Chapter 23
Deadline: imminent. Answers: here.
When Caroline Collins opened the door to her recently renovated farmhouse, Sloane caught a rush of freshly baked bread, the savory tang of meat roasting in the oven, and a top note of freshly picked flowers—a conflagration of experience that was at once folksy and alive.
The homestead was a good thirty or so miles outside the University, a journey that departed the highway for a two-lane interstate until finally the asphalt dwindled down to an unpaved road.
From the drive in, as the sun gradually bled into the endless stretch of horizon, Sloane had spotted familiar hallmarks of The Country Wife’s fantasy theater—the barn with the small drift of pigs and the dairy cow named Dolly, after Dolly Parton (one of the pigs was named Jolene).
Sloane had parked self-consciously in the finished drive outside the farmhouse, a little jarred by her own admiration for the stonework beneath her feet.
Before she could knock, the house’s video doorbell had flashed with acknowledgment of her presence, and the door opened as if by magic.
Caroline wore one of those milkmaid-style linen dresses, her skin dewy and effortless, her natural black hair fading artfully to gold. “Come in,” she said, breezing aside in the doorway for Sloane to enter. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”
It hadn’t been great, but that seemed an unpleasant place to start a conversation.
Nor would it be appropriate for Sloane to mention the argument she’d just had with Max, who was irritated at having to stay home with a cranky, newly pink-eyed Isla (as if Sloane had planned on pink eye, of all the fucking things!), and wanted to know why exactly Sloane was throwing away the job he’d pulled so many strings to secure for her, which she insisted she wasn’t doing, or would have insisted on, except she hadn’t heard him put it in those terms before.
“Are you saying that I owe you?” Sloane asked him, and it must have shown on her face, the proverbial blow and her consequential reeling.
The unexpected confirmation that her progressive marriage, her domestic safe place that she had built with her own two hands—the love that she had chosen without question or doubt!
—had been contained within an invisible expectation this whole time. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Of course not.” Max raised one hand to his forehead as Isla began to cry, as if this were something Sloane was doing to him; as if it did not destroy Sloane in every conceivable way not to reach for her daughter and give up all pretense of existing beyond Isla’s immediate needs.
“I’m just tired, Sloane. I’ve got term papers to grade, lectures to finish.
You haven’t exactly been present lately.
” Oh, nice, as if she hadn’t hated herself enough.
“I’m here exactly as often as you’re here.
More so.” Sloane couldn’t believe what Max was telling her, that what she had anecdotally observed to be true was actual, concrete fact to him: that her job was less serious than his; that her job only existed because of him; that her absence was a burden while his was earned.
That she, as the mother, owed more to Isla than he did, or worse—that Sloane, as the less valuable person in the partnership, could not equitably rely on the importance of her own work.
“I’m doing what you said, Max. I’m trying to show Burns that I’m valuable enough for tenure.
” She heard Alex in her head then: You can’t show a man that you have value.
Either he believes it or he doesn’t. “Max, I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but have you considered that maybe so am I? ”
Oh, but Sloane’s tolerance for hardship was so much higher, had always been higher.
Her ability to withstand stress, to bend but never break, had always exceeded his.
People were imperfect; of course they had their flaws.
Sloane could be overly sensitive, she could be unpredictable and a little too rigid, she had a temper she often lost. But Sloane could also handle exhaustion better than Max could; she could roll with every disruption, whatever conflict might arise.
She took on the heavier burdens because she could; because her love was naturally generous; because she understood that stress cost her less than it did him.
Max, he just didn’t bounce like her, he simply couldn’t do it.
A personality detail. Surely not structural. Surely not something he could improve.
Which was bullshit, wasn’t it? Because when Sloane had a flaw, she adjusted. When Max identified a weakness in her, she fixed it. When something wasn’t working, she simply fucking changed.
But none of that did anything to make her feel less guilty about leaving her daughter, nor did it soothe the brittle annoyance she currently felt about Max.
So Sloane turned to Caroline Collins, who referred to her own husband as Dear, and said, “I’m just grateful you were willing to chat with me.”
“Oh Dr. Hartley, believe me, it’s my pleasure.
