Winter Garden
Maddy would burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
Jillian’s tears would be the silent, heartbreaking type.
Meredith drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She knew now why unhappily married women stayed in their marriages. It was because of the scene she’d just imagined and the pain of it.
In the distance, she could see the first copper glimmer of dawn. She’d been out here all night. Tightening her robe around her, she went inside, milled throughout the house, picking up objects and putting them down. The crystal award Jeff had won last year for investigative journalism . . . the reading glasses he’d recently begun to use . . . the picture of them at Lake Chelan last summer. Before, when she’d looked at that photo, all she’d seen was that she was getting older; now she saw the way he was holding her, the brightness of his smile.
She put the picture down and went upstairs. Though bed beckoned her, she didn’t even go close to it, not to that king-sized mattress where his shape lingered, and his scent. Instead, she put on her running clothes and ran until she couldn’t breathe without pain and her lungs felt like jelly.
At home, she went straight to the shower, where she stayed until the water turned cold.
When she was dressed, she knew that no one would be able to look at her and know that her husband had left her in the night.
She was holding her car keys, standing in her kitchen, when she realized it was Saturday.
The warehouse would be dark and freezing. Closed. Oh, she could go to work anyway, try to lose herself in the minutiae of insect and pruning reports, of crop projections and sales quotas. But she would be alone, in the quiet, with only her own thoughts to distract her.
“No way. ”
She went out to the car and started it up, but instead of driving to town, she drove to Belye Nochi and parked.
The living room light was on. A plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Of course Nina was up. She was still running on Africa time.
Meredith felt a wave of self-pity. With all her heart, she wished she could talk to her sister about this, that she could hand her pain off to someone else who might find the words to soften or reshape it.
But Nina was not that person. Neither would Meredith tell her friends. It was humiliating and painful enough without the addition of becoming a bit of town gossip. And besides, she wasn’t the kind of woman who talked about her problems; wasn’t that part of the reason she was alone now?
She yanked open the car door and got out.
Inside the house, she noticed the lingering smell of smoke. Then she saw the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the open decanter of vodka on the counter.
It pissed her off. Suddenly. Sharply. Disproportionately. But it felt good, this anger. She could hold on to it, let it consume her. She attacked the dishes so loudly that pans clanged together as she threw them in the soapy water.
“Whoa,” Nina said, coming into the room. She was wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and an old Nirvana T-shirt. Her hair stuck out like a black Chia Pet and her face crinkled in a smile. She looked like Demi Moore in Ghost; almost impossibly pretty. “I didn’t think pot-tossing was your sport. ”
“Do you think I have nothing better to do than clean up your messes?”
“It’s a little early for high drama. ”
“That’s right. Make a joke. What’s it to you?”
“Meredith, what’s wrong?” Nina said. “Are you okay?”
Meredith almost gave in. The softness of her sister’s voice, the unexpected question . . . she almost said, Jeff left me.
And then what?
She drew in a deep breath and folded the hand towel in precise thirds before draping it over the oven’s handle. “I’m fine. ”
“You don’t act fine. ”
“Honestly, Nina, you don’t know me well enough to say that. How was Mom last night? Did she eat?”
“We drank vodka together. And wine. Can you believe it?”
Meredith felt a sharp pang at that; it took her a moment to realize she was jealous. “Vodka?”
“I know. Shocked the shit out of me, too. And I found out her favorite movie is Doctor Zhivago. ”