At the other end of the spectrum, Groucho Marx said, “Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?”
I wrote down other quotes as well, gleaned from the Internet and a shelf of marriage books I purchased from the bookstore near my office.
A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.
Don’t smother each other, nothing grows in the shade.
Things like that. Quotes may be an oversimplification, the last refuge of the dilettante, but I like having them on hand in counseling sessions. Occasionally, something will come up and I won’t know what to say. A little Groucho Marx can break the ice, lead somewhere unexpected, or just give me a minute to collect my thoughts.
7
Saturday morning, we got up early to prepare for Vivian’s arrival. At 9:45, Alice finished the vacuuming, and I took the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. Without discussion, we had both slightly overdressed. When I stepped out of the bedroom in a button-down shirt and khakis I hadn’t worn in months, Alice laughed.
“If I need a flat-screen TV from Best Buy,” she said, “you’re my man.”
Of course, we were just trying to present a slightly better version of ourselves and our tiny house with its sliver of a view of the Pacific Ocean. I’m not sure why we felt we needed to impress Vivian, but without ever acknowledging it out loud, we understood that we wanted to.
At 9:52, Alice finished changing clothes for the third time. She came into the living room and did a spin in her flowery blue dress. “Too much?”
“Perfect.”
“What about the shoes?”
She was wearing serious pumps, the kind she only ever wore to work. “Too formal,” I said.
“Right.” She disappeared down the hallway and returned in a pair of red Fluevogs.
“Just right,” I said.
I glanced out the front window, but there was no one there. I felt a little nervous, as if we were waiting to interview for a job that we hadn’t even applied for. Still, we wanted it. Between the box and the pens and the cryptic emails, Finnegan had made it sound so appealing—and, I’ll admit, so exclusive. At her heart, Alice is a true overachiever; anything she starts, she wants to complete. Anything she completes, she wants to win—whether it’s good for her or not.
At 9:59, I looked out the window again. The fog was thick, and I could see no cars in either direction.
Then the sound of shoes on the stairs. Heels, serious heels. Alice looked down at her Fluevogs, then at me, and whispered, “Wrong choice!”
I walked self-consciously to the door and opened it. “Vivian,” I said, more formally than I intended.
She was in a well-tailored but extraordinarily yellow dress. Tour de France yellow. She looked younger than I’d expected.
“You must be Jake,” she said. “And you,” she added, “must be Alice. You’re even more ravishing than your picture.”
Alice didn’t blush; she’s not a blusher. Instead, she tilted her head and gazed at Vivian, as if assessing her. Knowing Alice, she probably suspected Vivian had ulterior motives, but I could tell that Vivian was being sincere. Alice has that effect on people. Still, I knew Alice would have traded her high cheekbones, her big green eyes, her thick black hair—all of it—for a normal family, a living, loving family, a mother who hadn’t poisoned her liver, a father who hadn’t poisoned his lungs, and a brother who hadn’t taken what people erroneously call “the easy way out.”
Vivian herself was attractive in a way that comes from confidence, a good upbringing, and taste. She looked 80 percent business, 20 percent “Saturday-morning brunch with friends.” She carried a fine leather satchel and wore a strand of gleaming pearls. As the light caught her face, it occurred to me that she was actually in her late forties. Her hair was shiny, her skin had a glow—I imagined it was the result of an organic diet, regular exercise, and everything else in moderation. I imagined her with a good position in tech, some stock options, and a yearly bonus that never disappointed.
In my practice, when I meet potential clients for the first time, I can usually gauge the depth of their problems from one good glance. Over the years, anxiety, stress, and insecurity reveal themselves on a person’s face. Like a bend in a river, the stress or anxiety can wear on the face in tiny increments, until a slight pattern becomes noticeable to the naked eye.
In that instant, when the light broke through the fog, flooded into our living room, and literally shone upon Vivian’s face, it occurred to me that this woman had no stress, no anxiety, no insecurities.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Please.”
Vivian sat in the big blue chair that cost half of Alice’s first paycheck from the law firm. She opened her briefcase and removed a laptop and a tiny projector.
Reluctantly, I went to the kitchen. Thinking back, I realize I was nervous about leaving Alice alone with Vivian. When I returned with the coffee, they were talking about our honeymoon and the beauty of the Adriatic coast. Vivian asked about our hotel by name. How did she know where we had stayed?
I sat next to Alice and lifted three rolls from the tray onto three dessert plates.
“Thank you,” Vivian said. “I love cinnamon rolls.”
Vivian connected her projector to the laptop, then stood up. “Mind if I take this picture down?” But she was already removing the frame from its spot on the wall. It was a Martin Parr photograph Alice had given me for my last birthday, a picture I had always admired but had never been able to afford. From far off, the photo showed a solitary man on a stormy day, swimming laps in a shabby public pool beside a wild green sea in a run-down Scottish town. When I asked Alice where she had bought it, she had laughed. “Bought it? If only it had been that easy.”
“So,” Vivian said, turning. “How much has Liam told you?”
“Actually,” Alice said, “he didn’t tell us anything.”
“Can we open the box?” Vivian asked. “You only need to bring the smaller one. We’ll need the pens too.”
I walked down the hallway into the back room, where we had stored the wedding gifts we hadn’t gotten around to addressing. Miss Manners says you get exactly one year to write a thank-you note, but in the world of email and instant messages that seems like an eternity. Every time I saw the gifts, I felt guilty for all the cards we’d yet to send out.
I placed the box and the pens on the coffee table in front of Vivian.
“Still locked,” she said with a smile. “You passed the first test.”
Alice nervously sipped her coffee. It wasn’t until after the honeymoon that she’d seen the box. When she did, she tried and failed to pick the lock with a pair of tweezers.
Vivian reached down into her briefcase and pulled out a set of gold keys. She found the right key and inserted it in the lock but didn’t turn it.