Give E-Book

Erica C. Witsell

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

very unusual family saga written with unusual intelligence and compassion. Erica Witsell has a gift for depicting complex relationships. -Phyllis Rose, author of Parallel Lives, The Year of Reading Proust, and The Shelf.

Every summer, Jessie and Emma leave their suburban home in the Central Valley and fly north to Baymont. Nestled among Mendocino's golden hills, with ponies to love and endless acres to explore, Baymont should be a child's paradise. But Baymont belongs to Laurel, the girls' birth mother, whose heedless parenting and tainted judgement cast a long shadow over the sisters' summers---and their lives.

Caught in a web of allegiances, the girls learn again and again that every loyalty has its price, and that even forgiveness can take unexpected turns.

Luminous and poignant. Give is the story of one family's troubled quest to redeem the mistakes of the past and a stirring testament to the bonds of sisterhood.

"This is a gripping narrative about family, identity, and loyalty . . . Beautifully written! -Kate Rademacher, author of Following the Red Bird

"At times subtle and at times cutting to the quick Give digs deep into the heart and soul of a family as connected as it is torn apart. Give pulls no punches, delivering an honest look into the lengths we will go for family. -Amy Willoughby-Burle, author of The Lemonade Year

Leseprobe

Give, a Novel

© 2019 Erica C. Witsell. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-945448-34-8 (p)

ISBN 978-1-945448-35-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936660

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Michelle Booth

Second editor: Caleb Guard

Praise for Erica Witsell and Give

“Give is a striking, often unflinching, depiction of a doomed marriage and its enduring consequences. Erica Witsell is a very talented writer and her debut should garner a wide and appreciative audience.”

– Ron Rash, author of the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Finalist and New York Times bestselling novel Serena, in addition to four other prizewinning novels

“This is a gripping narrative about family, identity, and loyalty. The themes are both uniquely modern and timeless. I fell in love with the characters as they struggled to understand themselves and reconcile with one another. Beautifully written!”

– Kate Rademacher, author of Following the Red Bird

“This is an engrossing novel about family and forgiveness. Tracing the lives of five characters over the span of thirty years, Erica C. Witsell shows us that family is about choice as much as it is about blood and that sacrifice and selfishness both play a role in how we parent and love.”

– Sarah Viren, author of Mine

“What will you give for your family—love, forgiveness, second chances? Everything you are? What if they don’t give back? Give shines a light across the best and worst of us all, asking what will you give? At times subtle and at times cutting to the quick, Givedigs deep into the heart and soul of a family as connected as it is torn apart. Give pulls no punches, delivering an honest look into the lengths we will go for family. What we will give and what we won’t.”

– Amy Willoughby-Burle, author of The Lemonade Year

“[Give’s] imagery is spot-on, excellent dialogue, . . . and [a] sly sense of humor. Very poignant! [This] novel won’t let go of me.”

– Jenny Anna Linde-Rhine, columnist at Zinnig

“A family drama with depth and complexity; it was hard to put this book down.”

– Jennifer Arellano

“[Give] is well-written, the characters are compelling, and . . . the author . . . [has] a lot of sympathy for the many strange ways we love and break and forgive and go on.”

– Lauren Harr

“Give grabs your attention on the first page and holds it throughout as it weaves the complicated web of one family.”

– Kristen Schlaefer

“Put it down and you’ll be thinking about it until you pick it back up again. Which will be as soon as possible.”

– Lindsey Grossman, blogger at www.lindseyliving.com

For my children,

Clayton, Dee Dee, and Sylvia

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned

W.B. Yeats

CONTENTS

PART ONE: 1974-1979

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

PART TWO: 1982-1988

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

PART THREE: 1998-2003

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

Laurel

The two couples huddled together on the beach, their shoulders hunched against the wind as colorless waves chased each other onto the sand. They had just arrived; inside the small motel a block away, their weekend bags lay unopened on their beds.

Ten minutes ago, Laurel had rapped at her friend’s door.

“Alice, you guys in there? Want to walk down to the beach with us?”

In fact, Alice hardly counted as a friend. Laurel knew her only from the biology lab on campus, where both worked as assistants, cleaning test tubes and preparing slides. But Laurel had needed her for this weekend. She had told her husband, Len, that this weekend getaway was Alice’s idea, had convinced him to come along only by arguing how rude it would be of them to refuse.

Len had thought only of the practicalities: the expense, the babysitter, the weekend he would miss with his beloved daughter. He didn’t understand how much Laurel needed this: two precious days to feel like herself again, without her two-year-old daughter clinging to her legs or nattering on at her from the moment she awoke.

And now they were here, at last, the sky above them another sea of gray, the afternoon sun a hazy brightness behind the clouds. Laurel peeked at Alice’s husband; she had never met Michael before today. He was tall and small-waisted, with sand-colored hair and gray eyes the color of the sea. He caught her looking and gave her a good-natured smile.

“Brrr,” he said, putting his arm around Alice and pulling her against his side. “Whose idea was this, anyway?”

Laurel’s eyes shot to Alice’s face, worried she would give her away. But it didn’t matter now. They were here, the off-season rate for their room paid for in advance on the one credit card they kept for emergencies. That morning, while Len had read books with Jessie on the couch, Laurel had thrown her graying, milk-stained bra into the hamper and excavated a black and lacy thing from the bottom of her underwear drawer. Now she could feel the underwire pushing uncomfortably against her breasts, and she resisted the urge to reach back and unfasten the clasp. Instead, she gave Michael a small, open-mouthed smile.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that cold.” Sucking in her breath, she broke away from Len’s side and bent down to pull off her shoes.

“Laurel, please,” Len said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be silly. It’s freezing.”

Laurel caught Michael’s eye. “You want to come?”

“Are you nuts?”

“Laurel,” Len said. “Don’t. It’s way too cold.”

He held out his arm then, for her to come back to him, and for a moment she was tempted. It would be so easy to slip back into the warmth of his side, to let herself be quieted. But it was not quiet that she wanted. She raised her eyes to the gray slate of the ocean and undid the button on her jeans. Beneath her clothes, the monotony of her life clung to her like a film on her skin.

