“How romantic.”
“Being an adult is about compromise, Cece. You should know that better than anyone. You’re an expert in the field of reality. Managing outcomes, differentiating good and bad risk, gaming out future assets and liabilities. Adulthood, marriage—it’s no different, especially for women.”
Kim is right, of course, so then why does Cece feel the need to resist? Why is she suddenly repulsed by the prospect of a job she once coveted? Has something actually changed, or is she just being foolish again?
“Just think about returning his text message, Cece. That’s all I’m saying. You’re smart enough to at least hear him out. Don’t let your pride get in the way.”
Cece feels herself itching for a fight. She wants to start digging up the past. She wants to ask her mother if all this well-meant advice is merely an accumulation of her own marital disappointments. As children, Cece and Wynonna were never made to believe their mother’s long-simmering disappointments were anything serious. Their father would frame Kim’s desire to build a screened-in porch, celebrate Christmas in Venice, or buy the girls matching Coach baguette handbags as whims, fleeting desires that weren’t to be taken seriously. Kim and the girls would jokingly refer to him as “Mr. No.” As inI’d love to take you girls shopping, but you’ll need to ask Mr. No.OrWill Mr. No let us go out for sushi tonight?AndIs Mr. No going to spring for the cabin with air-conditioning this summer?
Once Kim started working more and business at the print ad agency slowed to a trickle, Barry lost the power of the purse and grew more withdrawn when it came to family expenditures. He was never nasty about it, but Cece sensed he was worried. Initially, her swimming had been about challenging herself, building healthy habits, and teamwork, but as college loomed, Barry spoke often about scholarships. He somehow grew even more intense about her workout routine and swimming drills that left Cece trembling like a leaf and on the verge of blacking out. He was tough on her, questioned her commitment; they fought bitterly, but Cece always got back in the pool, and when she received a scholarship to Bucknell, it all seemed worth it, even if resentment lingered. Swimming was the one arena where Kim steeredclear, more than happy to abdicate any and all responsibility—Cece sees that now. Like so many things, there are moments, snippets of time long gone, more recent interactions between her parents that take on a different shade, a different meaning entirely.
It seemed to Cece then, as it seems to her now, standing on Lorraine’s deck, peepers chirping in the dusky darkness, that her mother feels cheated somehow by the luck of the draw, the inevitable gamble everyone takes when they marry someone. Barry was favored to win, the safe bet. If only she’d been more ambitious in finding a partner, Kim must think to herself. That’s why she is where she is, and now she’ll do anything to ensure her daughter, her promising, driven, smart daughter, doesn’t make the same mistake.
Lorraine’s cleared thetable of old newspapers and wicker bowls filled with stray coins and double-A batteries. After slapping down a wooden trivet, she maneuvers an orange Dutch oven onto the table. When Cece asks what she can do to help, she’s ordered down into the cellar where Lorraine says she can pick any red from the top three rows. “You’ll understand what I mean when you see it,” Lorraine says after Cece gives her a look.
The cellar is dark and dank, something mossy and pungent in Cece’s nostrils. She flails for a light, her hand catching air until finding a slender string dangling from the ceiling. Dark splotches and ringed light—it takes a moment for Cece’s eyes to adjust. She makes out an imposing wine rack running from wall to wall,floor to ceiling. Under the cobwebs and dust, sideways bottles gleam dull light. Cece knows nothing about wine, but even she can tell she’s looking at a small fortune. She counts carefully down from the top before picking something.
Dinner is delicious, and Cece forgets all manners and decorum, agreeing to seconds and then thirds, heaping freshly grated Parmesan atop her spaghetti and meatballs along with basil from the garden. According to Lorraine, Cece’s picked a perfect wine pairing for their meal—a Pinot Noir from Veneto.
“It’s from a former lover. The wine,” Lorraine says, loosening her belt from under her apron.
Do people even have lovers anymore? Cece wonders. Her curiosity about Lorraine only grows, but she’s hesitant to pry. Questions will only beget more questions, and Cece isn’t entirely certain she wants to tell her landlord about the chain of unfortunate events that’ve landed her here.
“We met ages ago. He was a visiting classics professor at the time. I’d just gotten tenure and bought this place for a pittance. Anyway, he was always bringing back wine with him from his travels, or his friends would visit, and they would bring bottles as gifts. We amassed quite the collection.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Greece, I think, with his wife and kids. I only found out about them later.”
“God, that’s awful,” Cece says before she can catch herself. The wine and spaghetti have lulled her into a false sense of security. Get a grip!
Lorraine holds a speckled hand over her mouth. “Oh, no. Youmisunderstand. If anything, I was relieved. I remember being terrified at the time that he was going to do something idiotic like propose. I was even more opposed to marriage back then than I am now. No—it took the pressure off, knowing he already had a family. We could just have fun.”
“Opposed?”
Lorraine sloshes more wine into her glass. “This country is obsessed with marriage. Sometimes I wonder how it’s reached such a venerable status. Of course, I know how—it’s a Goddamn national interest as far as the American government is concerned. Marital tax deductions, social security and healthcare benefits, family leave—the list goes on. But I still can’t wrap my head around it. What makes people want to follow that crap? That’s what we were all asking ourselves back in the sixties. I guess we were the crazy ones.”
Something in Lorraine’s words—the anger, the disbelief—tap something deep within Cece, but before she can respond, Lorraine’s swatting the air. “That was a hypothetical question. Don’t answer it. Sometimes it’s just hard not to get riled up, especially when things don’t turn out the way you thought.”
“I get that,” Cece says.
“Nah,” Lorraine says, wine-stained teeth showing through her smile, “you’re too young to understand nonsense like that.”
Cece is somehow simultaneously flattered and offended. “What’s the deal with that house that’s getting fixed up down the street?” she asks, hoping to change the subject.
The mention of Morgan’s home sends Lorraine into another diatribe, mostly about the scaffolding and the ruckus caused bythe plastic tarps when the wind blows hard. She’s called the town on numerous occasions, but no one seems interested in doing anything. Cece asks if she’s thought about talking to the owner.
“I’ve only seen him a handful of times. He drives that awful truck that makes my windows rattle. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Cece’s cheeks burn, her neck undoubtedly red and splotchy. Red wine does this to her.
“There was an incident back in January. I remember it because it was right after a big snowstorm. The cops showed up outside his house. I asked the neighbors, but no one knew anything for certain. A few people said it was a domestic disturbance.”
“A disturbance.”
“Yeah, like a fight between family members.”
“I see,” Cece hears herself say.
