19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Read online

  I turned my ring the wrong way so that it bit my flesh and sat a virtuous distance away from Guy. With any luck, my sober beige twin set and shapeless wool slacks would announce our future. Underneath, for my resolve, I wore a dingy white bra with snapped elastic and faded peach cotton panties.

  I shrugged out of my straight-laced coat and looked for the waitress. Screw the no-smell vodka. I drank Scotch with Greta.

  Guy took my hand. “Jesus, you’re hot. Contained businesswoman about to go wild.”

  I should have worn a habit. I tugged my hand back and fumbled in my pocketbook as cover, coming up with Altoids.

  After popping one in my mouth, I offered the tin to Guy. “Mint?”

  “Garlic for lunch?” He grinned at me. “It won’t make a difference.”

  Scorching intent came my way: caramel cologne excited by his overheated appreciation. The combination could make me soft in the head.

  “How was Thanksgiving?” I couldn’t plop down and say: Hello. We’re over, though that scenario tempted me no end. State it crisply and firmly, shrug on my anti-sex colorless jacket, and leave.

  “Tense,” he said. “I felt as though I were doing time.”

  “Why?”

  The waitress came over with my drink, but no menu.

  “I already ordered food and wine. Sorry about the chauvinism. I’m incorrigible, huh?” His grin translated to “me proud caveman. “I didn’t want to waste one second of our time—”

  “So, Thanksgiving tension?”

  The erotic hunger in his eyes dimmed. He ran a finger down my forearm. His hair fell over his forehead, calling for a hand to push it back. Johnny Walker’s burn soothed me.

  “What the hell. Could be I was the edgy one,” he said. “Missing you. Comparing you to Kate. Mea Culpa.”

  His blatant want of me sparked low in my belly. “Why were you tense?” I licked my dry lips and tried to draw my arm back. He held tight and rubbed circles on my wrist.

  “I can’t take all the blame—”

  He stopped speaking as our waitress put a generous basket of buttery garlic bread and a platter of antipasto between us.

  “See.” He pointed to the breadbasket. “No mints needed. Kate gets maniacal during holidays, with the perfect preparations and timing and her countdown schedule. I apologize again for that crazy call. Jesus. That was nuts.”

  I reached for the bread, wanting the sting of garlic and salt, the calming carbs.

  “Kate assigned chores to all four of the girls the minute they woke.” He speared a stalk of slightly limp asparagus and fresh mozzarella, both shiny with olive oil.

  I wondered how one got one’s children to agree to crack-of-dawn holiday assignments. Flawless Kate didn’t have to bribe her daughter with credit cards.

  “What was your job?” Morbid curiosity about the inner working of the Peretta household gripped me.

  “To be the paterfamilias, waiting for our guests, wearing my cardigan, reading by the crackling fire. Kate needs to set the scene—whether the temperature is fifty degrees or twenty below. We move in a strained rush toward, toward what? A fucking meal?” He shook his head. “She makes it such a production that everything tastes sour by the time you eat.”

  Guy’s ragging on Kate provided perverted pleasure. I sickened myself. If making pretty holidays indicated culpability, then half the wives in the world were guilty.

  I folded my napkin and set my lips to prim. “We have to end it tonight, Guy. Now.”

  His hand stopped halfway to his lips and returned the bread to his plate. “No.”

  “We’re wrong and horrible.”

  “We’ve always been wrong. And horrible, I suppose. Why now?”

  “Same as before. And now you’re complaining about Kate and I’m too hungry for details. Adam doesn’t deserve it. There is nothing I want less than a divorce and—”

  Spilling out more would be appalling. I wouldn’t compound my offenses against Adam by listing out his former sins and current improvements.

  “Let’s at least—”

  “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

  An empty driveway greeted me; perhaps Adam was driving Molly’s friend home. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Breaking with Guy purified me.

  The soft sound of a folk ballad played as I walked in the door. I followed the music to the den, where Molly and a blonde girl, who could pass for a willowy folk singer, lay head to head on the oriental carpet, eyes closed, listening.