“That baby’s going to strip your youth right off you,” her mother, Pearl, had said dryly, two and a half years ago, when Laurel had first told her she was pregnant. “You mark my words.”

But her mother had been wrong. Having a baby hadn’t stripped youth from her. It had simply buried it in a viscous layer that Laurel could not scrape away, no matter what she did. No, she hadn’t come here to stand mutely in the wind, safely tucked away beneath her husband’s arm. She had come to scour herself clean, to peel away the gauzy membrane that the last two years of motherhood had swathed her in. That was why she had cajoled and pleaded for this weekend at the beach without her daughter. She didn’t plan to waste a minute.

She pulled her arms from her jacket and dropped it in the sand.

“Laurel,” Len said sharply. “We’re in public.”

She wouldn’t look at her husband; he couldn’t stop her. She looked at Michael instead and saw that he was watching her, his mouth pulled up on one side in amusement, showing a row of even teeth.

Laurel gestured widely at the empty beach. “Len, there’s no one here.”

Len nodded curtly at Alice and Michael. “They’re here.”

“That’s right,” Michael said, running his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. “What about us? Are we nobody?”

Laurel grinned; a flush of warmth went through her. She wriggled out of her jeans, the wind raising goosebumps on her bare skin. Miraculously, she had managed to shave her legs just this morning, hunched over in the shower while Jessie stood at the edge of the tub, pulling back the curtain and reaching for the pink plastic razor in Laurel’s hand.

“Dessie do!”

“No,” Laurel had said sharply. “You’ll cut yourself.”

But in the end, it had been Laurel who had cut herself, moving the razor too quickly over her knee, leaning awkwardly to keep away from Jessie’s grasping hands.

“Damn it, Jessie,” she had muttered. “See what you made me do.”

Her daughter had watched as the blood rose on her mother’s skin.

“Uh-oh, Momma. Boo boo. Boo boo wight dare.” She pointed in alarm at Laurel’s knee.

Laurel had rolled her eyes. “Yeah, boo boo right there. Well, what do you expect? I can’t even shave my freaking legs in peace.”

Now, the newly shaved skin almost hurt, the way the follicles raised up, trying futilely to warm her. But Laurel could still feel Michael’s eyes on her—felt, too, the little flare that had gone on inside of her. For a moment, she forgot the cold. Her skin tingled, alive. She glanced at her husband. Len stood with his broad shoulders turned away from her, long arms loose at his sides. The wind whipped a curl of black hair into his eyes, and he pushed it away impatiently. Why won’t you look at me? she wanted to shout at him. But her husband’s mouth was set in a grim little line and he would not meet her eye.

Laurel let out a wild little laugh. “Here I go!”

She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it in the sand beside her discarded jeans, then ran quickly toward the water. With each step, she felt her bottom jiggle. She had not lost all the extra pounds of her pregnancy, and it was with an effort that she fought the impulse to reach back and prod the flesh there, testing its firmness.

When at last Laurel reached the water, she was relieved. The water would cover her. But Laurel had not reckoned on how low the tide was. The water barely reached her knees, the skin on her legs stinging with the salt and cold. She ran a few more steps, but it was awkward running in the shallow water, the way she had to splay her legs out to the side with every step. She didn’t look back, but still she felt them watching her.

A few steps more and finally the water reached above her knees. This morning’s razor cut stung sharply and she looked down. Her legs were hidden now beneath the churning water, but she imagined that the cut was bleeding again, imagined the blood seeping out of her into the vast ocean. She tried to summon the thrill she had felt while she’d stripped on the beach, the heat of Michael’s eyes, but both were gone. She hugged her upper body and scanned the ocean for another swimmer. Surely there must be at least a surfer in a wetsuit, some other human form to make her feel less alone. But there was no one.

Laurel took a deep breath and threw herself forward into the water. A wave crested over her, the water so cold it made her temples ache. She thrashed wildly for a second, forgetting how shallow it was. But then her hands grazed the bottom, and she pushed herself back to standing, gasping with the cold.

She ran back to the beach immediately, the useless bra struggling to contain her bouncing breasts, heavy strands of hair flopping against her face. She was not thinking, now, of how she looked to the others, whom she could see standing together on the beach. Michael and Alice stood pressed together; Laurel noticed how perfectly Michael’s slender hip fit into the curve of Alice’s waist.

By the time she reached them, she had begun to shiver uncontrollably.

Michael grinned at her. “You call that a swim?”

She did not answer. Her teeth began to chatter. Len scooped her shirt from the sand and held it out for her.

She shook her head. “I’m soaked.”

“Put it on,” he said, reaching for her jeans.

The jeans wouldn’t go on easily; her numb fingers fumbled with the waistband. Michael and Alice looked away, then took a few steps down the beach.

“Where are they going?” Laurel said, her teeth clattering over every word.

“Just get dressed,” Len said.

That evening, the four of them had dinner at a small Italian restaurant near the motel. Condensation streamed down the windows, blurring its neon sign.

“Cozy little place,” Michael said, looking around. Each table had a classic red and white checkered tablecloth, a burgundy candle wedged into an empty wine bottle. He smiled at Laurel pleasantly.

Michael ordered a bottle of red wine, and Laurel’s mood lifted as she drank. She was warm at last; she felt her skin glow. She finished her glass during the appetizer and smiled gratefully when the waiter refilled it, glad that Len would not see her reach for the bottle.

Her food arrived, the pasta still steaming beneath its dollop of dark red sauce. Laurel could not help closing her eyes and leaning over it, just to feel the moist warmth against her face. Once she would have taken this for granted—this simple, overpriced meal. Now she knew better. Now she knew what it was worth, this meal that she had not prepared with a toddler hanging on her leg, this meal that she would eat without once having to get up for more this or more that, to mop up a spill, or retrieve a sippy cup thrown purposefully to the floor.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that Michael was watching her. She smiled at him and drew in her breath deeply so that her chest pushed out against her shirt.

