recuperate and, um, regroup before I seriously look for a new opportunity.” She simply couldn’t bring herself to admit that she’d only quit because they’d been planning to fire her. Or that she’d already searched for a job and discovered herself virtually unemployable.
For a brief moment Vivien allowed herself to consider all the things she was unwilling to admit or discuss. The months ahead played out in her mind, full of evasion and sidestepping. Trying to fool the people who knew her the best.
Panic filled the spot where the nausea normally resided. How was she ever going to pull this off? What had she been thinking when she’d decided to come here?
“I must say I had no idea how many people down here watched you on television until after the . . . incident,” Caroline said. “I got so many calls of concern I had to stop answering the phone.”
Vivien had no doubt these people had taken great delight in tweaking the nose of the ever-proper Caroline Baxter Gray. She could just imagine the glee with which they’d dialed their phones.
Vivi sent Melanie a silent plea for intervention, but Melanie seemed consumed with getting the cream and sweetener levels in her coffee just right.
“And, of course, it was hard to explain why I wasn’t up there taking care of you.” Caroline’s tone signaled a massive hurt somehow surmounted. “Like a mother should.”
Melanie added another sugar substitute and stirred, her attention riveted to her cup.
Vivien sighed. She was much too tired for confrontation. And not near enough to the top of her game to come close to winning. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come take care of me.” She almost smiled, picturing Caroline attempting to clean and change the bandage on her wound. It would have been one for the memory books. “I was just . . . overwhelmed. I wasn’t really thinking.” This, at least, was true.
Melanie stopped stirring. She looked up from her cup.
Caroline smiled. It was not a big smile and it was not all-encompassing or all-inclusive. She still did not approve of Vivien’s behavior or, for that matter, 90 percent of her life choices—and those were only the ones she knew about. But for the moment, Vivien’s apology would suffice. They could move on.
As her mother paid the bill and flirted again with the maitre d’ on the way out, Vivien didn’t allow herself to think about her mother’s reaction when her pregnancy became obvious. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she would simply think about that “tomorrow.”
NOT TOO FAR from where the Gray women lunched, Ruth Melnick sat on a gray tweed couch in the office of Myron Guttman, PhD. Her husband, Ira, sat unhappily beside her. She knew he was unhappy because of the woe-is-me expression on his normally ruddy face and because he’d told her so. “How many cockamamie marriage counselors are you planning to drag me to?” he’d complained when they met in front of the tall glass building on Peachtree Dunwoody Road. “The rent in this building is astronomical. And now I’m going to pay part of it to hear what a crummy husband I am. Why do we have to pay these people to hear it? You’ve told me plenty of times already.”
“We’re going to see as many counselors as it takes,” Ruth replied unperturbed. “Until we find one you actually listen to. You stopped listening to me a long time ago.” About twenty-five years ago to be exact, right when they’d hit the halfway mark in their marriage and the only thing he’d seemed to care about anymore was his business.
Now she and Ira sat side by side but worlds apart while Myron Guttman, PhD, tried to get to the crux of their problem. “Let’s try to figure out what you each want from your relationship. Then we’ll look at what it might take to satisfy you both.”
Ira snorted.
“All right, Mr. Melnick,” the therapist said in response. “Let’s start with you. What is it you want that you’re not getting from your
For a brief moment Vivien allowed herself to consider all the things she was unwilling to admit or discuss. The months ahead played out in her mind, full of evasion and sidestepping. Trying to fool the people who knew her the best.
Panic filled the spot where the nausea normally resided. How was she ever going to pull this off? What had she been thinking when she’d decided to come here?
“I must say I had no idea how many people down here watched you on television until after the . . . incident,” Caroline said. “I got so many calls of concern I had to stop answering the phone.”
Vivien had no doubt these people had taken great delight in tweaking the nose of the ever-proper Caroline Baxter Gray. She could just imagine the glee with which they’d dialed their phones.
Vivi sent Melanie a silent plea for intervention, but Melanie seemed consumed with getting the cream and sweetener levels in her coffee just right.
“And, of course, it was hard to explain why I wasn’t up there taking care of you.” Caroline’s tone signaled a massive hurt somehow surmounted. “Like a mother should.”
Melanie added another sugar substitute and stirred, her attention riveted to her cup.
Vivien sighed. She was much too tired for confrontation. And not near enough to the top of her game to come close to winning. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come take care of me.” She almost smiled, picturing Caroline attempting to clean and change the bandage on her wound. It would have been one for the memory books. “I was just . . . overwhelmed. I wasn’t really thinking.” This, at least, was true.
Melanie stopped stirring. She looked up from her cup.
Caroline smiled. It was not a big smile and it was not all-encompassing or all-inclusive. She still did not approve of Vivien’s behavior or, for that matter, 90 percent of her life choices—and those were only the ones she knew about. But for the moment, Vivien’s apology would suffice. They could move on.
As her mother paid the bill and flirted again with the maitre d’ on the way out, Vivien didn’t allow herself to think about her mother’s reaction when her pregnancy became obvious. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she would simply think about that “tomorrow.”
NOT TOO FAR from where the Gray women lunched, Ruth Melnick sat on a gray tweed couch in the office of Myron Guttman, PhD. Her husband, Ira, sat unhappily beside her. She knew he was unhappy because of the woe-is-me expression on his normally ruddy face and because he’d told her so. “How many cockamamie marriage counselors are you planning to drag me to?” he’d complained when they met in front of the tall glass building on Peachtree Dunwoody Road. “The rent in this building is astronomical. And now I’m going to pay part of it to hear what a crummy husband I am. Why do we have to pay these people to hear it? You’ve told me plenty of times already.”
“We’re going to see as many counselors as it takes,” Ruth replied unperturbed. “Until we find one you actually listen to. You stopped listening to me a long time ago.” About twenty-five years ago to be exact, right when they’d hit the halfway mark in their marriage and the only thing he’d seemed to care about anymore was his business.
Now she and Ira sat side by side but worlds apart while Myron Guttman, PhD, tried to get to the crux of their problem. “Let’s try to figure out what you each want from your relationship. Then we’ll look at what it might take to satisfy you both.”
Ira snorted.
“All right, Mr. Melnick,” the therapist said in response. “Let’s start with you. What is it you want that you’re not getting from your
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