“Bryn, hold on a minute,” he says.
“Maybe I should just bow out tonight. It’s your party after all.”
With that I hurry into the hall, through the living room, and out to the screened porch.
I’m both pissed and stunned. In the two years we’ve been together, we’ve disagreed at times, of course, but we’ve never resorted to snapping at each other.
And Guy’s words disturb me even more than his tone. With one brusque comment he’s confirmed my suspicion, that he’s totally frustrated with the glacial pace of my recovery.
In the beginning he was so there for me. Once I was sent home from the hospital in Massachusetts, I urged him to return to Saratoga during the week—it was a critical time for him at work—but he refused. He used vacation time to stay with me in the city, and for a month after that, he took the train to New York on Thursday nights instead of Friday, working remotely the next day.
It was my idea, not his, for me to decamp to Saratoga for the summer, but he lit up when I suggested it. Does he feel he’s been forced into the role of nursemaid?
“Bryn.” Guy has come onto the porch.
“I can’t believe you spoke to me that way.”
“I know, it was horrible of me. I’m so sorry.”
“Is that how you really feel? Totally frustrated?”
“No, I swear. Not with you anyway. Just with my inability to help. I hate seeing you struggle and wish I knew what to do.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Except be patient for a little longer, okay? It’s taking more time than I’d like, but I sense things getting better. I really do.”
Pants on fire, I think. There’s that need again on my part to fudge.
He steps closer, pulls me to him, and folds his arm around me.
“I have all the patience in the world for you, Bryn. I just think we need to—I don’t know—talk a bit more about this, so I know how you’re doing and what you need from me.”
My little white lies are definitely not helping. I’ve got to be honest going forward. In fact, we both do.
“Did you send someone from the Saratoga Arts Council here to encourage me to volunteer?”
“What? Of course not.”
“A woman named Sandra dropped by today, bearing brochures. She said they’d heard I’d moved to town.”
“They definitely didn’t hear it from me.” He flashes a grin. “I can’t help it if women all over the area are in desperate need of your wisdom.”
I smile back, relieved. I’ve needed Guy to cut me a break and maybe I need to cut him one, too. I know that part of what attracted him to me was my drive, and it’s got to be tough for him to see that missing in action. It will come back, though. It has to.
“Can you accept my apology, honey?” Guy asks.
“Yes. Of course.”
“This dinner isn’t too much for you?”
“No. Let’s have fun tonight.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when the doorbell rings.
The two couples, it turns out, have arrived simultaneously, though the Donaldsons live in town and the Emerlings are from a suburb of Albany, about thirty minutes south. Guy introduces me to everyone—the couples seem to know each other—and we usher them through the entrance hall into the living room.
I take a deep breath as I settle into an armchair. Engage, I command myself. Be fully present. When the waiter Conrad takes our drink orders, I ask for a glass of sparkling water, fearful that any wine will leave me feeling wiped.
Guy does most of the talking at first, which I’m grateful for. After all these years in fund-raising, he’s a master at this kind of evening, and he fills the guests in on the upcoming opera season, as well as details about the artists who’ll be performing.
All four guests appear to be in their early to mid-forties. Jerry Donaldson, Guy has told me, is a successful local attorney, so I’m surprised to discover how soft-spoken he is, almost a whisperer. His wife, Barb, is one of those bighearted blond talkers who don’t like to see any grass grow between comments. She answers questions directed at her as well as any meant for Jerry, but he seems to have no problem with this.
As for the Emerlings, they present as a little sharper around the edges. Nick has made his money in commercial real estate and he’s obviously shrewd, the kind of guy who could sell you a rainbow, and he’s quick to voice his opinion. His wife, Kim, is more stylish than Barb—she’s a blonde too, but her hair is in a short, razored cut that makes her dark brown eyes seem even larger—and she doesn’t say a word when we first sit down. I sense her calculating something, though what I’m not sure what.