“Bon appétit,” she said. “Or rather . . . Buon appetito!” She raised her wine glass to her lips. Inside her, something fluttered and awoke.

When the meal was over and Alice rose to excuse herself to the ladies’ room, Laurel pushed back her chair.

“I’ll go, too.”

Neither of the women spoke while they were in their stalls, but afterwards Laurel sought out Alice’s eyes in the mirror above the sink.

“You having fun?”

“Sure.”

“I like Michael. He seems . . . nice.”

Alice nodded but said nothing; she was touching up her face. She pressed her lips to a paper towel, leaving a perfect red kiss on the fold. Then she balled up the towel deliberately and held it in her fist. She nodded at the wastebasket on Laurel’s other side.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Instinctively Laurel stepped aside, but something in Alice’s tone had jarred her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

Alice threw away the crumpled paper towel and turned to meet her eye.

“You told him this weekend was our idea, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

Laurel shrugged noncommittally, and Alice stared at her with wide, mascaraed eyes.

“Laurel, that’s not true,” she said fiercely, the color rising in her pale face.

“Oh, come on, Alice. What difference does it make? He would never have come otherwise. And we’re having fun, right?”

Alice shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“Look, Len’s like that. He would never have agreed to this weekend if it had been just the two of us. And I can’t tell you how much I needed—”

“So you used us?”

“Of course not. I wanted you to come.”

Alice frowned.

“Look, I’m sorry if—”

Alice shook her head.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” She bared her teeth in the mirror, checking for lipstick.

“Come on,” Laurel said, reaching for the door. “You look great. And the boys will think we’ve fallen in.”

She forced a smile, but Alice brushed past her without meeting her eye. Laurel made a little face at Alice’s back as she followed her down the tiny hallway to the dining room. She knew from work that Alice could be meticulous about details, but she had never seen her like this, so stone-faced and grim. Alice was younger than Laurel by a few years; she had taken the job at the lab while an undergraduate at Humboldt State and had stayed on after both her graduation and her wedding, grateful to have a job at the same university where her husband had begun his master’s.

Laurel, in comparison, was a newcomer. She had been seven months pregnant with Jessie when she had followed Len to Arcata, a small college town on the coast of northern California. Len had just earned his PhD in theoretical mathematics at Berkeley, and Humboldt State had offered him a teaching position. With only seven weeks until her due date, it was a ludicrous time for Laurel to look for work of her own. But by her daughter’s four-month birthday, Laurel had been desperate for a job—any job—just so she would get to leave the damn house alone for a few hours.

The timing had not been good. It was January of 1973, the economy on the brink of recession. No one had been interested in hiring a new mother with an English degree. In the end, it had been Len who had used his connections at the university to get her the job at the lab, and although Laurel despised nothing more than being patronized, she had swallowed her pride and leapt at it.

On the first day, Laurel’s stomach had churned with nerves. She had not set foot in a science lab since the ninth grade, when her lab partner had used their Bunsen burner to scribble curse words on their table, then set them alight when the teacher wasn’t looking. But Alice had taken Laurel under her wing. You didn’t need to know a thing about biology, Alice had assured her, as long as you cleaned the test tubes properly and left no fingerprints on the cover slips.

At the lab, Alice had always been pleasant and attentive, listening with sympathetic noises as Laurel vented to her about the drudgeries of motherhood. Now she wondered if Alice had only liked listening to her because it made her feel so good about her own life. Newly wed and childless, Alice didn’t need an off-season weekend at the beach to spend time with her gorgeous husband. And she wasn’t paying out the nose for a babysitter, either.

At the thought of the sitter at home with their daughter, Laurel felt a rush of irritation at her mother. Pearl lived alone in Los Angeles in a rented apartment; Laurel had seen no reason her mother couldn’t have moved to Arcata, too, to help her after Jessie was born. But Pearl had declined without apology. Her apartment was rent-controlled, she’d said. She couldn’t afford to give it up.

“Nobody helped me when your father left,” she’d said. “And I managed.”

“Mom, I was five by then.”

Pearl snorted. “You think it gets easier?”

When she and Alice got back to their table, Laurel plopped down in the seat beside Michael before Alice could sit down. She reached across the table for her glass and tossed the wine back. Almost instantly she could feel the alcohol buoying her, a flush of recklessness just beneath her skin.

“Sit there, Alice,” she said, gesturing to the empty seat beside Len with a smile. “I see Len all the time. I want to get to know your husband.”

Alice stared at her, and for a moment Laurel wondered if she would make a scene. But just then their waiter came to check on them, and rather than stand there looking a fool, Alice slipped into Laurel’s empty seat.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter said. “Dessert?”

Laurel held up the empty wine bottle like a beacon.

“Another of these, please.”

“Laurel—” Len began, then looked to Michael and Alice. “Do you two want more?”

“Not for me, thanks,” Michael said, leaning back in his chair.

“Alice?”

“No.”

“Laurel, I don’t think we need—”

“Oh, none of you are any fun. Just another glass then, I suppose.”

CHAPTER 2

Len

When her wine came, Laurel sat leaning forward over the table. She was angled in her chair toward Michael, one elbow propped on the checkered tablecloth, the other arm hidden in her lap. She held her wine glass loosely by the stem, her upper arm pressed against one breast, hoisting it upward. Her shirt was scooped low in front, revealing the deep chasm of her cleavage. Len’s face flushed and he looked away.

“So,” he said, scooting his chair back a few inches and catching Michael’s eye. “What, um, what do you do exactly, Michael? What’s your field, I mean? Your profession?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laurel make a face and he grimaced; even he could hear how awkward he sounded. He had never been good at this. Even when he was young, the easy chatter of the other children had intimidated him; they seemed to speak a lingo he had never mastered. But how dare Laurel mock him now? If it had not been for her insistence on this ridiculous trip, he would be at home putting Jessie to bed, instead of stumbling through this awful small talk.