  “Hello?” I whispered, hating to interrupt their reverie. “Molly?”

  The blonde girl scrambled to a cross-legged sitting position and put on a polite company face. Molly rolled on her side, placing her head in her hand. “You’re home.”

  I put on a motherly smile. “You must be Lisbeth. I’m Molly’s mother. Isabelle.”

  “Hi.” She looked too sure of herself.

  I smiled again, too brightly. “Where’s Daddy? He’s supposed to drive Lisbeth home.”

  “Somebody’s something fell out and someone needs teeth for a meeting tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gold,” Lisbeth said. “My father is on his way.”

  “I’m sorry if this caused a problem for you, honey.”

  “No big deal, Mom. Call us when Lisbeth’s father gets here.”

  I very much liked this friend-improved Molly.

  They went upstairs. I flopped on the couch and tried to let out the night’s tension. The relaxing music and my gratitude drifted around me until the doorbell jolted me to my feet. I stumbled down the hallway, smoothing my hair, and then opened the door.

  Guy stood in front of me. We looked at each other almost without recognition. He cocked his head to the side, as though to put the picture back into focus.

  7

  Myth: People stray because they have fallen out of love with their partners.

  Truth: Many cheaters love their partners, but crave sexual and emotional excitement.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “I’m picking up my daughter.”

  “You’re picking up your daughter?” Incomprehension rendered me senseless.

  “Dad?” Lisbeth’s tentative voice floated down the stairs.

  Guy and I stood in dazed silence.

  “I’ll be right down.” Lisbeth’s blonde hair hung over the railing.

  Guy looked up. “Hurry, honey. I have to get home.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said before disappearing.

  “So.” Guy’s voice barely registered on an audibility scale.

  “Right.” I worked on not throwing up.

  “Nice home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Terrific window.” He lifted his chin at the stained glass at the top of the stairs.

  “We fell in love the moment we saw it.” Words clinked like tin shards.

  Guy nodded. “Chestnut Hill is full of these stately old homes.”

  He stopped, maybe searching for another inane thing to say. “A long way from East Boston. Where I grew up,” he quickly added, because how would I know, right?

  The garage door opened. “Sounds like Adam.” I pushed the words over my dry tongue.

  Guy nodded again. He’d become a bobblehead. Adam’s key clicked. The girls bolted down the stairs, chattering nonstop as Adam walked in, his face blank and tired.

  “Hi, Dad.” Improved-Molly chirped where once she sneered. “This is Lisbeth.”

  “And I’m Guy. Her father. We met, right?” Guy’s voice, all hearty and hale, rang too loud. “Park Elementary open school night?”

  I hated the fool we made of Adam. Worms of self-loathing crawled through me.

  Adam looked at Guy without recognition and offered his hand. “Adam Gold.”

  “Well, we’re off,” Guy said. “Nice meeting you, Molly.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Lisbeth swept back her long hair—her coif a twin of Kat
e’s.

  While Adam brushed his teeth, I rummaged for any ugly nightgown until I found a pilled one I must have saved for mourning my lost youth. When he climbed into bed, I ran into the bathroom. I scrubbed, afraid Guy’s scent clung to me from the restaurant. The gardenia soap I chose almost gagged me, as did the matching lotion in which I smothered myself. Gifts from Babs.

  Adam wrinkled his nose as I got into bed. “Didn’t I tell you I hate that smell?”

  “Sorry. I forgot. I won’t wear it again.”

  “Jesus. It stinks.” He rolled away and shut off his light.

  “Sorry,” I repeated. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  Angst kept me awake long after Adam fell asleep. Curving around him for comfort was cheap, but I did, grateful when he reached back and put a hand on my hip.

  Living with lies was its own punishment.

  Assembled on the cherry sideboard was a testimony to Whole Foods and our disposable income. For dinner, I broiled the least-tortured beef in the free-range category, surrounded by heaps of roasted carrots glazed with wild honey. That morning I’d made French toast from organic bread, warming syrup with butter as I assured Adam only olive oil had been used to make the pancakes.

