22. Lily
22
Lily
As the sun sets on the lake, I sit on the porch of Dad’s cabin. It’s actually our cabin now, but all three of us just call it “Dad’s cabin.” I think we always will. He used to come up here on the occasional weekend to fish. His little rowing boat is still tied to the small pier that reaches out onto the lake, and the sight of it makes me miss him more than I have in a while.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here. It’s a getaway for Ellie, Martha, and me. We all use it for short vacations or weekends away, only I haven’t had time for a break in so long.
Sitting here with the beautiful view in front of me, listening to the dusk chorus of birds in the surrounding oaks and birch trees, I realize I really need to make more time for myself.
Of course, that’s only a fleeting thought. My mind is overrun with far more pressing ponderings. Like, how did everything go so wrong? Who is Charlotte? How long has Orson known her? Did she come before me?
Of course she did.
Have I been completely blind? Did I rush into this thing with Orson without thinking it through? It still doesn’t make sense, and I can’t reconcile that email with the man who has treated me so well for the last four months. What am I missing?
Trying to figure it out, I recall that guy coming to the bakery not long after Orson and I had decided on our fake marriage. Maybe Marcus had been right. Maybe Orson is a player. My gut tells me it can’t be true, and yet, what am I supposed to think?
At the time, Orson had been so angry. He’d given me an explanation of the kind of man Marcus was and why he had come to see me. At the time, I believed him. In fact, I didn’t question it. But how could I possibly have known that what he said was the truth? How do I know that Orson wasn’t just trying to cover his own behind?
It makes sense that his anger would have had more to do with Marcus trying to blow the whistle on his infidelity, right? He did have a lot to lose. I mean, his whole inheritance rides on the fact that he had to be married. Maybe he thought I would throw in the towel if I discovered the kind of person he really was.
All these questions and no answers.
Oh, make it make sense!
The truth is, I don’t really know him. This whirlwind relationship, albeit fake, has occurred over a period of a few months. Yes, I knew of him in school, but that was years ago. Before he walked through the bakery door on the night of that meeting, I had no clue about him or his life.
And the more I think about it, the more I realize that lying comes easily to him. This whole arrangement is based on a lie. If he’s been willing to lie to his own family about us, I shouldn’t really be surprised that he’s going to lie to me.
I’ve been an idiot. I’ve allowed myself to get sucked in, and for all I know, Orson Donovan is a conman.
You don’t really believe that.
I don’t know what I believe anymore. I’m exhausted, I’m emotional, and I’ve been under so much pressure to trick everyone I know, including my own family, into believing that I’m married to this guy. It’s all been too much.
Sipping the wine I found in the cabin, I take a huge breath in. We keep the place stocked with food and supplies in case any of us takes a spontaneous break—or runs away from our husbands, even the fake ones. I wish I could shut my thoughts off, but they just keep on coming. I thought about that email around a hundred times as I drove here to the cabin, but no matter which way I look at it, I can’t find another explanation. He has someone else in his life.
While I was worried sick about my mother lying in a hospital bed, he was out having dinner and fraternizing with this Charlotte woman. And he did that after I told him how I felt about him. After I told him I had a crush on him in high school. After that soft and tender kiss.
Why? Am I not enough?
This woman has clearly been in his life longer than I have, so what was the point of him trying to win me over? From what I’ve seen, he barely has time for one woman, let alone two. But that would be perfect for him, right? He’d have me in the little town of Willow Creek, and then, when he has to stay in the city, he has someone there to make sure he doesn’t get lonely.
But he told you he’d never been in a serious relationship.
Maybe that was a lie, too. Or maybe, whatever he has with whoever this Charlotte person is, it isn’t a serious relationship. Maybe she’s his booty call.
Lily!
Okay. Maybe that’s too far. But then, how do I really know?
Beside me, my phone lights up, and looking down at it, I see it’s Orson calling. Again. For the fiftieth time. I had to turn it to silent because his calls were driving me nuts. I’d turn it off altogether but for the fact that Mom was in the hospital less than twenty-four hours ago, and if she takes a turn for the worse, I want to know.
