healthy meals on the table and giving Jasper and Rory my full attention, giving them a rich and full life.
Sure, I could have had the city pay for caterers.
In fact, that’s exactly what Rory wanted me to do, but I found great pleasure in preparing the food for those events.
Especially with our marriage becoming somewhat blurry, I fell even deeper into the culinary arts.
Rather than hiring a caterer, I’d put together a team from the University of Vermont who shared my passion.
Unlike many others, I, as the kitchen leader, didn’t scramble at the last minute.
I ran my kitchen like an admiral runs her ship.
We still had the rest of the afternoon for detail work, but we’d prepped most everything.
I clapped my hands, and we did our pre-party lineup.
Eager heads nodded as I ran through the checklist. We’d stuffed the Castelvetrano olives with roasted garlic and Parmesan breadcrumbs, and the olives were ready to be deep fried at the last moment.
We’d par-baked the baguettes. The onion tarts and the leek and mushroom croquettes were ready to bake in one of my three ovens.
Bowls of spiced pecans, Ribiola-stuffed figs, and dips such as my to-die-for beet hummus waited in the fridge.
In addition to a nice selection of wine, we’d made several pitchers of a wonderfully boozy eggnog, using my famous recipe.
Despite all the work we’d put into making this long list of deliciousness, the kitchen was sparkling clean.
I was an admiral proudly looking over my shipshape galley.