” Caroline turned, motioning for Sloane to follow into her open-plan kitchen, a familiar sight by now.
The other alumnae of The House—The Women—had similar tastes, and the bottle of wine set out on the island with two glasses beside it was no longer an unfamiliar sight for Sloane.
There was a now-predictable spread of three cheeses, the crusty bread that Sloane had smelled from the entryway, and a small dusting of purple pansies and orange dahlias, ostensibly for decoration.
There was also a selection of grapes so shiny they almost looked candied, or fake.
“Help yourself,” Caroline said, bending to check something in the oven.
“Dinner’s nearly finished, just needs about ten minutes to rest.” She poured herself some wine, then offered the bottle to Sloane.
“I know you’re driving, but you’ve got to try this one.
The vineyard I’m partnering with sent some over last week and it is genuinely to die for. ”
In real life, Caroline’s voice was just as soothing as her VidStar content suggested. Sloane accepted a small amount in her glass, wondering aloud, “Do you get these kinds of interview requests often?”
“I do hear from potential advertisers a fair amount,” Caroline said. “Not usually any sociologists, though, much less any that are associated with The House.”
Sloane wondered if she detected a tone of irony in there somewhere, although she could have been imagining it.
“I’ll be honest, I don’t know The Girls very well,” she attempted.
“I’ve only been an advisor for a short period of time, and truthfully, I’m still in awe.
Everyone who’s walked those halls has turned out incredibly impressive—I feel a bit humbled, honestly, being just a lowly adjunct,” Sloane said with a fashionably self-deprecating laugh.
Caroline said nothing, so Sloane continued, “Like I said, I’m so grateful you were willing to talk to me. I mean, you’ve had such a wildly successful couple of years,” she added, hoping to soften Caroline’s placid homemaker mask, “so I’m sure you must get all kinds of interest.”
Caroline stopped pouring, looking down for a moment before her eyes rose shrewdly to Sloane’s.
“Alex doesn’t know you’re here,” she said. “Does she?”
Sloane’s heart seized. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” Caroline said lightly, with the disdain of a woman twice her age. “Alex doesn’t consider me successful. Neither do you.”
She gave Sloane a look, which Sloane attempted to refute.
“Alex was very encouraging, actually, of the project. Because the book isn’t about The House, really,” Sloane added hastily, scraping a knife over what was almost certainly hand-churned honey butter, if only to busy her hands.
“It’s more about feminine power generally, and what makes a ‘good’ woman, and the ways that success in feminine terms can be—”
“And I am, what, powerful?” Caroline seemed amused by this.
Sloane very wisely said nothing.
“I bought this,” said Caroline, gesturing vaguely to her farmhouse. “I made over a million dollars in sponsored content alone last year. I manage our finances and investments. My husband’s aunt left him ten thousand dollars a few years ago and I turned it into this.”
Caroline’s heels clipped on the kitchen floor as she walked over and bent down, knees together, to check on the steaks broiling in the oven.
“I do think you’re very successful,” Sloane said. “I’m not surprised you’re the savvy one in your relationship, especially given what I know about The House.” She paused, reevaluating whether candor might take her further than flattery. “I guess I just wonder, then, about the … values.”
“You mean the cross between anti-vaxxer Barbie and Little House on the Prairie?” asked Caroline, checking the temperature of her meat before rising to fetch her oven mitts, which were pristine, natural fibers with the modern-looking monogram of CC.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Sloane hedged, and Caroline laughed.
“Alex would. More accurately, she already has. I believe she once called my audience ‘a slew of fascist bimbos.’” Caroline set the meat on a wooden carving board to rest, reaching for her glass of wine. “Of course, it’s not exactly bimboism, is it? So there’s that for Alex’s spirit of accuracy.”
“I don’t want to suggest I’ve come here as Alex’s missionary or something,” said Sloane, frowning a little. Maybe she should have leaned harder into the idea that Alex didn’t approve of her presence. “I find all of this interesting, I really do—”
“All of what?” Caroline asked, arching one polished brow.
“Well, I suppose—” Sloane hesitated. “Is it real?” she asked. “Is this you building a brand, or is it sincere?”