He looked back at Michael, suddenly annoyed by the other man’s happy-go-lucky ease, his insouciant good humor. What did Len care what he did for a living? Still, he leaned in a little, readying himself to smile and nod. But Michael was not looking at him; he seemed not to have registered Len’s bumbling question after all. Instead, his eyes darted around the room, his eyebrows raised slightly, as if in surprise or appraisal.

“Earth to Michael,” Alice said sharply. “Len just asked you a question.”

Len blushed. “It doesn’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, bringing his attention back to the table with an effort. “What did you say?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Alice said. She threw her napkin onto the table and glanced at Laurel, who still clutched her half-full glass of wine in one hand. “Are we ready to go?”

Len nodded gratefully and beckoned the waiter for the check.

“But, Len,” Laurel said, her voice girlish. “I’m not quite finished.” She drew the words out, enunciating carefully.

Len glanced at her sharply. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Laurel rolled her eyes at him, then deliberately tossed back the rest of her wine. She set her glass on the table with elaborate care.

“There,” she said, cutting her eyes at Michael. “Now I’m finished.”

The four of them made their way back to the motel, their chins tucked inside their collars against the wind. In the lobby, Michael unzipped his jacket and gestured toward the bar.

“Len? Laurel? Anyone for a nightcap?”

Len glanced at Laurel and she nodded slightly.

“Maybe just one,” Len said.

But when Michael moved to let Laurel go ahead, she threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh, I’m not going.” She looked at Len. “I’ve had enough?”

“Laurel, if you’re not going to—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Len. Just have another drink.”

Alice stood watching them, her face unreadable.

“I’m going to bed,” she said flatly. “You three figure it out.”

“Alice!” Michael called after her. “Come on. One drink.”

“I’m tired, Michael,” she said, not looking back.

“She’s tired,” Laurel repeated quietly. “You should let her go.”

“Michael, look,” Len said. “I don’t want to be a party pooper, but if the girls—”

“Girls?” Laurel said, arching her eyebrows.

“I mean, if Alice and Laurel don’t want to, maybe we should—”

“Len, it’s fine. Just have a drink already. I’ll be in the room.”

She shot Michael a look that Len could not read and turned away.

Len shook his head. “Jesus,” he muttered.

Len and Michael leaned against the bar while the bartender got their beers. They said nothing, but Len felt that it was a companionable silence, tinged with a shared relief to be free of their wives for a while. He regretted his flash of annoyance earlier; Michael seemed a decent enough fellow.

In the silence, Len felt the floor begin to vibrate. He looked down to see that Michael’s heel was pulsing rapidly, the movement causing his whole leg to shake. Len smiled to himself. He remembered when his own leg had used to vibrate like that, at school while he worked his math problems, or at the dinner table. It had driven his older sister Margie crazy.

“Sit still, Lenny,” she would say. “I can’t digest with all that jiggling.”

He could still hear her voice as she said it, the grown-up tone she used to scold him whenever their father was there to hear. It was a tone that said that their father needn’t worry, that she would fill in for their mother now. God, how I hated that tone, Len thought, smiling to himself at the memory.

Michael glanced at him. “What’s funny?” he said.

“Oh, nothing. Just . . . your leg reminded me of something.”

Michael clamped down on his thigh with one hand and shook his head.

“Sorry. It does that when I’m nervous.”

Len nodded. “What’s there to be nervous about?”

Michael took a long sip from his beer. “Well, it’s not like in the movies, is it?”

“What isn’t?”

Michael narrowed his eyes at him. “You saw that movie, Bob and Carol, Ted and Alice?”

Len shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’d remember it. I . . . I thought maybe that was where you people got the idea.”

“What idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you call it?”

Len looked up sharply and saw that Michael was grinning at him.

“I’m not really used to this kind of thing,” Michael went on. He swirled the pale liquid in his glass before taking another sip. “Arcata’s never been Berkeley, you know. I mean, of course we heard about stuff like this, but I seriously never thought I would ever be in a position to . . .” He paused, then went on hurriedly. “I’m not saying I’m not game, though. I mean—your wife. She’s something.”

Len drew his eyebrows together. “Laurel? Yes. I suppose she is.”

Michael raised his glass to his lips and drank quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.

“I’m not sure Alice caught on, though,” Michael said at last, setting the empty glass on the bar. “Don’t be surprised if she’s, um, surprised.” He let out a little burst of a laugh. “What was your room number again?”

“116.”

Michael stood up. “212.”

“What?”

“I guess I won’t need your key.” Michael opened his wallet and tossed a bill on the counter.

Instinctively, Len reached for his own pocket.

“No, let me—”

But by the time he’d gotten his wallet out, Michael had gone. Len watched his back as he walked away. He felt dumbfounded, speechless. He wanted to call after him, to confess that he was lost, that he had not followed what Michael had said. But Len did not like—had never liked—to admit when he was in the dark. He had learned long ago that if he just kept quiet, kept thinking and puzzling, the answer would come to him. In college and then in graduate school, the technique had earned him the reputation for being both taciturn and brilliant. But Len secretly knew that he was not brilliant, not like they thought. He was only patient.

Len took a deep swallow of his beer and tried to remember exactly what Michael had said. In an instant, the pieces came together. How could he have not understood before? He stood up so quickly that his barstool tottered.

“Goddamn it, Laurel,” he muttered.

The bartender glanced at him. “You need something?”

Len shook his head as he steadied the stool. He left his half-empty beer glass on the counter and hurried out of the bar. He did not know what he would say when he caught up to Michael, but that was what he meant to do. Catch him, tell him that no, he had misunderstood. There had been no plan to . . . wife-swap? Is that the term that Michael could not recall? He did not blame him—it was a vile term.

No, that had never been the plan. Laurel just . . . Suddenly, Len paused in the hallway that led to their room. Laurel just what? Felt up her friend’s husband under the table? He saw it clearly now: Laurel’s flushed face and absent hand, Michael’s obvious distraction when Len had asked him about his job.