Besides, I need to call Jasmine. I texted her earlier, telling her I was heading home and would be in tomorrow. That isn’t happening. Not now. She called a few hours ago, but I was driving, so I really need to call her back.
When Jasmine answers, she sounds worried. “Are you okay, honey?”
“Sure,” I lie. “I’m fine. Why? What’s up?”
“Your husband came in here looking for you, that’s what’s up. He was pretty secretive, and I didn’t push it, but I was worried. I tried calling earlier, but I couldn’t get through to you.”
“I was driving,” I sigh.
“Did you go home yet? Orson’s pretty worried.”
Like I care right now how Orson feels. Okay. Maybe that’s not entirely true. I’m not that cold; I don’t have the capacity for that kind of sociopathic behavior.
“I went home, and then…” I hesitate, wondering if I really want to get into this with Jasmine. I trust her with every fiber of my being. Whatever I say to her will stay with her; she’s not like many of the wagging tongues in Willow Creek. But my hesitation also has to do with the fact that I’m so tired, I don’t have the mental energy to discuss it.
“You know, sometimes, relationships are hard,” Jasmine says wisely. “I know Tom and I had our ups and downs. Our secret was communication. Whatever happened, we always talked it out.”
Yes, but I’ll bet infidelity wasn’t part of any of those discussions. Though, in truth, I don’t really know that, but from how Jasmine speaks of her deceased husband, I just can’t imagine it.
“Right now, I think I just need some time on my own,” I reply.
“And that’s okay, honey. Are you somewhere safe?”
I nod. “Yes, I’m safe.”
“And does Orson know that?”
Again, I hesitate to answer. Part of me wants to punish him for what he’s done. Part of me wants him to worry about my well-being. I know that sounds twisted, but I’m feeling too low to care.
“I’ll tell him,” I lie again.
“You know I’m here at any time, day or night. You know that, right?”
“Thanks, Jasmine. Listen, I’m not going to be back for another couple of days, so if you want to lock up the bakery, you do that.”
“I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
“Okay,” I say, not having the energy to argue. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
When I hang up, I pour what’s left of the bottle of wine into my glass, pull the shawl tighter around my shoulders, and stare out onto the lake for a long time.
Last night, I was in bed before ten, which was a novelty for me. I know that all the gurus out there spout about going to bed early so you can rise early, but they should try running a bakery.
This morning, I thought I might feel a little more rested. I don’t. My body still feels like it’s carrying a ton of weight, and the lethargy is exhausting.
And there’s something else. I miss Orson.
I know it sounds crazy, and after all my doubts and fears yesterday, it doesn’t make any sense . Does any of this? But right now, I’m like a leaf in the wind being blown hither and thither with my emotions.
One minute I hate him; the next minute, I miss him.
Maybe hate is too strong a word. Let’s go with detest, abhor, loathe, dislike. Oh, wait. All those words mean the same thing. All right, so my sarcasm gets worse when I’m tired, but let’s just say he’s not my favorite person right now.
After a strong cup of coffee, I call the nursing home. Apparently, Mom is fine and has integrated right back into her normal routine. I suppose that’s what happens when you can’t remember what you did the day before.
Maybe, on some level, it’s a blessing in disguise. Not that I would wish that disease on anyone. That being said, a little amnesia would do me no harm right now. I’d love to forget what happened yesterday.
In a mindless trance, I spend most of the afternoon on the porch, just staring out across the lake. With the sounds of the water and the birds in the trees, I slip into some kind of meditative state and completely zone out. Maybe I can’t forget what happened yesterday, but I can certainly tune out of my own life for a while.
When I come back to Earth, the sun is low in the sky. Its reflection glitters across the lake like a thousand explosions happening every millisecond. Dad always loved this place, and this was one of the reasons why. It just holds such beauty, and wonder, and surprise. No day is ever the same, no sky is ever the same, no reflection is ever the same.
I look at my phone and notice another bunch of missed calls from Orson. Maybe I could send him a text, just to let him know I’m okay. Instead, I decide to make another call.
I’ve been putting this call off. I don’t really know why. Partly because I’m too tired, partly because I don’t want anyone judging my decision. But the fact of the matter is this: I need some help and good advice from people who know me and love me.
So I call my sisters.