The First Husband

I looked at him, shocked. “They’re canceling ‘Checking Out’?”

He nodded. “They are, love. They’re, in fact . . . checking out.”

I gave him a look.

“Not a good joke?” he asked, sincerely surprised.

I shook my head, trying to understand. “But you said they were so happy with me. That I was a driver for advertisers, the bedrock of the travel section, that the column was one hundred percent safe.”

“It turns out one hundred percent is a very tricky number.”

I stared down at his desk. Had I just lost my job? After all this time? It seemed impossible—impossible without any warning signs. There was supposed to be safety in numbers, wasn’t there? And I had at least some numbers on my side: columns, years, readers. None of those things had disappeared. All of those things were supposedly growing.

Then I started to wonder if maybe they were there, and I had missed them: the warning signs. Maybe I just hadn’t been looking closely enough to see them. Maybe I had been looking in the wrong place entirely, so I could pretend they weren’t there, so I didn’t have to see what they were trying to tell me.

“They want to go big with the travel section,” he said. “Create international appeal. Everything has to be a platform. Complete with a possible movie tie-in and a happy meal. That’s the only thing that will sell newspapers these days. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“Do you follow what you’re saying?” I asked.

“Maybe we should be looking at the bright side,” Peter said. “You haven’t been focused on the column in a while. Not the way you used to be. Maybe it’s a good time to move on.”

He kept talking, though at some point I stopped listening. I just sat there trying to take it in. It was over. “Checking Out” was over. The one thing in my adult life I had been able to count on. The one way I could feel free.

Finally, I looked back up at Peter.

“And what’s the good news?” I said.

“The good news? ” He started to beam. “Well, earlier this week, I sold my novel to a brilliant young editor at a certain publishing house right down the road,” he said. “It will be coming to a bookstore near you this time next year.”

I smiled, my heart opening a little. “That’s great, Peter,” I said. “That’s really great.”

“The editor says that she sees the novel more in the vein of Jack London than John Steinbeck, though. Can you believe that? I guess, in the end, we really can’t control these things.”

“I guess not.”

Then I forced a bigger smile, and looked him right in the eye, trying to hold back my tears.

Peter reached across the table, taking my hand. “Don’t be so sad, my love,” he said. “This is a blessing in disguise. There are a million writing opportunities in Los Angeles. They have one of the best travel magazines in the country, there’s the L.A. Times there. LA Weekly is doing some interesting things. . . .”

My heart clenched, started filling up my chest. “I live in western Massachusetts now, remember?”

“That’s a permanent thing?” he said, genuinely surprised.

“Peter . . .”

“So, that’s not the end of the world. I have several contacts in Williamstown for you. They have some wonderful writing opportunities, I’m sure, related to theater and art.”

“I live in Williamsburg.”

“Right,” he said. “Probably less there.”

It hit me all over again. If I’d still lived in Los Angeles, this would be scary. But in California I had contacts, potential for moving forward. Finding other opportunities. Where I was now, I had just about none.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Anything, my love.”

“You said I haven’t been focused in a while? On work. Haven’t my columns been good?”