Page 56 of The Marriage Agreement
And now, days later, I still feel guilty. It's difficult for me to describe. I should be running laps celebrating my victory over her. I should be over her by now and not worrying about what she thinks about me. About the hurt I caused her.
We barely talk when we are alone. Even when we sleep together. Tonight was the same deal. I came back from work to find Ivy and Lake already home. After the allergic episode, the nanny quit and so Ivy and I have been taking turns going to work with Lake. She said little to me even though she was speaking animately with Lake. And her mood was the same for the rest of the day. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want me, though. Because when I went to bed, she came in and joined me. I did not refuse her. I could not refuse her. It was as though we were two people obsessed with being with each other for no other reason than sex.
When the following morning came, her side of the bed was empty, but I could still sense her presence. By the time I shower and change, Lake and Ivy are already having their breakfast in the breakfast room.
“Mommy said I am going with you today!”
Ivy drops the piece of toast she was buttering into our son’s plate. “Lake,” her voice stern, “What did we say we do when we see someone first thing in the morning?”
“Sorry. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply.
“Mommy said I will be going to work with you today.”
“It’s your turn today,” Ivy says. Greta sent in her resignation the morning after we came back with Lake home and ever since then, Ivy and I agreed to take turns taking Lake to our respective workplaces. She looks stunning in a white pantsuit and pink blouse beneath. She looks more formal and dressed up than I’ve usually seen her and a strange feeling of jealousy grips me as I wonder who she is trying to impress.
Afraid that I will drag her out of the room and rip off her clothes, I turn to the breakfast bar where there’s an array of breakfasts the chef has made for us. I don’t feel like eating and take a pot of coffee with me to the table.
“Aren’t you afraid of butter and chocolate messing up your pristine suit?” I draw out the only unoccupied chair at the small round table near the window overlooking a beautiful, golden skyline and plop myself onto the seat. Our legs brush as I extend mine and I feel an electric rush course from my foot to my groin. From the slight jump she makes, I can tell she’s just as affected as I am.
She cuts into her egg, saying, “I won’t be at the shop today. I have a meeting with a potential client.”
I grab a cup and pour myself some coffee, trying to look casual so as not to show that the little jealousy bug growing inside of me is turning into a monster. “Whoever he is, he going to buy whatever you’re selling looking like that.”
“Thanks, but it’s a she. The youngest Atkinson is getting married and wants us to do her wedding cake.”
I feel like a fool and simultaneously relieved. The Atkinsons are one of the oldest among the rich families in New York. I am pretty sure they can trace their ancestry to the Mayflower. And the woman who wants a wedding cake is a popular socialite. The society pages and gossip blogs have been abuzz about her upcoming wedding to a New York Giants footballer. Getting to do the cake for such a wedding would be great for any bakery.
“Well, good luck.”
She scoffs. “As if you care.”
I care. But I doubt she would believe me. Haven’t I proven that multiple times? Even though I don't care about her business, I want to see her succeed. I don’t know what changed between our date and now, but ever since then, I have been caring way too much about her well-being and what she does. I don’t know how to explain it to myself, much less to someone else, so I choose to do what I usually do with Ivy. Put the feelings in a mental box marked Ivy Hawthorne and change the subject.
“I was thinking of taking Lake to see his grandmother this weekend.”
Ivy stiffens, stops chewing, and then slowly relaxes. “Fine by me. I have some supplies I need to buy, anyway.”
“You’ll be coming along. Send someone else to do that.”
“I don’t think your mother wants anything to do with me. I’m sure she hates my guts.”
“You’re the mother of my child. You need to be there when he visits his grandmother for the first time.”
The conversation dies there and we return to our normal state of only speaking through Lake. She gets up and leaves as soon as she finishes eating Lake and I leave a few minutes later.
***
“Your ten o’clock has been delayed, freeing up your schedule until twelve.” Nicole looks up from her iPad when she hears a crash behind her. Her second assistant, Meg, practically jumps out of her chair and turns to see the cause of the chaos. Lake is in the sitting area holding a piece of rectangular wood as he watches in shock as blocks of tiny wood clutter on the table. I chuckle. Lake asked to bring his Jenga blocks with him, and I couldn’t refuse him. I was having fun playing the game with him while I waited for everyone to come into the office and had taken out a block that left the wood tower in a precarious state. I left him struggling to remove a block without toppling everything until he did.
“Lake!” Nicole says, “I didn’t know you were here?”
Lake’s gaze darts to me, his face cutely marred with guilt. “I’m sorry I tried to be quiet.” I shrug. And turn back to my assistants. Meg balances her laptop in her lap and adjusts her glasses, getting back to the meeting. Nicole’s attention is still on Lake though as she asks him, “I heard you got sick. How are you?”
I feel my body stiffen as I remember Ivy’s accusations. I told Nicole to look for a new nanny because Greta had resigned over the incident, but I didn’t tell Nicole what had caused it. Nicole doesn’t seem like someone who deliberately poisons a child. I don’t know anyone who would do something like that. I watch their interactions closely.
“I’m fine,” Lake says, his attention on stacking back the blocks. “The doctor told me to drink lots of water and stay away from nuts.”
