Good Harbor

d always liked Tim, who seemed like such an easygoing guy; Frank liked him, too.

“Did you guys try counseling?” Heidi asked gently.

“No. It’s me. I’m in therapy,” Alice said. “Actually, I’m, um, taking Zoloft.”

Joyce giggled. Four pairs of eyes turned to her, and she felt her face redden. “I’m sorry. It’s just so much, isn’t it? All at once, I mean. Isn’t anyone here having a torrid affair? Then we’d have a complete set of midlife crises.”

Marie tried to lighten it up and, with a mock leer, pointed at Joyce. “Hey, I figured that’s what’s been keeping you away.”

“Not me,” Joyce said, “maybe that’s why Susan’s not here,” trying to deflect attention away from herself.

“Actually, Susan is in Cleveland to help move her father to a nursing home,” said Marie. “The Alzheimer’s got to be too much for her mom to handle.”

“Oh, God,” Joyce said, “I haven’t talked to her in ages.” She and Susan used to walk around the high school track twice a week, but that had stopped when Susan went back to school last fall.

Heidi headed for the kitchen and returned with two bottles of wine. “I don’t think decaf is going to cut it tonight,” she announced.

Alice didn’t want to say more about her problems, so Marie took up where she’d left off. They all knew the story of her last pregnancy; her husband hadn’t wanted another child, and her fifteen-year-old boys weren’t the least bit interested in baby-sitting for their little brother. “I think I had a baby so I wouldn’t have to deal with the rest of my life,” Marie said, as close to tears as any of the women had ever seen her. “But now I’m bored out of my skull at home all day with Ryan. Al is working eighty hours a week, and the boys are going to spend the whole summer at my sister’s house on Nantucket. I think I made a terrible mistake.”

Diana, the therapist, put an arm around Marie. Diana had a “challenging” son, too, a thirteen-year-old who was perpetually failing in school. “Hang on, Joyce,” Diana said by way of warning. “I, too, have a tale of woe.

“I didn’t tell you before, but Dylan was arrested for shoplifting a couple of months ago. The judge ordered tests, and they came back with a diagnosis of ADD and depression. Herb insisted we try Ritalin and his grades are up. He’s hanging out with other kids more.” Diana paused. “He’s happier. He even said so.” She raised her glass for a refill. “All those years I wouldn’t let him be evaluated because I thought the teachers and counselors just wanted to drug my creative, free-spirited boy. God forgive me.”

The phone rang and Heidi hoisted herself off the couch to answer it. Joyce used to think Heidi carried her extra weight stylishly in her long skirts and Navajo jewelry, but tonight she just looked dated and tired.

There was a pause as they waited for Heidi to return. Then, Alice turned to Joyce and asked, “So, what’s really up with you, Tabachnik?”

“I, um, wrote a novel.” Joyce’s timid announcement was met by an outburst of congratulations and questions. Did she have an agent? A publisher? Who? When?

Joyce smiled weakly. “It’s signed, sealed, and available in a supermarket near you.”

The faces around her went blank. Taking a deep breath, she said, “It’s a romance novel.”

That shut them up. Joyce figured that these women might read the occasional British mystery, but they were more likely to subscribe to Soldier of Fortune than pick up a romance.

She felt herself begin to sweat. “You guys know that none of my nonfiction projects panned out. Three different agents tried on the last one, but no one wanted to buy a book about the Children’s AIDS program. Too depressing. Too many AIDS books.”

Joyce was ashamed for parading her “serious” credentials, but she continued anyway. “I decided to go commercial.”

She entertained them with a description of the how-to-write-a-romance workshop she’d attended, quoting sample phrases from handout sheets: “Her body vibrated in response to his presence.” “He felt a numb certainty that the moment was wrong.”

She told them about her lunch with Mario Romano, but stopped short of revealing her pen name.

Joyce emptied her glass and excused herself. The buzz from the wine was starting to turn into a headache. Serves me right, she thought, as she walked out of the bathroom. I’m such a hypocrite.

They agreed to postpone the discussion of Tolstoy until after the summer. Marie offered her house for the September meeting, and the women said good-night to each other.

Joyce and Alice walked out together. “That’s great news about your book,” Alice said. “But you seem a little tense. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. What about you? And how’s Petra taking this?”

“Petra will be okay,” Alice said as she unlocked her car. “Kids are resilient. I stayed with Tim for a lot longer than I should have, for Petra’s sake. But I just can’t anymore. My marriage is empty, and I know it sounds stupid, but all I really want is to fall in love again. I want to feel alive like that again. Besides, it can’t be good for her if I’m miserable.”

“Alice, I wish you all the best,” Joyce said. “It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing.”

“Yeah. Or mental illness.”

Joyce’s scalp prickled. Hadn’t Alice said she was taking antidepressants?