“You don't have to do anything. You owe it to me to listen at least. Why don't you at least think about this? You may be making a terrible mistake. I think you are, and Wim and Meg will too. Let's agree to go to counseling, and at least try to make this work. You can't just throw away twenty-four years for some girl.” But he had, and wanted to. He was hanging on to his affair with Rachel like the life preserver that would save him from drowning in the world that he and Paris had once shared. And right now he wanted to get as far away from her as he could. She was the one thing standing between him and the future he wanted desperately, with another woman.

“I don't want to go to counseling with you,” he said bluntly. “I want a divorce. Even if I stop seeing Rachel, I realize now that I want out. I want more than this. Much, much more. And you should too. We've drifted apart. Our life is dead, like an old tree that needs to be chopped down before it falls over and kills someone. And the person it's liable to kill right now is me. Paris, I can't do this anymore.” He wasn't crying when he said it, he didn't even look remorseful this time. He looked determined. His survival was at stake, and he wasn't going to let Paris keep him from what he wanted, no matter what she said. He knew she loved him, and he loved her too. But he was in love with Rachel and wanted a life with her. He was going to drive to New York now and spend the rest of his life with her. And nothing Paris could do or say would stop him. And she could see precisely that on his face. It was over for him. As far as Peter was concerned, their marriage was dead. And all Paris had to do now was accept it, as far as he was concerned, and move on. Easier said than done.

“When did all this happen? When you met that girl? She must be fabulous in bed to turn you around like this.” She hated herself for saying it, but she couldn't help herself. And without saying a word, he picked up his bag, walked out of the room and down the stairs, while Paris watched him. He turned to look at her when he got to the bottom of the stairs, and she felt her stomach turn over as though she had been kicked.

“I'll call you about the details. I think you should use someone in my office. I can use another firm if you want. Are you going to talk to the kids?” He talked about it like a deal he was making, or a trip, and she had never seen him look as cold. There was no sign of the guilt and tenderness he had shown her the night before. The door to the magic kingdom was closing forever. And she knew as she looked at him that she would forever remember that moment, as he stood in khaki slacks and a crisply starched blue shirt, with the sunlight streaming across his face. It was like remembering the moment when he had died, or the way he looked at the funeral parlor. She wanted to fly down the stairs and cling to him, but she didn't. She just looked at him, and nodded. And without another word, he turned, and walked out the front door, as she continued to stand there, feeling her knees shaking. And seconds later she heard him drive away.

She was still standing there, when Wim walked out of his room in shorts and T-shirt with a baseball cap on. He looked puzzled when he looked at her.

“Are you okay, Mom?” She nodded, but couldn't say anything. She didn't want him to see her cry, or get hysterical, and she couldn't tell him yet. She didn't feel up to it. She couldn't imagine when she ever would. And she knew she had to tell Meg too. “Did Dad leave for work?” She nodded again, and smiled eerily at him as she patted his arm, and walked back into her room.

She lay on their bed, and could still smell Peter's cologne on the pillow. Her friend whose husband died said she hadn't changed the sheets for weeks, and Paris wondered if she would do that too. She couldn't imagine a life without Peter. And she wondered why she wasn't angry at him. She didn't feel anything except terror, as though she knew something terrible had happened, and she couldn't remember what. But she knew. At the core of her, she knew. Every fiber of her being knew that she had lost the only man she'd ever loved, and as she heard the front door close when Wim went out, she rolled over onto Peter's side of the bed, buried her face in his pillow, and sobbed uncontrollably. The world she had known and loved for twenty-four years had just ended. And all she wanted was to die with it.





Chapter 3




The phone rang several times that weekend, and she never answered it. The answering machine was on, and she knew later that the calls were from Virginia, Natalie, and Meg. She was still hoping that Peter would call and tell her he'd been insane and was coming home, but he never did. Wim came in and out of her room several times to tell her his plans. She stayed in bed and told him she had the flu.

On Sunday night she had to get up to cook dinner for Wim. He'd been doing homework in his room all afternoon, and he came downstairs when he heard her rattling pots and pans. She was standing in the kitchen, looking confused. She didn't know what she was doing, or what to cook for dinner, and she looked up with an anguished expression when he walked into the room.

“Are you still sick? You look terrible. I can make something if you want.” He looked worried about her, he was a sweet boy, and he could see how rotten she felt, what he didn't know was why. And then he looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Where's Dad?” He had come home from a date at one in the morning, the night before, and hadn't seen his father's car in the garage. “He's really working late these days.” Paris just stared at him, and sat down at the kitchen table in her pajamas. She hadn't combed her hair in two days, or showered since Friday night, which was more than unusual for her. She always looked immaculate, and even when she wasn't feeling well, she made the effort to get dressed and come downstairs. Wim had never seen her look so distraught. “Mom?” he said, with a worried expression, “is something wrong?” All she could do was nod, as her eyes met his. She had no idea how to tell him what had happened.

