Chapter 8
A PUBLIC LIFE
Do you remember the first time you fell in love? It might have been when you were fifteen. He clumsily asked you to a movie. Halfway through the opening credits, he reached for your hand. A week later you kissed. Your whole world was turned upside down.
Maybe Cupid found you with his arrow much later.
For some it happens in college. Perhaps you hadn’t met the right guy in high school, but in your freshman year, you met a boy at a party.
He was looking to hook up like the rest of them, but something was different about him.
He took you to see a school play. You studied together.
You walked hand in hand through the halls, and you couldn’t get enough of each other. Everything started to make sense.
He was all you could think about. Everything around you glittered. You were walking chill bumps. The days shimmered brighter. Music touched you deeper. Even the way you woke up was different. You tasted something almost divine.
This morning, my eyes popped open, and the world was beautiful. I was in love, all over again.
Rory woke me with a kiss and squeezed my bottom.
I giggled as he climbed out of bed and into the shower.
I patted the bed, and Philippe hopped up to join me.
I pulled him close and told him that today would be our best day in many years.
He wagged his tail with gusto when I teased him with the idea of treats from the doggy bakery.
I trotted into the bathroom. Rory was humming, which would have sounded awful to anyone other than the one who loved him.
I had no idea what he was humming, and the notes he attempted weren’t even notes.
But gosh, did he sound good to my lovestruck ears.
I checked the rack to make sure he had a fresh towel.
I even went to the drawer in his closet and matched up the rest of the mismatched socks.
There was only one thing I wanted to do for myself today. When my soul soared like it was doing today, I wanted to be in the kitchen. Now that I had someone to cook for, someone who deserved my cooking, I could barely contain my culinary urge. The excitement nearly pushed me down the stairs.
In another rare twist, I decided that not only would I celebrate our reunion—or, as I thought of it, Rory’s reawakening—I would also celebrate the year of culinary torture I’d endured by breaking away from my diet.
For one day only, I’d let myself go.
As I weighed out flour for my first recipe, Rory entered the kitchen in a pinstriped suit. “There she is. My queen.” He pinched the material of my shirt and pulled me in for a hell of a kiss, his mouthwash all minty and lovely.
“You go be your best, my love.”
“I just want to get it over with so I can get back to you.”
Oh, how I loved this man.
I wished him a good day, and Philippe and I longingly watched through the window as he drove away. My heart had never felt so full.
“I love that guy,” I said to Philippe. “No, not as much as you but almost.”
He licked my face, and I squeezed him with love.
The sweets came first. I made blondies and eclairs, two of my favorite desserts.
Then I tackled some savory treats, including Rory’s favorite, a simple snack mix made with Amish butter and vegan Worcestershire sauce.
If he didn’t eat it all when he returned home, I’d bag some up for friends and family.
I almost had a handful but was afraid of completely losing control.
Once the ovens were full and every burner on the stove occupied, I considered dinner.
I flipped through a few cookbooks for ideas and decided on a vegetarian cassoulet, a perfect winter meal.
While singing along with a radio station playing show tunes, the air energized with my elation, I went to work.
During a quiet moment in between steps in the recipes, I took a break to reach out to a few friends and family.
Along with being a bit of a mess the past year, I’d nearly alienated myself.
I texted Jasper first, just to tell him I loved him.
I called my parents in Virginia; I even invited them to visit!
I called Erica and talked to her for forever; she was excited for me. I said, “Told you so!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said back, but she didn’t sound convinced. I knew she wanted me to be happy, but for some reason, it was hard for her to trust Rory.
I was in such a jolly mood I even called a few friends from college with whom I hadn’t been in contact for more than a year.
After a well-deserved nap cuddling with Philippe, I went down to admire my work.
You should have seen the eclairs. I picked up one of those stunning creations and admired this piece of art.
In my earlier baking years, I would have rolled out a green fondant icing and used a holly cutter to make three holly leaves.
