hurricanes, storm surges, but he had bought the island last summer—for her forty-eighth birthday. A too-extravagant gift she hadn’t needed and they hadn’t really been able to afford, yet that was Clark’s way, and something about it had touched her heart when she’d been feeling most neglected.
Now she was feeling neglected again, and nothing much was touching her heart. There had been no dinner over the water, no dinner at all, just a phone call saying he’d ended up in the middle of some work he didn’t want to leave until tomorrow. “Especially since Kat’s out for the next few weeks.” As if there was so much traffic in the gallery that he’d be chained to the front door the whole time Kat was off on her girls’ getaway, then her honeymoon.
Thinking of Kat, Debra pushed the mute button on the remote and grabbed up the phone, dialing her daughter’s cell. When the message played saying Kat was unavailable, she knew Kat had either forgotten her charger again or was in the middle of some loud casino where she couldn’t hear the phone. “Hi, sweetie,” she said at the beep. “Just calling to check on you, but I guess you’re having too much fun to answer. I hope so. Just be careful, Kat. And call when you can—I miss you.”
She hung up feeling silly—Kat had left only this morning, but already she was saying she missed her. I’m such a typical mom.
Once upon a time she’d sworn to herself she’d be a cool mom, a hip mom, the fun mom all the kids wanted to have drive them around to shopping malls and movie theaters. In ways, she thought she’d lived up to that, but in the end, a mom was a mom—and somewhere along the way, she’d done what so many moms did: She’d started replacing her own hopes and dreams with Kat’s dreams until she didn’t really have any left of her own. Now Kat’s happiness was the biggest part of her life—Kat’s wedding next week felt as important to her as her own had twenty-nine years ago—and she supposed that was okay, the way life went, how things were meant to be. She just—immaturely, she supposed—wished she’d gotten to go out to dinner with Clark this evening, so that her life might feel like it was a little bit her own tonight.
In boredom, she left the TV quiet and padded from the large, plush family room down a wide hall to her office. She didn’t exactly need an office—but Clark had insisted she have one, and it was a nice luxury when it came to her charity work and, more recently, her articles for her Booklovers’ newsletter. Lately, the ever-growing book club had become a big part of her world —she’d made new friends there, and it gave her someplace to go once a week that was completely her own, about no one but her.
Easing into the big leather chair on wheels—Clark’s motto in life was “only the best,” even when it came to a chair she only spent a couple of hours a week in—she hit the e-mail button on her keyboard. A message appeared from Tansy, a friend from the country club, and then another from Michael Quinn—which made her pulse kick up a bit.
The local literary author had kindly come to speak to the Booklovers last month, and afterward, being a huge fan of his novels, she had gathered the courage to ask him for an interview, explaining that she was writing features for their new newsletter and that she knew the club members would be thrilled to learn more about him. To her amazement, he’d readily agreed, and they’d recently shared a lovely lunch at Bice, on Fifth Avenue, where, over an appetizer of beef carpaccio with arugula salad and hearts of palm, it had suddenly occurred to her how very handsome he was.
Odd, but she supposed that somewhere along the way she’d stopped really seeing that in men. Okay, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney—she knew they were handsome, but as for the men who passed in and out of her daily life, she didn’t really see them. Until it had struck her that Michael Quinn had the kindest
Now she was feeling neglected again, and nothing much was touching her heart. There had been no dinner over the water, no dinner at all, just a phone call saying he’d ended up in the middle of some work he didn’t want to leave until tomorrow. “Especially since Kat’s out for the next few weeks.” As if there was so much traffic in the gallery that he’d be chained to the front door the whole time Kat was off on her girls’ getaway, then her honeymoon.
Thinking of Kat, Debra pushed the mute button on the remote and grabbed up the phone, dialing her daughter’s cell. When the message played saying Kat was unavailable, she knew Kat had either forgotten her charger again or was in the middle of some loud casino where she couldn’t hear the phone. “Hi, sweetie,” she said at the beep. “Just calling to check on you, but I guess you’re having too much fun to answer. I hope so. Just be careful, Kat. And call when you can—I miss you.”
She hung up feeling silly—Kat had left only this morning, but already she was saying she missed her. I’m such a typical mom.
Once upon a time she’d sworn to herself she’d be a cool mom, a hip mom, the fun mom all the kids wanted to have drive them around to shopping malls and movie theaters. In ways, she thought she’d lived up to that, but in the end, a mom was a mom—and somewhere along the way, she’d done what so many moms did: She’d started replacing her own hopes and dreams with Kat’s dreams until she didn’t really have any left of her own. Now Kat’s happiness was the biggest part of her life—Kat’s wedding next week felt as important to her as her own had twenty-nine years ago—and she supposed that was okay, the way life went, how things were meant to be. She just—immaturely, she supposed—wished she’d gotten to go out to dinner with Clark this evening, so that her life might feel like it was a little bit her own tonight.
In boredom, she left the TV quiet and padded from the large, plush family room down a wide hall to her office. She didn’t exactly need an office—but Clark had insisted she have one, and it was a nice luxury when it came to her charity work and, more recently, her articles for her Booklovers’ newsletter. Lately, the ever-growing book club had become a big part of her world —she’d made new friends there, and it gave her someplace to go once a week that was completely her own, about no one but her.
Easing into the big leather chair on wheels—Clark’s motto in life was “only the best,” even when it came to a chair she only spent a couple of hours a week in—she hit the e-mail button on her keyboard. A message appeared from Tansy, a friend from the country club, and then another from Michael Quinn—which made her pulse kick up a bit.
The local literary author had kindly come to speak to the Booklovers last month, and afterward, being a huge fan of his novels, she had gathered the courage to ask him for an interview, explaining that she was writing features for their new newsletter and that she knew the club members would be thrilled to learn more about him. To her amazement, he’d readily agreed, and they’d recently shared a lovely lunch at Bice, on Fifth Avenue, where, over an appetizer of beef carpaccio with arugula salad and hearts of palm, it had suddenly occurred to her how very handsome he was.
Odd, but she supposed that somewhere along the way she’d stopped really seeing that in men. Okay, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney—she knew they were handsome, but as for the men who passed in and out of her daily life, she didn’t really see them. Until it had struck her that Michael Quinn had the kindest
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