It started when Mitzi stumbled home from the inn, dropped off out front by Kelley, and found George having a Scotch in the bar with the redhead from the Holiday House Tour. Mitzi had gone into the bar to get herself a nightcap that she didn’t need, but she had not expected to find her partner chatting up another woman. Rosemary, or whatever her name was. Mary Rose.
Mitzi managed to hold it together—sort of—in the public space of the bar. George looked extremely flustered when she tapped him on the shoulder, and he was quick to explain the enormous coincidence: Mary Rose was also staying at the hotel, and the two of them had ended up there for dinner.
“Since I didn’t hear from you,” George said.
Mitzi had skipped dinner—but for the past year, this was often how it went.
“How did you get home from the inn?” George asked. “Did you walk?”
“Kelley dropped me,” Mitzi admitted.
George nodded curtly, then called for his check. He made their excuses to Mary Rose and they marched down the hall to their room in silence. Once they were inside, Mitzi lost her temper.
She said, “Sorry to interrupt your little date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” George said. “I told you, we both happened to be having dinner at the bar. It was a coincidence.”
“You have now used the word ‘coincidence’ twice,” Mitzi said. “Which tells me it wasn’t a coincidence. I think a more honest way to describe what happened is that you and Mary Rose had so much fun chatting on the house tour that you decided to go to dinner together afterward.” Mitzi didn’t like how thick her voice sounded; she was slurring her words, which undermined the validity of the point she was trying to make.
“You were at the inn a long time,” George said. “And I didn’t hear from you.”
“Did you call me?” Mitzi asked. “Did you text me?”
“No,” George said. “No, I did not. Because I was trying to give you the time and space to do whatever it was you wanted to do at the inn.”
It was then that Mitzi had spun out of control. She screamed and cried and called George a fat, insensitive bastard. She told him he couldn’t understand her pain because he had never had children; she accused him of going out and seeking a fun time with a stranger because Mitzi wasn’t fun anymore and George was tired of living with someone so miserable.
George had said, “I love you, Mitzi. But it was enjoyable, I admit, to have a regular conversation. Mary Rose was nice to me. Do you know how long it’s been since you were nice to me?”
George might as well have poured lighter fluid on the hot coals of her anger. She screamed—with words, then unintelligible words, then she just made noise for the sake of making noise. Then… well, the truth is, she doesn’t remember anything else except for the knock on the door. The night manager.
George said to the man, “My lovely Mrs. Claus here has a son who is serving our country in Afghanistan, and we’ve had some bad news.”
The night manager said he of course understood and he asked if there was anything he could do. George assured him there was nothing anyone could do, but that they would quiet down. “Please accept our apologies,” George said. “I’m sure we’re disturbing the other guests. They probably think someone is being murdered in here.”
The night manager laughed uncertainly and George closed the door.
He then turned to Mitzi with that look on his face, the same look Kelley sometimes gave her which said: Well, I hope you’re happy. Now the whole world knows you’re crazy.
He’d said, in a voice she found patronizing, “Would you like me to draw you a bath, darling?”
“No,” she’d said tersely. She lay down on the bed. She was tired, too tired to even take off her shoes. “No, I don’t think so.”
Now, Mitzi is undressed—or, at least, stripped to her underwear and T-shirt—and George is gone. Mitzi swings her legs to the floor and hoists herself up. She staggers to the bathroom for water, and then she digs her phone out of her coat pocket. There is nothing from George.
She texts: Where are you?
As she waits for a response, she checks the room for a note. She finds nothing.
Bart Bart Bart Bart Bart.
Her phone dings. The text from George says: I’m at lunch on Main Street with Mary Rose.
Mitzi blinks. Does the text really say that? She can’t be sure; her headache is so bad she might have brain damage. She reads it again. George is at lunch with Mary Rose.
She texts back: Seriously?
He texts back: Yes, seriously. Finishing up. Should be back to room in 20 minutes.
Mitzi is filled with confused emotion. What she needs more than anything right now is a friend to either confirm that her anger is justified or talk her off the ledge. But Mitzi no longer has any friends. Those she had a year ago, she left behind here on Nantucket. She hasn’t made a single woman friend in Lenox. The girls who work at the millinery shop for George don’t speak English and all of the other women George knows in town are friends of his ex-wife, Patti.
Mitzi sits on her bed and brings up her email on her phone. Should she write to Gayle, she wonders, or Yasmin? She has never broached any topic with her pen pals other than their missing sons. But her issues with George are not unrelated. After some contemplation, she chooses Yasmin. Gayle has been happily married for thirty years and she’s a fundamentalist Christian; Mitzi isn’t sure if Gayle would understand that Mitzi left her husband after a twelve-year affair with their Santa Claus. Whereas Yasmin, living in Brooklyn, would have seen everything.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Man trouble
Yasmin, hi—
I know I’ve shared with you that my partner’s name is George and that George is not Bart’s father. The truth is that I was married to Kelley Quinn, Bart’s father, for twenty-one years but for twelve of those years I was conducting a one-weekend-a-year affair at Christmastime with the man who served as our Santa Claus. That man is George. Last year, shortly before Bart deployed, I decided to leave Kelley for George, and I moved with George across the Commonwealth to Lenox, Massachusetts.
I’m beginning to think that I’ve made a monumental mistake. Possibly, the stress of Bart going to war clouded my judgment. I should have forsaken George and clung to Kelley; instead, I did the opposite.
It has been a miserable year for me, not only because of Bart, but because I have been living with a man I do not love.
I do not love George.
Mitzi stares at the screen of her phone. She can’t believe she has just written those words.
The words are true: She doesn’t love George. She doesn’t care that George is having lunch with Mary Rose. She’s relieved that he’s found a friend because this means there is no pressure for Mitzi to be cheerful or play along at enjoying the activities of Stroll weekend.
Yasmin, I am writing to ask for your advice. What should I do? The man I really love is Bart’s father, Kelley—but I have done so much damage to the relationship that I fear it can’t be repaired. Please let me know your thoughts. I know we have never met in person, but right now you are the woman I feel closest to because of our shared sorrow.
God Bless Our Troops,
Mitzi
Mitzi presses Send, then she pulls on her jeans and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her hair is beyond help; she will have to wear a hat. She applies moisturizer, but no makeup. She hasn’t bothered with makeup in months and months; it’s pointless.
George will be back in the room in twenty minutes but Mitzi won’t be here. She is going out to get a drink.
KELLEY
Saturday is very busy, which is a good thing because it keeps Kelley from thinking too much about Mitzi.
Kelley wakes up at six o’clock and heads to the kitchen to brew coffee and get started on breakfast. He cooks three pounds of bacon on the griddle, some soft, some crispy, and mixes the batter for his famous tri-berry cornmeal pancakes. Mr. Blount, room 7, comes down for coffee at six thirty and a few seconds later, Isabelle appears to do the mise-en-place for her omelette service.
Kelley says, “How did the baby sleep?”
Isabelle waggles her hand. “Comme ci, comme ça. She wakes up twice.”