I would have put the leaves together on top of white icing, then squeezed three dots of red icing at the base of the holly leaves.
As I became a more experienced chef, I learned how to use healthier ingredients and stopped using food dyes.
To replace the green fondant hollies, I used mint leaves.
Rather than the dots of red icing, I used pomegranate seeds. I know, I know. I’m brilliant.
I couldn’t bring myself to eat the beautiful pastries.
The slippery slope of breaking my diet scared the heck out of me.
Oh, well. Feeling skinny might just be better than enjoying good food.
My confidence slipped for a moment. What if I did gain weight?
What if I grew my hair back out? Would Rory and I have to relive all those hard times?
Steering away from troubling mental waters, I told myself that it wasn’t just my new body and haircut that had gotten Rory back. Ultimately, it was the love I’d shown, the love I’d refused to let go.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to indulge.
I texted Rory and told him about dinner tonight. I hoped he’d text me right back, but no such luck. I rationalized that I couldn’t expect that suddenly he’d be free all the time and waiting to instantaneously return my every text.
With time to spare, I climbed the stairs to our cozy sitting room, where I liked to watch the news while I ironed.
To some, I might sound like such a boring housewife, but I enjoyed ironing, and for me, nothing was dull about my duties.
It was one of my most satisfying callings and one of my greatest challenges.
Call me old-fashioned, and you’d be spot-on.
I loved being a housewife and homemaker, especially when my efforts were appreciated.
I collected a few articles of clothing out of the dryer and a handful of shirts from Rory’s closet.
Each of those shirts had my little trademark crease in the back collar.
I thought I’d better iron those out now that life was back to normal.
I didn’t want him thinking I still held a grudge.
I was almost dancing as I set up the ironing board and started on his first shirt.
A super-comfy shag rug covered the hardwood floor, and I loved to squish my toes into it as I worked.
The news on the screen hanging on the wall, much to my delight, mirrored my joy.
Rather than the typical crime or theft or murder, the first piece I caught was about a young Girl Scout who’d been doing card tricks for the elderly at a nearby retirement home.
“Bless her heart,” I said. Then a piece ran about a dog that had been missing for three months and finally returned home.
I looked down at Philippe. “Don’t you ever go anywhere, sweetie.
” Raw tears dripped down my cheeks. What a lovely world we live in.
It goes to show you, when you see what you want and you go after it, you can get it. I saw what was wrong with our marriage. I saw that my partner needed me. And that’s what I did, I showed up for him. That’s what love is.
As I grabbed the last shirt and ironed the last mischievous crease, a breaking news alert flashed along the bottom of the screen. The words that spread across the screen hit me like someone had taken a baseball bat and struck me in the chest.
Rory Simpson infidelity caught on tape!
The breath ran from my lungs as my chest imploded. The iron fell from my hand. I barely heard it drop onto the shaggy rug. I stared, dumbfounded, at the TV and listened to the reporter. “Burlington mayor Rory Simpson has been busted committing sexual acts with a woman who is not his wife.”
My phone buzzed and dinged.
The reporter on the television warned of graphic images, just before an enlarged image splashed all over the TV screen. There he was, sitting in his car, and he wasn’t alone.
My husband, Rory Simpson.
The mayor of Burlington, Vermont.
The Poultry Hater.
The Dream Killer.
The Deceiver.
The editors had blurred out his crotch, but the amateur video showed my cheating husband in the front seat of his sedan with a topless woman performing oral sex on him.
I didn’t recognize her at first. All I could see was a brunette face down in my husband’s lap.
He was leaned back on the reclined seat with his eyes closed, and his lips were moving enough that it was obvious he was mumbling something.
What was he mumbling? Instructions? Encouragement?
Gratitude? He held one hand on the brunette’s back.
Bile crept up into my throat.
The woman raised her head. It was Nadine, the person I thought had been a friend.