“Goddamn it, Laurel,” he said again. He continued walking in the direction of their room, but his steps slowed. Had Michael misunderstood? He thought of Laurel on the beach, pulling off her clothes. He had taken it for exhibitionism; certainly that was nothing new. He had grown used to his wife’s stunts, her need for all eyes to be on her. He had been embarrassed for her. But what if Michael was right? Had this whole weekend been a pretense? Was it all unfolding exactly as she’d planned?

Len turned the corner of the hallway. Their room was three doors down, and Michael was not in sight. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the door. It was this detail that pushed Len over the edge into fury. He wanted to ram down the door and shake her. This time she had gone too far.

But Len had not taken two steps toward their room when he stopped himself. Would he knock at his own door, then? Knock and wait for it to be answered like a petulant child? I didn’t understand . . . He would be made a fool in front of Michael—a fool and a cuckold. He fingered the room key in his pocket. He didn’t have to knock. But the thought of barging in, to see Laurel, surely already half-naked in the bed, and Michael’s startled face—that would be worse. Len had never liked to make a scene.

A few feet from the door, he turned around and strode back down the empty hallway. In the lobby, he hesitated, then went back inside the bar. The bartender looked up in surprise.

“Oh, sorry, man. I cleared your beer. But let me—” He reached for another glass.

“It’s fine,” Len said. “Don’t bother.”

He turned again and left the bar, hesitating in the lobby once again. Room 212, Michael had said. She might be surprised. He thought of Alice, with her petite waist and small breasts, and felt a stirring of desire. He looked toward the stairs. Why not? But Len could not see himself rapping at Alice’s door any more than he could bear to knock at his own. Laurel had made her bed, he thought bitterly, and she would lie in it. He would not make his own.

Impulsively, he pulled his room key from his pocket and tossed it on the front desk, then pushed through the glass door onto the street. Outside, the wind scoured his face, but once he was inside the car, stillness descended. The hands of the clock on the dashboard glowed faintly in the dark, and Len was shocked at how early it still was. It was barely after ten; if he hurried, he’d be home by one. He started the engine and backed the station wagon onto the street.

Len held the wheel with two hands to stop them from shaking, but his mind would not relent. It rubbed itself raw on all the humiliating details of the evening, like a tongue on a chipped tooth. The licentious horror of it propelled him through the small town, but once he reached Highway One, the long, serpentine road home loomed before him. The car slowed, his foot uneasy on the gas. He laid the chilled fingers of one hand against his cheek; his face still burned with shame.

He saw again Laurel’s flushed face at dinner, her absent hand, and a flash of fury shot through him. He leaned his foot onto the accelerator, felt the engine strain as the car lurched into the next curve. Now he imagined Laurel, bleary-eyed and hungover, waking to find that he had not returned. What would she do? He let out a short, bitter laugh. Take a bus, beg Alice and Michael for a ride home—it was no concern of his.

And he? What was he going to do? What would he tell the babysitter when he arrived home in the middle of the night without his wife? What would he tell Jessie? He thought of his daughter, with her chubby knees and sly grin, the sweet warmth of sleep that clung to her bare limbs in the morning when she woke. No, to her he wouldn’t have to explain a thing. “Mommy’s not here,” he would say, and then he would take her to the kitchen to make pancakes as if it were any other Sunday morning.

In all the week, it was his favorite time. He loved his daughter’s stubby, flour-covered fingers, the delight with which she stirred the milk and eggs into the batter.

“You just get the fun parts,” Laurel had accused him once, watching them together. “You don’t know how infuriating she can be.”

This wasn’t true; he did know. His daughter’s stubbornness often sparked his own temper, and more than once he had drawn back his hand to spank her as he remembered his father spanking him. But Laurel was right, too: Jessie didn’t get under his skin the way she did her mother’s. Jessie’s two-year-old tantrums could throw Laurel into answering fits of rage. She resented the child’s relentless demands: “I want duice! Read a book! Dessie up!”

“Do I look like a slave to you?” Laurel would hurl back at the toddler, and when that happened, Jessie’s startled eyes and wrinkled forehead were almost more than Len could bear.

“I’ll get her juice,” he would say. “Why don’t you take a break?”

But his attempts to intervene only stoked Laurel’s rage.

“I don’t need a break! I need our daughter to learn some goddamn manners.”

Laurel seemed almost to thrill in her angry outbursts at the child, as if the collapse of her patience and the scale of her anger were flags she waved to Len: See how much I have to endure? Later, she would apologize—but only to Len, never to Jessie—and inevitably her remorse would cast her into the ready wallow of self-pity.

“I’m just not cut out for this, Len,” she would weep. “God, I’m a bad mother.”

Len had first met Laurel at Berkeley, when he was in the final stretch of his PhD program and she was a senior co-ed. Laurel was voluptuous and dark-eyed, full-lipped in a way he had found sexy then. She wore flowing pants that flared at the bottoms, her dark brown hair loose to her waist. For weeks, he had barely surfaced from the abstract math of his dissertation; Laurel’s free spirit had been a breath of fresh air.

Back then, the ease with which Laurel cried had endeared her to him. Tears did not come easily to him, but he was, at heart, a sentimental man. On one of their first dates, they had seen a reshowing of To Kill a Mockingbird at the campus theater. He had heard Laurel begin to sob quietly beside him as soon as the jury entered the courtroom. He had taken her hand, then, and had felt the tightness in his own throat relent. Later, they had snuck onto the roof of Laurel’s dorm and watched the moon rise over the bay. Despite his protests, Laurel had gone to her knees before him. Gathering her hair in his hands, Len had felt some reserve in him loosen and give way.

They had not been careful; Laurel was pregnant by Christmas. She had cried as she told him, but, holding her against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, his own tranquility had surprised him. He had always assumed that he would marry, someday, just as he had always known—ever since he’d been old enough to understand such things—that he would get a doctorate in math. His PhD in hand, it seemed only fitting that a wife and baby would come next. And he had worked so hard for the degree. If the family came more readily, he had seen no reason to rail against his fate.

Len stopped at a gas station for coffee in Leggett, then picked up 101. Here the highway no longer hugged the coast, and the driving was easier. He drank the lukewarm coffee as he drove and let his mind go slack at last.