“Your father and I had a pretty serious talk on Friday night,” she said as he sat down at the kitchen table across from her, and she reached for his hands and held them tight. “I didn't realize it, and I guess that was stupid of me,” she said, fighting back the tears that she had wallowed in all weekend, but she knew she had to do this right for Wim. He would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

“But I guess your father has been unhappy for a long time. This isn't a very exciting life for him. Maybe it's been too comfortable, or too boring. Maybe I should have gotten a job once you and Meg got older. Hearing about carpools and how the garden is growing isn't much fun after a while. Anyway, your father has decided,” she said, taking a deep breath, and looking gently at her son, not wanting to let Peter off the hook, but feeling she had to for their son's sake, “that he doesn't want to be married to me anymore. I know that's a shock. It was to me too. But we're going to keep the house, or I am, and you and Meg can come here and live here whenever you want. And the only thing that will be different is that Daddy won't be here.” She didn't even notice, nor did Wim, that she had called him “Daddy” for the first time in years. Wim looked as though he were going into shock.

“Are you serious? He's leaving us? What happened? Did you guys have a big fight over something?” He had never known them to do that before, and they never had. They had never come close to this in all their years together. There had never been more than a few ruffled feathers, and hardly ever any harsh words. Wim looked as stunned as she had been at what she had just told him.

“He's not leaving you,” Paris said carefully. “He's leaving me. He feels this is something he has to do.” As she said it, her lip trembled, and she started to cry again. And Wim came around the table to put his arms around her. And when she looked up, she saw that he was crying too.

“God, Mom, I'm so sorry. Was he mad about something? Do you think he'll change his mind?” She hesitated for a long moment, wishing she could answer differently, but she knew she couldn't. Barring a miracle, Peter wouldn't be coming home to her again.

“I wish he would,” she said honestly, “but I don't think he will. I think he's made up his mind.”

“Are you getting a divorce?” he asked through tears, looking like a little kid again, as they clung to each other, and he hovered over her.

“That's what he wants.” She choked out the words as Wim wiped his eyes and stood up.

“That sucks. Why would he do a thing like that?” It didn't even occur to him that there might be another woman in his father's life, and Paris did not volunteer. If Rachel stuck around, and she assumed she would, Wim would find out soon enough. That part of it was up to Peter to explain, and she wondered how he would, without looking like a bastard to his children.

“I guess people change sometimes. They grow apart without even knowing it. I should have seen how he was feeling, but I didn't.”

“When did he tell you?” he asked, looking devastated, and still trying to understand what had happened. It wasn't easy for either of them, and the worst part was that there had been no warning.

“Friday night, after our dinner party.”

“That's why you both looked like that on Saturday morning. I thought you were hung over.” He grinned, and Paris looked moderately insulted.

“Have you ever seen either of us hung over?”

“No, but I figured there's always a first time. You looked awful. And then you said you had the flu when I saw you later.” And then he thought of something. “Does Meg know?” His mother shook her head. She still had that to go through, and dreaded telling her on the phone. But Meg had no plans to come home all summer. They had to tell her.

“I'm going to call her.” She'd been thinking of doing it that night, and now that she had told Wim, she knew she had to. “I'll call her later.”

“Do you want me to tell her?” Wim offered generously, and was silently angry at his father that he hadn't come home to break the news to him in person. He thought that was lousy of him, but didn't say it to his mother. The truth was, Peter couldn't face it and was relieved to leave that grim duty to Paris. Telling her had been more than enough drama for him for one weekend. And he knew she'd do a good job of it with the kids. And whatever she said that he didn't like, he could always clean up later. He was used to having her take full responsibility for their children, no matter how heavy a burden it was for her this time.

“You don't have to do that,” Paris said, looking at him gratefully, just for the offer to call his sister, “that's my job.” She wanted to be the one to tell her daughter.

“Okay, then I'll cook dinner.” It suddenly occurred to Wim that there was no one to take care of his mother now, and when he left for college, she would be alone in Greenwich. He couldn't believe his father had done that to her, it seemed so unlike him, and tarnished him as Wim's hero. He had another thought then as he took out lettuce and tomatoes and some cold chicken. “Do you want me not to go to Berkeley, Mom?” He had been accepted at a number of eastern schools, who would probably still be happy to have him. He had only just accepted Berkeley and hadn't even responded yet to some of the others. He had been planning to do it that weekend, and hadn't.

“I want you to do exactly what you wanted to do, before all this happened. If your father really goes through with the divorce, then I just have to get used to it. You can't sit here and take care of me forever.” That was the frightening part. She had been lying in bed, thinking about it all weekend. She was on her own now. Forever. And even more so, once Wim left for college. It had been comforting having him stick his head in her doorway all weekend. At least it was another human being in the house, and he loved her. That was the most terrifying thought of all now. Wondering who would be there for her if she got sick, or something happened to her. Who was going to care about her? Who would even know if she was sick? Who would she go to movies with, or laugh with? What if no one ever kissed her again, or made love to her? What if she was truly alone forever? The prospect of all of it was so huge as to be beyond understanding. The reality of it was devastating. Even Wim seemed to understand that. Why didn't Peter?

She sat in the kitchen, trying to make small talk with Wim while he made their dinner, and when he put the chicken and salad on their plates, they both pushed it around without eating. “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” she said apologetically. “I'm not very hungry.”