Page 6 of The Thinnest Air
“The guesthouse is amazing,” I say. “I can show you, if you’d like?”
Her eyes dart to mine. “That’s fine.”
I wave for her to follow me, and Andrew takes his time releasing my hand. A moment later, we’re passing through the sliding door off the back of the house and trekking beyond the covered, heated pool and lighted, bubbling spa toward the entrance of the guest lodge.
The guesthouse is lit like Christmas, the dark siding juxtaposed with the warm light emanating from the professionally styled interior. Everything from the grand, cognac leather sofa and reclaimed wood ceiling beams to the chinchilla-covered throw pillows was hand selected by a designer he flew in from Telluride.
Andrew calls the house quaint, but last I checked, most people wouldn’t consider a twenty-seven-hundred-square-foot, four-bedroom cottage “quaint.” I imagine there’s some perspective dwarfing going on here. Anything placed next to the main house would appear quite “quaint.”
Once inside, we pass a table in the entry with an oversize bouquet of fresh flowers in shades of wintry white accented with sprigs of pine. A collection of wickless candles flicker in the fireplace, and Ella Fitzgerald croons from speakers in the ceiling. The faint scent of cedar mixed with spearmint fills the air, and every couch cushion and throw pillow is fluffed and arranged just so. It isn’t the holiday season anymore, but it sure feels that way. Andrew says there are two seasons in Glacier Park: Christmas and almost Christmas. I suppose there’s no better way to take advantage of the long winters.
“You’re going to love it here,” I tell her as she stands in the foyer, inspecting her surroundings with her arms tight at her sides, like I’ve just abducted her and deposited her into a UFO. “The guestroomis nice, but the guesthouseis nicer. It’s basically a private five-star hotel. Housekeeping and everything. And the kitchenette should be stocked. Anything else you need, just dial zero on the phone, and someone will help you.”
I roll her suitcase to the bedroom, leaving it at the foot of a downy, king-size bed, but she doesn’t follow.
“Greer?” I call for her, stepping back toward the living room. “You can still have the guest room down the hall from us if you’d like. If this is too much, just say so.”
“It’s fine,” she says, lips flat and eyes focused. I’m sure the day of traveling has exhausted her, and it didn’t help that the second I picked her up from Salt Lake City International Airport, we hit the ground running. Before dinner at Maesano’s, I gave her an hour-long driving tour of Glacier Park, showing off the beautiful French-inspired and Gothic architecture. I fawned over the way the mountains frame the city like a little fortress, and I taught her how to spot tourists. They were always walking at a turtle’s pace. Pointing. Wearing North Face and UGGs. If a GP local wore North Face or UGGs, it would be an abomination. Moncler and Bogner are all the rage here, at least among the women, and sometimes I make a game of trying to talk about the latest in skiwear trends without actually having to pronounce those brands.
I’d definitely butcher them if I tried.
Greer sat quietly—or perhaps politely—impressed as I dragged her around the city, but I wasn’t trying to show off. I just wanted her to feel at home in my new home. I want her to feel like she can visit anytime.
I haven’t made many close friends here yet, and aside from Andrew, I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t have much of a life. Seems like there are plenty of women around here who are content to stay home doing nothing, to fill their empty days with facials and manicures and spur-of-the-moment Bunco lunches with their other stay-at-home friends.
I joined them once when one of our neighbors invited me, but the women were all my mother’s age, and when they weren’t fawning over how “perky my breasts are” and how my “skin glowed like a newborn’s bottom,” they were treating me like their daughter.
“Meredith, be a lamb and grab me a glass of ice in the kitchen, please?”
“Meredith, you’ll have to explain this Instagram thing to me. I have no idea how it works.”
“Meredith, I should take you shopping with me. I bet you could pick out some clothes my niece might actually wear for once ...”
I left the Bunco lunch with a bitter taste in my mouth and the realization that fitting in to Andrew’s world wasn’t going to be as smooth of a transition as I’d hoped.
The other night, I mentioned maybe looking for a part-time job to Andrew, but he just chuckled and kissed my head, telling me money wasn’t an issue for us and that it never would be.
That wasn’t my point.
I’m bored.
And lonely.
But it’s not like I can come out and tell my husband,“Sorry to be ungrateful and I love you to death, but this opulent life you’ve given me is dull and boring, and I kind of hate it.”
“You going to call it a night?” I glance at the clock, mentally calculating what time it would be back in New York.
My sister inhales, nodding, inspecting her surroundings with her feet cemented to the floor.
“I have barre in the morning,” I say. I hate barre. I hate exercising in general, at least out here. Leaving the warm gym in sweaty, sticky clothes and walking into an icy cold parking lot always makes me rethink whether or not I want to renew my membership each month. But working out kills time—roughly three hours if I include the time for my preworkout shower, getting dressed (which includes full hair and makeup because that’s what women do here), driving to the gym, sweating my ass off in a couple of classes, driving back, showering, dressing, and fixing my hair and makeup all over again. “And then spin class right after. I should be back by ten or so. Let me know what you want to do while you’re here.”
Greer offers me a reserved half smile. “Sounds good.”
Showing myself out, I trek across the backyard, making my way to the house. When I reach the back porch, I stop when I see Andrew seated at the head of the dining room table, a glass of wine to his right and a plate of heated leftovers before him. He’s reading the news on his tablet, the little line between his brows deep and pronounced, and my heart feels full.
He’s always working, always providing.
The quiet whoosh of the sliding door grabs his attention, and when he looks up at me, his expression ignites. The fact that this powerful, well-to-do man lights up like a firecracker every time I come into the room is enough to make me want to marry him all over again.
