The shop had its usual blend of clientele—as eclectic and caffeinated as their concoctions. I was the only one sitting alone, so I leafed through the newspaper to hide my awkwardness. I turned to the local section of the paper only to see a haggard-looking mug shot of Clive. It seemed that every time there was a discussion about the mayoral race or a vote of the city council, Clive’s picture would be dragged up. The article du jour was about the woman the mayor had nominated to fill my husband’s position.
Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what’s worse—the betrayal, the public humiliation, or the question that was on everyone’s mind: “How did you not know that your husband had another family?”
They just didn’t understand. Some people have husbands who come home from work, grab a beer, and watch TV all night. These people are not married to a politician or anyone in the public spotlight. Every night there’s an event, an Elks club gathering or a women’s political caucus. If I hadn’t put my foot down, he’d have been gone every night and weekend.
Or maybe I really was just as dumb as everyone thought.
I knew he was cheating on me; I just thought it was with his career. Politics had always been his second wife. I mean, he didn’t even have time for me. How could he possibly have time for another wife and family?
Looking back, I realized there were clues. My last birthday he gave me a leather miniskirt. When I looked surprised, he said, “But that’s what you asked for.” It wasn’t something I had or ever would have asked for.
Another time, before going to bed, he called me Jen, which, incidentally, is half the name of the other woman. Jennifer. It is also the name of one of the other council members, so it was easy for him to explain it away, and for me to brush it off. I just chalked it all up to his overtaxed brain and schedule. I wish I had been more suspicious. But then, there’s a lot of things I wish I had done differently.
Chapter Three
Carina thinks I need to change my environment to something more cheerful, like switching the song on the radio. To me it feels more like putting an ice cube in the microwave.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
Carina walked into the coffee shop about fifteen minutes late, escorted by a flurry of snow. She wore red leather gloves, a thick parka, and a red wool scarf with a matching beret strategically placed over her perfectly trimmed blond hair. She always dressed as if everyone was looking at her, and I suppose they were, probably because she dressed like everyone was looking at her. And she was pretty. Although she was seven years younger than me, people often said we looked alike, or asked if we were sisters. I doubt anyone would now. The contrast between our grooming made me feel self-conscious.
She looked around the room until she found me, then walked over, unpeeling her scarf as she walked. “Hi, love. Sorry I’m late. The roads were horrific.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I passed three accidents and at least a dozen cars off the road.”
“I was almost one of them,” I said.
“That’s because my washing machine’s bigger than your Fiat.”
“No, that’s because we should have stayed home.”
“No,” she said, unzipping her coat. “More time at home is the last thing you need right now.” She sat down. “That’s why I wanted to meet here. To get you out of your black hole of misery.”
“Into the blinding bright world of misery?” I lifted the newspaper to show her Clive’s picture.
“He looks wretched,” she said. She looked me over. “Speaking of which, how much weight have you lost?”
“Nice segue.”
“You look like a waif. You need to eat more. And you need to get out.”
I collapsed back into my chair. “I’m too tired to get out.”
“That’s depression, honey. And you’ll stay that way until you get out.”
“I don’t want to get out. I’m a pariah.”
Carina touched her coffee cup. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I’m an untouchable. A social leper.”
Carina shook her head. “No, you’re not.”
“No one wants to be seen with me.”
“I do.”
“Besides you,” I said. “And you’re a poor judge of character.”
“I am not.”
I cocked my head to one side.
“Maybe in dating,” she relented. “And marriage.” Carina had been married twice, once to a man who had been married seven times before, the other to a guy who just left one day and never came back. She found out later that he was wanted for check fraud in eleven states. “You know what you need?”
“Cyanide pills?”
Carina frowned. “You need to get involved with something outside yourself. Like come back to work.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Then at least change your environment. I drove by your house the other night and all the lights were out. It was only eight.”
“You should have just rung the doorbell.”
“I did.” She raised three fingers. “Three times.”
“I was sleeping. I’ve been sleeping weird hours lately. It’s like my body doesn’t know the difference between day and night. Did you know that during the winter months, beavers stay inside their lodges almost all the time? And since there are no light cues—like day or night—they develop their own circadian rhythm of twenty-nine-hour days.”
Carina stared at me for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if I’m more disturbed that you know this or that you’re telling me this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I saw it on a documentary . . .”
“While you were holed up in your lodge,” she said.
“Yes, while I was holed up in my lodge. And I’m telling you this because it resonated with me. My circadian rhythm is off. I get up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep.”
Her gaze intensified. “You’re isolating. And identifying with beavers.”
I frowned. “I know.”
“Well, if you’re not going to leave your home, at least bring some life into it.”
“You want me to invite some other woodland creatures to join me?”
She grinned. “What I mean is that you need to shake things up. Right after my first divorce I read a book on breakups, and it suggested changing around your physical environment to help change your emotional environment. It was by Benjamin Hardy. It worked for me. Clean the house, buy new furniture, decorate. It’s Christmas, put some lights up or something. Do you even have a Christmas tree?”
“Having a tree would mean the holidays are coming.”
“The holidays are coming. Get a tree.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“To begin with, I don’t feel Christmasy.”
“Is that even a word?”
“It is now.”
“Well, you don’t feel Christmasy because you’re not acting Christmasy. It’s a verb, not a noun.”
“Actually, it’s an adjective.”
“Don’t get grammatical on me. Bottom line, you’re alone. And loneliness is dangerous. Studies have shown it’s more hazardous to your health than smoking or being overweight. Especially during the holidays. There’s a reason so many people commit suicide during the holidays.”
“That’s a myth,” I said. “The suicide rate is highest in spring. It always has been.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “How did you know that?”
“I’m not considering suicide, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She continued to look at me doubtfully and I threw one hand up. “You brought it up, not me.”
Carina was quiet. After a moment she said, “Do you know the first thing you’re supposed to do if you’re lost in the woods?”
I looked at her blankly. “And you’re mocking me about the beaver lodge?”