It was just after one in the morning when he pulled into their narrow drive. Inside, he resisted the urge to reach for the lamp, but by the pale light seeping in from the porch, he saw that the usual chaos of the living room had been ordered. Jessie’s books were stacked neatly on the coffee table, her toys collected in a bin. He went first to Jessie’s bedroom at the end of the hall, where she slept, as usual, with her bottom raised in the air and her favorite stuffed animal, a yellow duck named Quack, wedged in the crook of her elbow. He kissed her lightly and pulled her purple blanket over her, a rush of tenderness rising in his throat.

The babysitter was asleep in the master bedroom, where Laurel had insisted she make herself at home. Len tiptoed by her to get to the bathroom, where he rooted for an extra toothbrush beneath the sink. As he left, he paused for a moment by the bed. The young woman’s face was flushed with sleep, her auburn hair loose on the pillow. Quickly, he looked away, but not before a shadow of the same tenderness he had felt for his own sleeping daughter swept over him. Then his mind darted back to Laurel, and he turned away, grimacing.

He eased the bedroom door shut, then tiptoed back down the hall and through the living room to the kitchen, where he brushed his teeth at the sink. A pale orange film clung to the white porcelain. Len found a can of Ajax under the sink and scrubbed at it with a scouring pad. Only after the kitchen sink was clean did he pull a blanket from the closet and stretch out on the couch, the stacks of Jessie’s books on the coffee table beside him like a battlement against the coming day.

CHAPTER 3

Len

Len was still asleep when Sarah stepped out of the bedroom in the morning. She was wearing light blue pajamas, her hair mussed from sleep. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw him.

“Dr. Walters!” she said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Len pushed himself up on the couch. “Please, call me Leonard—Len.”

“But—”

“There was a change of plans. I didn’t want to wake you to let you know. Laurel—Laurel will be back soon.”

Sarah crossed her arms against her chest. “Oh. Well, hold on a minute. Jessie is awake, I think.”

She took a step back down the hall toward the nursery, but Len stopped her.

“Please. I want to see her.” He pushed himself up to standing, ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes.

Sarah nodded. “I’ll just get dressed then.” She turned back into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

In the nursery, Jessie was standing at the railing of her crib. She was playing with a toy that he had found at a yard sale. The straps were broken, but he had strung some wires through it and attached it to her crib. There was a little rubber button that rang a bell, and a little wheel, striped red and white like a peppermint drop, which became pink when you spun it. Jessie was spinning it now, with purpose, talking to herself under her breath, and the sight of her filled Len with so much love he felt his chest might burst.

He stood silently at the door for a moment, watching her, but she sensed his presence and looked over.

“Da-da! Wook, Da-da. Pink!” She spun the wheel again, watching in amazement as the red and white stripes spun into a blur of pink.

Len laughed. “Would you look at that,” he said.

He realized with unexpected relief that Jessie was not at all surprised to see him. He had tried to explain—could it only have been yesterday?—that he and Mommy would be going away for a little while, but that they would come back in two days. “Two days,” he had said, holding up his fingers.

“Two,” Jessie had parroted, but she couldn’t understand yet, could she? Her whole life so far was lived in the present, the past quickly forgotten but for little snapshot memories of her favorite things—the jays at the park, for instance, or the library. The future was unimaginable.

“Dessie too,” she had said, and at first he had thought she meant could she come, too, and his heart had given a little leap, as if, with Jessie on his side, he might convince Laurel that their daughter ought to be allowed to come along. But then he had seen her struggling to arrange her hand so that two chubby fingers were raised.

“Dessie two,” she said again, and at last he had understood.

Now Len went to stand by the crib. He reached through the bars to swipe his finger across another of the toy’s gizmos, a spinning cylinder with blue barbershop-style stripes.

“Da-da make boo,” Jessie observed. ‘Dessie make boo?’”

Len laughed. “You say, ‘Can I make blue?’”

Jessie spun the cylinder, batting at it with the palm of her hand, ignoring the correction.

“Okay, Jessie,” Len said at last. “I’ve got to pee. Let’s go.”

He carried her into the bathroom with him, then put her down so that he could urinate. His piss stank of coffee and Jessie scrunched up her eyes.

“Da-da pee yucky.”

He flushed quickly. “Sorry. Do you want to try to sit on the potty?”

She nodded, and Len stooped down to take off her sodden diaper.

“Okay,” he said, scooping her up by the underarms and sitting her on the little potty. She was up in an instant.

“No pee.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for trying.”

At the sink, Len helped Jessie to wash her hands and then splashed cool water on his face. It ran down his unshaven chin and neck, soaking the collar of the button-down he had put on for dinner the night before.

“Come on, Jess,” he said, taking his daughter’s hand. “Let’s go get dressed.”

In the nursery, he found her a new diaper and some clothes. He wanted to change, too, but his bedroom door was closed when they passed it in the hall, and he wasn’t sure if Sarah was still inside. But when they emerged in the living room, there she was, standing by the door, a small, blue duffel bag by her feet. She had changed into jeans and a green sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled when she saw Jessie.

“Good morning, sleepy head.”

Jessie ran to her and she dropped to her knees to hug the little girl.

Then she stood and turned to Len.

“Well, I guess I’ll go, since you’re here now,” she said uncertainly.

She reached for the doorknob slowly, and at once Len understood.

“Wait. I’m so sorry. We’ll pay you for the whole time, of course.” He patted his back pockets for his wallet, but it was not there. “Just a minute, please.”

He found his wallet and keys between the stacks of books on the coffee table. “Oh, and thanks for tidying up. How much is it?”

“Well, Laurel said one hundred,” Sarah said apologetically. “But that was supposed to be until this afternoon.”

Len swallowed hard against the surge of bitterness that rose in his throat. One hundred dollars! How could he have agreed to such a thing?

“Just one more sec,” he said, then disappeared down the hall to his office. It was hardly more than a closet, really. A bonus room, the realtor had called it euphemistically when she’d shown them around the house.

