Page 10 of Saltwater Secrets
“And Calvin is never happy. It’s like a rule he has,” Marc said, shaking his head. “He always strives to be better, which means that better is never good enough.”
Hilary ached to learn that Marc might leave but knew how essential his career was for his happiness. “Let me know what you need from me,” Hilary said. “It was our deal, remember? When you moved out here, we said you should go to the West Coast whenever you’re needed.”
They had an easy life, a beautiful one. They could pick up and go at a moment’s notice. They could run all over the world.
But that night, Marc was up late, performing rituals of West Coast time, popping in and out of video calls with members of the staff, Calvin and otherwise. By morning, he had his bags packed and announced he was off to the airport. He was wearing a cool travel outfit: black jeans and a black button-down. Hilary felt his leaving like a Band-Aid being ripped off.
“The sooner I deal with this, the better off we’ll all be,” Marc said, kissing her gently in the soft light of the morning. “I don’t want to curse this house with any of my stupid disagreements with Calvin. I want the first months of our marriage to be easy breezy and stress-free.”
Hilary guessed that meant keeping most of his stress on the West Coast.
Hilary searched his face. How was it possible that only recently they’d been in the South of France, drinking champagne in the sunshine, kissing and swimming in the sea? “I hate how addicted I am to you now,” she said after a dramatic pause, then laughed at herself. She’d spent twenty-plus years without Marc at her side, and now, she could hardly sleep if he wasn’t in bed with her.
Marc kissed her again. “Right back at you, baby. Keep the light on for me.”
Hilary walked him to the door and watched as he backed his Mercedes-Benz out of the driveway and buzzed out of sight. That’s when she smelled the coffee, the good beans, already prepared in the pot, waiting for her. She poured and sat at the kitchen table, her heart pounding. She had a list of things to do for Dorothy Wagner’s place today, logistic calls she had to make to get the ball rolling on the redesign. She also wanted to swing by again and take a number of measurements, a task that required Aria beside her.
She thought of Aria, upstairs, with a broken heart.
That was all it took to kick-start Hilary’s day. Slowly and methodically, she cracked eggs and poured flour and grated cheeses and made several French galettes, cheesy and peppery and tangy from the good olive oil they’d brought back from France. She was sure that the smell would draw her daughter down from her bedroom. When it didn’t, she hurried upstairs and knocked on the door, her ear pressed against the wood, listening for her daughter’s movements. Just last night with Dorothy Wagner, they’d laughed and cracked jokes about men and relationships, and she’d thought,this is what Aria needs! This kind of gossip and laughter is how she’ll get through!
But the voice that cracked a “come in” sounded like an older woman’s. Hilary furrowed her brow and opened the door to find her daughter’s face red and swollen, her bedding rumpled up and some of it on the floor, as though she’d spent all night tossing and kicking. Hilary tried to hide her alarm.
“I made breakfast,” Hilary said.
Aria groaned into her hands.
“What was that?” Hilary asked.
Aria dropped her hands to her sides. “I said thank you.” But she seemed unable to look at Hilary.
“Honey…” Hilary was at a loss. Never in her life had she seen her daughter like this.
Aria gave her a look that meant she didn’t want to hear her mother’s advice, not now.
“You should eat something,” Hilary said finally. And then she added, “Your father had to go on a business trip. He left this morning.”
Aria blinked. “Back to San Francisco?”
Hilary nodded, trying to keep her face serene. “He’s having all that trouble with the CEO.”
Aria was quiet for a moment. After that, she said, “I guess it’s just us again. The Coleman girls.”
Hilary felt it like a stab in her gut, then fixed her face into a smile. “It’ll be fun. Just like old times.”
That afternoon at Dorothy Wagner’s place, Hilary and Aria worked diligently, measuring rooms, jotting down notes, and taking stock of how the light came in through first the east windows, then the west. Dorothy watched them for a little while, seeming to delight in how professional they were. She insistedon serving them a beautiful Nicoise salad lunch and demanded more details of Hilary’s honeymoon in the South of France, which was where that particular salad recipe hailed from. Aria spoke sparingly and took frequent breaks to go to the bathroom. Hilary guessed she was crying in there.
When Dorothy suggested that they have another gossip round, presumably to bash Thaddeus, Aria said she didn’t feel like it.
When it neared five o’clock, Hilary recounted everything else they needed to do that day, watching Aria’s face for signs she could manage it. But that’s when, out of nowhere, Aria burst to her feet and scrambled down the hallway, either about to throw up or ready for another round of sobbing. Hilary’s shoulders fell forward.
With Marc gone and Aria brokenhearted, everything felt heavy.
“You know,” Dorothy said, her voice reticent and crackly, “I don’t think Aria should be here.”
Hilary smarted with surprise. “Oh! She’ll be fine, Mrs. Wagner,” she said hurriedly, trying to fix her face and cursing the fact that Aria couldn’t hold it together for the client.
It was a brand-new problem. Hilary’s professionalism versus wanting to be a good mother to Aria. Motherhood always came first, of course.
