Apples Never Fall

She imagined him chatting to that woman with the bright red lips and long fake eyelashes. He’d be up-front and honest. He made an excellent first impression. “I’m very recently separated,” he’d say. No lies. He’d be respectful when he spoke about Brooke. He’d say that although he supported Brooke’s career aspirations, a healthy work–life balance was important to him. “I just think there’s more to life than work,” he’d say, and the tumbling-haired girl would agree that there was so much more to life than work, and their eyes would meet for just long enough.

“It sounds risky,” Grant said, when Brooke first said she wanted to go into practice on her own, but he didn’t try to stop her. He never said I told you so when she fretted about cash flow. When she said she couldn’t go riding with him on Saturday mornings anymore, because she’d volunteered to be on-site at the local sporting grounds in case of injuries, in hope of injuries, that might lead to patients and raise her profile, he never complained, he just looked faintly bored.

She was no longer ticking quite as many boxes.

There had been no counseling, no tears, no shouting. It was an amicable, grown-up separation. “We should feel proud about that,” Grant had said. It was strange how he’d always made her feel like they were winning as a couple, even when they were breaking up.

“Do you want me to give up the clinic?” she’d asked him.

“Of course not,” he’d answered. “I just think maybe our paths have diverged and we need some time apart to think.”

To think about what? She didn’t have time to think.

When her family asked her about Grant today she planned to tell them he was sick at home with a cold. She wasn’t going to announce the separation on Father’s Day, not with a strange girl at the table. This was going to be a shock for both family and friends. She and Grant had not been a couple who ever fought in public, or even snapped at each other. They were affectionate, without being over the top about it. (There was something suspect about people who were too lovey-dovey.) They socialized and exercised together. They had mutual friends and peaceful dinner parties. She thought people would probably have described their marriage as “solid.”

It was not in her nature to shock people with developments in her personal life. That was for Amy. Brooke preferred to go under the radar. She realized she felt ashamed, as if by separating from her husband, she’d done something slightly distasteful and seedy, which was ridiculous. This was not Regency England. It was the twenty-first century. Her own brother was divorced. Her friend Ines was divorced.

She undid her seatbelt.

Where’s Grant? He’s at home. He has a bad cold.

She was the worst liar in her family. She used to think it was because she was the youngest, and therefore everyone could see right through her feeble attempts at deceit thanks to their superior knowledge of how the world worked.

She still sometimes caught herself watching for circumspect glances between her older siblings, listening for the nuances of the conversation, as if they might still be keeping secrets from her about sex and Santa, death and Grandma. (Her brothers and sister once convinced Brooke she was adopted because she was the only left-handed member of the family. Brooke believed it. For months! “Have you not looked in the mirror, you foolish child?” Joy said when Brooke finally tearfully asked if she could please meet her real parents. “You’re all identical!”)

If she got through the questions about Grant, the next question from her family would be about the clinic, and she’d have to lie about that too. Over the last few days she’d had four no-shows and three last-minute cancellations. It was unbeli

evable. It felt like a concerted attack. What was wrong with people? She had a carefully worded cancellation policy on her website, but it was difficult to charge patients who she’d never even seen for an initial consultation. If she told her parents, they would be so enthusiastically sympathetic. They would remind her of the ladies who used to book private tennis lessons and then cancel five minutes before. It was selfish of her not to give her parents the opportunity to pleasurably reminisce about the early days of Delaneys, but Brooke couldn’t bear to hear their helpful tips, to see their furrowed brows as they brainstormed strategies. The added weight of their hopes for her success was too much to bear.

She opened her car door a fraction, put one foot on the ground, breathed in the scented spring air, and wondered if she should text Grant to remind him about his hay fever medication. Was that the way one behaved during an “amicable” separation?

Logan’s car was already parked in the driveway. The others would be arriving any minute. The Delaneys were extraordinarily punctual, even Amy, who might arrive hungover or depressed or in some other way incapacitated, but right on time. A good tennis player was punctual. Don’t leave the other competitors sitting around waiting for you.

As she watched, Logan came out the front door. He smiled, lifted a hand, and walked toward her car. He looked kind of old today. His gray sideburns glistened in the sunlight as he ducked down to see her.

“Have you been sent out on an errand already?” she asked.

“Mum wants me to buy two bottles of mineral water.” Logan opened her car door the full way and stood back. “You need me to take anything inside for you?”

“We don’t need mineral water,” said Brooke. She picked up the green salad she’d made that no one would eat from the passenger seat, together with her Father’s Day gift: a travel-sized massage ball her dad would say was what he’d always wanted, but that her mother would probably re-gift back to Brooke one day. “We can just drink tap water.”

“Mum says she’s noticed that people always expect sparkling water these days,” said Logan as she got out, the salad bowl under her arm, the gift balanced on top of the cling wrap.

“There are no people coming. It’s just us.”

“Just us.” Logan paused. “And Savannah. Our new friend.” He looked back at the car. “Where’s Grant?”

He’s got a bad cold. He’s sick with a cold. He’s very sick with a very bad cold.

“We’re having a trial separation.” She really needed to work on strengthening her lying muscles.

Logan blanched. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry.” He took a step toward her as if he was going to hug her, but they weren’t a hugging family, so he didn’t know how to complete the move. “That’s terrible news. That’s quite a shock.” He ran his palm along the side of his jaw. “Are you okay?”

“Well”—Brooke shifted the salad bowl onto her hip—“he hasn’t died.”

“Still. It’s a shock.” He seemed genuinely, properly upset. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“I didn’t either.” An understatement.