His desk drawer opened with a squeal, and he pulled out the envelope that held their cash for the week. One hundred dollars—what a waste. He counted out the bills, then returned to the living room and handed them to her. She pushed them into her bag without looking at them.

“Thank you. Bye, Jessie. Be good.” She knelt to hug his daughter again, and Jessie threw her arms around her neck.

“No Sarah go!”

Gently, Sarah disentangled herself. “Your daddy’s here now. And I’ll be back to play with you tomorrow.”

Jessie started to cry, then, and Sarah looked at Len helplessly as she pulled the little girl toward her and stroked her back.

“Do you like pancakes?” Len asked impulsively. “Jessie and I like to make pancakes on Sundays, don’t we, Jessie? Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

Sarah shook her head. “Pancakes sound great.”

Sarah sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, while Jessie helped Len make the batter, and then she held Jessie in her lap and helped her do a wooden puzzle while Len made the pancakes at the stove.

There was no syrup in the cabinets or in the refrigerator. Len clenched his teeth in annoyance, sure he had written it on the list the last time Laurel went shopping. He pulled a jar of strawberry jam from the refrigerator door and put it on the table, muttering apologies.

“I like pancakes with jam,” Sarah said. “Don’t you, Jessie?”

“Yes! Pee butter and dam.”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” Len said. “We don’t put peanut butter on pancakes.”

“Actually, that’s how they eat them in Wyoming,” Sarah said.

So Len got out the peanut butter, too, and watched as Sarah made Jessie a pancake sandwich. He was surprised, and a little envious, at the easy familiarity between them. This woman was a stranger to him, yet clearly she mattered to his daughter. He did some quick math and realized with a start that Sarah had been babysitting for them for over a year now, although he had seen her only a handful of times.

“So,” he said, ladling batter onto the skillet. “You’re from Wyoming?”

“No,” she said. She leaned forward to wipe jam from Jessie’s cheek with a napkin. “I just drove through it once. We saw a sign for a free church breakfast, so we stopped.”

Len smiled. “Where then?”

“Nowhere, really. We moved a lot.”

“Military?”

Sarah nodded. “My dad’s in the army.”

Len passed her a plate of pancakes. “So how did you end up here?”

“I’m not sure,” she said noncommittally. She moved one pancake off the stack and spread it with a thin glaze of jam. When she took a bite at last, Len found himself watching the subtle motion of her jaw as she chewed. He looked away.

“Sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Oh, you weren’t. It wasn’t a monumental decision or anything. My dad was stationed at a base in Redding when I was in high school. He was talking about retiring, and I thought they might stay there. Humboldt State seemed like the right distance away. By then, I felt like I’d already been all over the world. I didn’t feel the need to go far.”

Len nodded. “So you’re in school.” He wasn’t surprised. With her blue jeans and her ponytail, her slender frame and the splash of freckles across her nose, she looked like she could be a student in one of his classes.

“Graduate school, yes.”

He started. “You seem so young.”

She shrugged. “I think Laurel and I are the same age, actually. Isn’t she twenty-five?”

“Yes, I think so.” He faltered. “Yes, that’s right.”

He was flustered now and couldn’t think what else to say. He busied himself with the spatula and skillet.

“I also liked the trees.”

“Sorry?”

“You asked me why here. I think some of it was because of the trees—the redwoods. The summer I was sixteen it was incredibly hot in Redding, and one Saturday my dad told my mom and me to go and get in the car, that we were going to Arcata. He said it would be twenty degrees cooler here, but I didn’t believe him. He was right, though. We went to that little park with the redwoods. You know the one? Up on the hill? Those trees . . . They made quite an impression on me.” She laughed softly, as if mocking herself.

Len glanced over at her and met her eye. She shrugged. “At eighteen, it seemed as good a reason as any other.”

Len smiled. “The trees,” he repeated. “That’s . . . nice.”

Sarah shrugged again. “It’s a pretty stupid reason, I guess.”

“No, I mean it. So many people are here for reasons . . . Well, reasons that aren’t as nice as that.”

Another silence fell between them, but this one was easier.

“So, what are you studying in graduate school?” Len asked, bringing the last of the pancakes to the table.

“Anthropology.”

“Margaret Mead?”

Sarah smiled. “Among others.”

“I thought you were tired of traveling the world.”

She shrugged. “There are people here, too.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Anthropology is the study of humanity. Of cultures. We’ve got those here, too.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What about you two?” Sarah asked. “You three, I mean. What brought you to Arcata?”

Len colored inexplicably. He wondered whom she had forgotten to include—Laurel or Jessie. He had offered no explanation for Laurel’s absence and was grateful to Sarah that she had not asked. He gestured vaguely with the spatula.

“Oh, you know. The university. Young professors—we pretty much have to go wherever we can find a job.”

“But Laurel . . . She’s from around here, isn’t she? I thought she said—”

“Oh, no. Well, not really. Laurel’s mother was raised in Mendocino. Not the coast. Inland. Bay . . . Bay something. Laurel was born there, but she grew up in LA. She just likes to pretend that she’s a local.”

Sarah laughed good-naturedly at this. “Well,” she said, standing up and pulling Jessie from her high chair. “I don’t think people who really are from here would consider Mendocino local. Too close to San Francisco, and that’s a whole ’nother planet.” She shifted Jessie on her hip. “Come on, Jessie. Let’s go wash your hands so you don’t get everything sticky, okay?”

When Sarah returned to the kitchen, his daughter wasn’t with her. She didn’t sit down again. Len looked at her plate; the two remaining pancakes in the stack were untouched.

“You didn’t—” he began.

“Jessie’s happy looking at a book in the living room, so I’d better take off now. Thank you for breakfast.”

“Of course. Thank you for helping me avoid a tantrum.”

She smiled. “No problem. How was that restaurant, by the way?”

Len’s heart jumped. “What?”

“I recommended a restaurant in Fort Bragg to your wife. I just wondered—”

Len looked away. “Yes,” he said abruptly. “It was fine. It was good.”

Sarah glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Well,” she said. “Thanks again.”

