2
Emma
-$45,414.52
Emma was falling for Mumberton Castle. After she and Rich made love behind the velvet curtains of their four-poster royal bed (using pillows in silk pillowcases to slide under Emma’s body and achieve just the right slippery, perfect angles, oh my goodness), Emma had sauntered to their en suite bathroom. Some genius had decided to skip the historical accuracy in the bathroom renovation, installing a walk-in shower for twoanda giant soaking tub with views over the garden. There was a tray across the tub with room for a cup of tea.
Emma had read about medieval fragrances. As she donned her plush robe with the castle insignia and ran a hot tub, she imagined a “Make Your Own Bath Salts” set for the Indigo Suite. She’d include perfume vials from medieval days, like “four thieves vinegar”—made from rosemary, wormwood, mint, and camphor—and nutmeg, pepper, amber, sandalwood, and myrrh. (The latter scents, she’d read, were introduced when trading routes opened up. Emma found this fascinating.)
Sinking into a bath and adding salts she had made and brought along—lavender, lemon, a touch of marjoram—Emma imaginedliving at the castle, walking her boys to school wearing a dowdy outfit like Louisa Freck, then hiking the fells, maybe with a corgi like Queen Elizabeth, may she rest in peace. Emma had thought she was a Fergie type, even a Diana, but now she realized, stepping gingerly into her sweet-smelling tub, that she had been hiding her inner Queen Elizabeth.
Emma stretched out. She’d promised the boys they could visit the aviary as soon as they woke up. From her perfect bath, Emma could see a hawk in flight, so elegant against the cloudless blue sky. Post orgasms, Emma’s body was unspooled, relaxed. What a blessing: to have a moment without worry. In this regal place, it seemed impossible that she had spent her husband’s hard-earned savings on Sweet Nothings vibrators and panty sets. She felt safe here in the castle—which was its purpose, after all.
Simon seemed kind and he was gorgeous. Emma knew that Cleo had dug up incontrovertible dirt on him, but Emma wasn’t outraged. How could she judge Simon’s desire for financial security? She’d be happy—more than happy—to pay off Sweet Nothings with corrupt money and start again.
There was a tap at the bathroom door. “Your boys are awake and hungry,” said Rich.
“I’m in Heaven,” said Emma.
“No worries, I’ll handle them,” said Rich. “Take your time.”
Emma sighed and sank even deeper into her bath.
“Moooom,” said Jameson through the bathroom door. “Come with us to meet the birds!”
Emma started to rise, to please Jameson, to do what he wanted her to do. But she stopped herself, hovering halfway out of the water, which was still hot.You’ve had your time,she told herself.Now go and be the best mom.
Instead, she lowered herself back into the water, even turned on the tap for a bit more warmth. What was happening to her? She felt nervous and thrilled.
“Moooooooom?” whined Jameson. Emma remembered tryingto get her mother to notice her. Emma knew the pain of feeling unseen. It had hurt so much that she’d been willing to do anything to get her mother’s attention. Even being an accessory to her mother betraying her father was better than being invisible.
“Please, Mom,” said Jameson, knocking at the door. “Come out, Mom.”
Emma remembered a book the boys had loved calledFive Minutes’ Peace,in which an elephant mother tries to escape her elephant kids by hiding in a bubble bath. (She fails—they follow her into the bathroom and even get into her tub.) Emma had tried to be like the mom in the book, sighing and laughing while ignoring her needs. Emma remembered her mother brushing her off, saying she’d show up and then never showing up. Had Donna ever intended to come to Sylvie’s wedding?
“Please?” said Jameson.
But Emma was not Donna. She was kind and warm and her boys knew she loved them. She could take a few minutes for herself; she deserved it, and she wanted to be calm and happy for her family. Emma realized she’d been overcompensating for a long time.
“Honey, I am staying in my bubble bath,” said Emma. It was the most she’d stood up for herself in a very long time. She braced herself for Jameson to start crying, crumpling to the floor. She hated hurting her son. She waited. The bath was so wonderful.
From outside the bathroom door, she heard a sigh.
“OK, queen,” said Jameson.
3
Sylvie
In the Gatekeeper’s Cottage, Sylvie dreamed of Alexander on the day he got sober. He’d returned to Hibiscus Street after his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, his dark, curly hair still a bit mashed from spending the previous night in jail. “I promise I’ll never drink again,” he’d said, clutching a white poker chip, which he said represented the desire to change. He had cried, holding Sylvie on their brown couch, his big body around her, his hands in her hair. “I’m so sorry I fucked up,” he said. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I will never leave you,” said Sylvie. “But we’re done with the drinking, OK? This is the end.”
“I promise,” said Alexander. And he had kept his word, and his job as choir director at Coconut Grove Elementary. They had adopted Willie and made sober friends who invited them to raucous dinner parties full of laughter and stories of regret, the nights precious because many of their sober friends had lost so much.
By the time Alexander died, he had four bronze coins, each earned from a year of sobriety.
“I will not leave,” Sylvie said.