  I needed to get out of the damn kitchen before I chained myself to the stove to work off my sins dish-by-dish.

  Henry entered first. I hugged him too tightly. As I kissed the top of his head, Adam walked in, his head bent toward Molly. “I think we can handle that, but we need to ask Mom.”

  “Ask me in a minute. Sit while the food is hot.”

  Miraculously, they all obeyed, taking their seats, not questioning the candles, or why we were eating in the dining room. Adam didn’t even grill me about the meat, just inhaled as he regarded his plate. “Smells great.”

  “Can I have a roll?” Henry glanced at Adam as he asked my permission.

  “Sure, honey.” I plucked out the plumpest one and then turned to Molly. “Did you have fun last night?” Terror grew as I imagined her becoming inseparable from Guy’s daughter. Fifteen meant falling in love with girlfriends, inhaling the breath they exhaled.

  “Yes! She’s super smart. And caring. She volunteers at the Pine Street Inn. With her mother.”

  I tried to control a jealous eye-roll.

  “And what’s the big secret you and Daddy were talking about?”

  “No big deal.” Her face lit up with big deal. “Lisbeth’s mother invited us to their annual holiday party.”

  My stomach closed like a fist.

  “All of us.” She regarded Henry with rare affection. “Even you.”

  “I don’t want to go if I don’t know anyone,” he said.

  “Dad, he has to go! This is a family party.”

  “What kind of affair is it?” Adam asked. “Besides being given by the sainted family, of course.” He smiled at me in the way parent’s share smiles about their kids’ foibles.

  I forced my lips to turn up in response.

  “A holiday potluck. And he’s gotta come.”

  “Then convince him.” Adam cut a piece of meat and popped it in his mouth.

  “We’ll all have fun. Lisbeth’s mother is a genius with this stuff. Lisbeth says she can make anything. And this is an annual affair. People live for it.” Molly shook her head in wonder at Adam’s obtuseness, as she glowed at the upcoming holy beauty of the Peretta holiday party. Now, I could hate Guy’s wife without reserve.

  Silence fell for a moment. No one noticed my muteness, or the untouched food on my plate. I cut my meat and spread it around the white china.

  “She does this every year,” Molly said, as though we didn’t know what annual meant, talking around a mouthful of carrots. “Everyone brings a holiday dish representing their culture or religion or background.”

  “What do you say, hon?” Adam winked. “Brown rice and chicken from my side, or TV dinners from yours?”

  This would be the moment Adam got back his sense of humor.

  “Dad, that’s not funny. Why can’t we bring something Grandma Charlotte used to make before—”

  “Brisket,” Henry said. “With those big noodles.”

  “Egg noodles. They’re called egg noodles.” I hoped my words sounded less hollow than they rang in my ears.

  “Right.” Molly bounced in her chair. “We could bring that. Mrs. Peretta bakes like a thousand Christmas cookies,” she tantalized her brother. “Everyone brings a present for a kid, and then we wrap them. For poor kids. Mrs. Peretta sets up gorgeous wrapping paper and ribbons and we make them super beautiful because she says the kids deserve wonderful presentations.”

  “She sounds like a saint.” Adam dug into his meal with gusto he rarely showed for fish and chicken. “Damn, this is good. How long since you served beef?”

  “Don’t make fun.” Molly regained her dreamy expression. “And then everyone makes ornaments from all this natural stuff and we trim the tree. The party is less than two weeks away. Please, please, please? Can we go?”

  I took refuge in the mother’s book of hedges. “We’ll see, sweetie. We’ll see.”

  “Mom! Why do we have to see? You guys don’t go anywhere.”

  “I need to check the calendar, despite your portrayal of us as hermits.”

  “Oh, come on. When do we do anything together?” Molly ran over to the kitchen and yelled back. “There’s nothing on the calendar!”

  Adam laughed. “It appears we have a date with diversity.”

  “You said yes? Are you insane? Why don’t you just stick pins in your eyes?”

