Page 44 of Letters From Victor

“Ugh, Frank,” Edith interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Let’s not muddy the waters by talking about Frank. Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that your marriage is not what you need right now. That it’sneverbeen what you needed.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand to stop me. “I’m not saying you should leave him, Barbara. At least, not right now. I’m just saying you need to be honest with yourself about what you want. About what will make you happy.”

Silence settled over us, heavy and contemplative. Edith turned back to the stove, stirring the spaghetti with a wooden spoon. The aroma of sautéed onions and ground beef filled the warm kitchen.

“I just don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did,” Edith said softly, almost to herself. “We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. Ambitious, restless. You need to find a way to balance it all.”

I bit my lip, the weight of her words sinking in. “Did you regret it? Marrying Bob?”

She shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “We all have our regrets.” A pause. Then she turned, holding the wooden spoon like a scepter. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. So, what’sthe plan? Will you keep sneaking around, hoping Frank doesn’t find out? Or will you make a choice?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. The thought of choosing—of committing to one path and forsaking the other—was paralyzing.

Edith studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “And to answer your question, yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I regretted marrying Bob.” She exhaled through pursed lips. “It feels a little unfair to say it out loud, but it’s true. And if I can’t tell you, who can I tell?”

“Then why did you marry him?”

She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Because it was easier than listening to Mother and Father harp on about my ‘future’ every time I walked into the room.” She stirred the sauce with unnecessary force. “They were worried about my ‘reputation.’ You were probably too young to remember, but I ran wild back in the twenties.” She smiled wistfully.

I did remember—at least, vaguely—the gaudy strings of beads, the scandalous short hair, the bright red lipstick. As a child, I’d idolized Edith’s fearless spirit. I suppose I still did.

“They thought marriage would settle me down.”

“So they pushed you into it?” I asked.

Edith shook her head. “Didn’t take much pushing.” She sighed, the sharpness in her voice giving way to reflection. “Bob was one of my running buddies. He checked every box for them—well-off, respectable, steady as a metronome.” She hesitated, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot. “And, of course, Bob had his own reasons for needing to marry.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Edith arched an eyebrow. “Come now, Barbara. The only time Bob ever touched lace was when he was picking out curtains.”

It took a moment to register her meaning. “Are you saying Bob was…”

“Gay as springtime,” she said with a flourish of the wooden spoon, as if she were revealing the climax of an old vaudeville joke.

I stared at her, stunned. “So your whole marriage was just…a convenience?”

She nodded. “We played our parts and kept up appearances. It worked. He had his freedom, and so did I. It wasn’t an unhappy marriage—we were good friends.”

“And when he died…”

For the first time, Edith hesitated. “When he died, I mourned a friend. But not a husband.”

“I never knew, Edie…”

She waved me off. “Of course you didn’t. You were what, five when I married Bob? There’s a lot I’ve never told you, Babs.” She stirred the sauce absently before looking back at me, her expression suddenly fierce. “But do you see why I’m telling you this now? Life is short. Shorter than we ever think it’s going to be. You’re still young, but I’m staring middle age in the face. Don’t waste time living a life that isn’t what you want it to be.”

The oven timer dinged, and Edith pulled out a pan of garlic bread, the crust crackling as it hit the cool air. She set it on the counter and wiped her hands on her apron.

Then, switching gears, she grabbed three mismatched plates from the cupboard. “Come on, let’s eat. And while we do, I want to hear all about how delicious this Victor of yours is.” She shot me a wicked grin. “I expect details.”

20

VICTOR

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