Len gestured toward her plate. “You sure you don’t want—”

But Sarah just shook her head. “I’m good, thanks. Tell Laurel I said good-bye. I’ll see her Monday. Tomorrow.”

Len heard the click of the front door as it closed behind her. With Jessie quiet in the other room and Sarah gone, the house felt suddenly empty, and Len’s exhaustion caught up to him at last. He sat down, rested his head on the kitchen table, and closed his eyes.

“Da-da?” Jessie said, appearing in the doorway. “Da-da sleeping?”

Len sighed. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Dessie ’side!” she said. “Dessie park!”

Len shuddered and shook his head. He could still feel yesterday’s chill on his skin, the cold wind that had battered them on the beach. He glanced at the window, expecting the usual square of gray, ready to make up an excuse. But the sky beyond the glass was surprisingly blue.

“Okay, Dessie,” Len said resignedly. “Let me clean up this mess and we’ll go.”

He washed the dishes quickly, then retrieved the peanut butter from the cupboard. There was no bread, so he did as Sarah had and used the leftover pancakes to make two sandwiches, which he wrapped in foil. He found an apple in the fridge that he cut into slender slices, then poured juice into a sippy cup for Jessie. As he packed their picnic, he felt his spirits rise. He would spend a beautiful Sunday with his daughter. He would not allow himself to think of Laurel.

Later, Len and Jessie had their picnic on the bench by the park, and then spent several minutes throwing bits of their pancake sandwiches to the jays that hopped around them in the grass. Afterwards, Len pushed Jessie in the swing, and then caught her again and again at the bottom of the slide.

When it was time to go, Len’s head felt groggy with weariness. Jessie had grown cranky, too.

“No home!” she wailed, clinging to the rung of the slide’s ladder. “Dessie park!”

Eventually, Len had to unwrap her fingers himself, then buckle her into the stroller as she screamed. His head pounded with her cries and with his own mounting fatigue. Back at home, she continued to cry while he changed her diaper.

“No nap!” she screamed, knowing what was coming.

“I tell you what,” he bargained. “What if you sleep with Daddy in the big bed?”

She quieted but looked at him skeptically. “Da-da nap?”

“You got it,” he said.

They read a book sitting up against the headboard, but when he set the book on the bedside table and lowered himself down on the pillow, Jessie did not complain. She settled in next to him, so that the top of her head was pressed against his underarm. He curled his arm around her and was asleep within seconds.

CHAPTER 4

Len

“Well, isn’t this just great?” Laurel’s voice was shrill with annoyance.

Len glanced at the clock groggily. It was not quite two-thirty; beside him, Jessie still slept.

“Shhh!” he said. He nodded down at Jessie.

“Len, you know how I feel about this. I don’t want her sleeping in here with you. It makes it so much harder. She’ll never want to nap in her own bed if you—”

“Will you shhhh?” Len whispered harshly. “She’s sleeping.”

“Do you think I can’t see that?”

Carefully, he extracted his arm from around his daughter and eased himself from the bed. He took Laurel by the upper arm and steered her from the room, closing the door quietly behind them.

“I can’t believe it, Len. I must have told you a hundred times. She has to nap in her own bed. Otherwise, she’ll never—”

“Are you kidding me?” Len interrupted her, his voice cold.

“No. Every time you let her nap with you, the next time she puts up more of a fuss.”

“Are you kidding me?” Len could barely contain his rage.

“What? What are you so pissed off about? I’m the one who’ll have to—”

“Laurel, you are unbelievable. You march in here after what happened last night, after what you did, and have the nerve to bitch at me about where Jessie naps? You have got to be kidding me.”

“After what I did? What about what you did? You just left me there. I’m your wife.”

“Oh really? Forgive me if sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jesus, Laurel, what do you think I’m talking about?”

“What’s the big deal, Len? So I wanted to have some fun. And it turns out you got the long end of the stick, anyway.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Laurel laughed derisively. “You figure it out.”

“Damn it, Laurel,” Len slammed the side of his fist against the wall. “You went too far.”

“Len!” Laurel cried out. They both watched as the single framed print they had on the wall jiggled off its nail and crashed to the floor.

A second later, Jessie began to cry. “Da-da!” she called.

“Great,” said Laurel. “That’s all we need right now.”

“I’ve got her,” Len said.

“Don’t expect me to clean that up,” Laurel called after him.

Len paused at the doorway to the bedroom and turned to face her. “Just for the record, Laurel, I did not get the ‘long end of the stick.’ I did not go to Alice’s room. I came home. That’s all.”

He did not pause to watch this register on Laurel’s face. He turned away, opened the door, and went to his daughter.

That night, and for the rest of the week, Len slept on the couch. On Friday, Laurel appeared in the doorway of the living room. She leaned against the frame, pulling her light robe around her and retying it at her waist.

“How long are you going to keep this up, Len?”

Len glanced at her, then let his eyes fall back to the article he was reading. “I don’t know.”

“I miss you.”

Len snorted, but he did not look up.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think you’d get so bent out of shape about it.”

He met her eyes at last. “Laurel, I don’t think you thought at all.”

Laurel looked away. “Maybe not.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Please, Len. I said I’m sorry. Can’t we put this behind us?”

Len shook his head. “I don’t know, Laurel. I don’t think this is working anymore.”

“Len, it was one night. And I said I was sorry.”

“It’s not just that, Laurel— although maybe that clinched it.” He paused, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for something. Finally, they met Laurel’s. “We’re not happy together, Laurel.”

“I’m happy.”

“No, you’re not. You complain all the time. You cry.”

“But I could be. We can make it better. I can—”

Len sighed. “I don’t think I can be.”

“What? You don’t think you can be what?”

“Happy.” He said it with such sad finality that Laurel’s chin began to tremble.

“Oh, Len. I’m sorry.”

“I know. And I forgive you, I suppose. But I don’t think I want to live like this.”

“You can’t mean that. What about Jessie?”

“You think I haven’t thought of that? That’s all I’ve thought about. All week she’s all I’ve thought about.”