  Greta and I were getting manicures, pedicures, and, in my case, a lecture about the next night’s Peretta party.

  “No wonder you didn’t tell me before. My opinion is obvious.” One of her perfect feet rested in sudsy water, the other cradled by a skinny manicurist. She murmured in Vietnamese to the woman scraping dead skin off my right toe. They shook their heads in agreement, probably comparing Greta’s long and graceful feet to my stubby ones.

  “What can I say?” I asked. “Gee, honey, I know you’re thrilled to pieces at having our family worship Saint Kate, but since I slept with her husband, it would be awkward.”

  The manicurist’s murmuring rose in intensity. What was Vietnamese for whore?

  “Figure it out. You’re not going to the party.” As far as Greta was concerned, we’d finished the topic. “Do you think this red is too summer?”

  “Maybe. Sort of pinkish for winter, right?”

  “I know, but I think I’ll decide I don’t care. This goes better with my skin tone.”

  “Are you wearing sandals to the party?” Your perfectly normal office Christmas party.

  “Of course not. I’m breaking out the Louboutins. But someone interesting is coming.” Greta gave me an off-color smile. “A basketball player I just signed.”

  The women at our feet exchanged glances. They understood more than they’d have us believe. Smart. Bad enough they had to touch our feet, why handle our problems?

  “Is he going to see your toes?”

  “I hope so. What are you wearing?”

  “Where?” The Faneuil party and Kate’s were the same Sunday night.

  “The office party, of course. You can’t go to Guy’s. A party at the home of the married guy you’re sleeping with? I can’t think of a kinder word than unseemly.”

  I winced as the woman stabbed dirt out from under my toenail.

  “I’m not sleeping with him anymore. And Molly will hate me if I don’t go. Her wanting us to go anywhere with her is a miracle. I can close some of the gaps between us.”

  Greta looked up from admiring her feet. “You’re off your rocker if you go. You want to be a Lifetime movie? This choice isn’t Scylla and Charybdis; it’s a party. Heads, you sit through the most horrible night of your life and put your marriage at risk. Tails, your kid is sad for a night. Don’t gamble. Take Molly to the mall. Spend a thousand dollars. Get matching tattoos if you must, but stay the hel
l away from that party.”

  8

  Myth: Affairs are always pleasurable.

  Truth: Most cheaters admit they were constantly on edge during their affair.

  I worked my ass off to be late to the party, but the world conspired against me. Traffic jams were unlikely, as driving to the Peretta house took only ten minutes, and Adam’s patients chose this moment to stay horribly crisis-free.

  I lingered at my make-up table, applying lipstick and eye makeup one slow layer at a time. Midway into the sluggish procedure, I required a fresh-brewed cup of coffee made with ground beans from the freezer. I considered sending Adam to the store for cream. Pretending I was pregnant. Knocking myself unconscious.

  Adam walked into the bedroom, catching me staring at my reflection in the smudged mirror of my antique dressing table.

  “For God’s sake, are you ready?” Adam’s image gazed at mine. He stopped and turned his head to the side, as though examining me from a different angle. “You look fantastic. But are you a little too. . .too?”

  I was. . .too. My deceptively simple skirt came from a shop with choking price tags. My subdued sweater was woven from cashmere so fine I could pull it through my key ring. Nothing obviously too-too, but thanks to the clothes, the hour spent applying make-up, and a fifty-dollar blow-dry, for the first time I personified glossy. I even wore new perfume, La Perla: for women who know what they want. As a woman without a clue, I needed it.

  “A little too, what?” I asked.

  “Never mind. You’re beautiful. Let’s go.”

  Guy opened the door seconds after Adam rang the bell. There we were, the just-down-the-road-a-piece neighbors.

  Dr. Neighbor.

  Teenage-Daughter-Neighbor.

  All-American-Son-Neighbor.

  And Mrs. Hey-Didn’t-I-Fuck-You-Recently-Neighbor.

  “Welcome.” Guy put his hand out to Adam.