As I passed the last trees of the forest, our century-old white Victorian home with a wraparound porch came into view, standing proudly in the middle of several acres of snow. The array of lights and decorations on and around the house brought vibrant reds and greens to the all-encompassing winter white.
Many people decorate for Christmas around Thanksgiving time. That seems to be the American rule. I cheat and string lights on the Friday before Halloween (yes, you read that right!), and by Thanksgiving our house and property were so covered in Christmas decorations that we could have charged money for people to visit. I think I jumped into my role as a homemaker like Idove into my past acting roles, giving it everything I had. Lights and topiaries hung from the lampposts that lined the last part of the driveway. Rory had let me get away with putting a life-size sleigh, Santa, and all his reindeer on the lawn near our front porch. I waved at Santa.
Parking next to my husband’s Cadillac by the side of the house, I stacked up the bags of ice in the snow and planned to return later to retrieve them. I typically enter through the side door, but on that day, I wanted to make sure the front remained neat for the company arriving later. I climbed the front steps and admired my handiwork. One of the most beautiful wreaths on planet Earth adorned our red front door. Through a window to the left, I could see the largest of our five Christmas trees twinkling by the fireplace in the living room. I pushed open the door and was greeted by Bing Crosby’s jolly voice. There were rules in my house during the holidays. Only Christmas music was allowed. We were a festive bunch. By “we,” I mean “I.”
Most Decembers, I had the pleasure of entering our home to hear Jasper playing a holiday tune on his grand piano in the living room. But our teenage son was attending a winter music camp through a school exchange program. I’d like to claim credit for some of his musical virtuosity, but his piano talents extended far beyond my ability. Yes, I had majored in music, and I had made a career at it before I’d met Rory, but I had only a fraction of Jasper’s musical ability.
Before he’d even turned ten years old, he was tearing through Liszt, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff and had won every competition he’d entered. We knew scholarships were in his future and that we wouldn’t be paying for college. So long as Rory and I—and our mess—stayed out of the way, Jasper would achieve any piano dream he could imagine.
Philippe, my young terrier mutt, heard the door close. First, Iheard him barking, and he soon came barreling clumsily around the corner, slid across the floor, and smacked into my legs.
I knelt down and let him lick my face. “Hey, my little babushka,” I said. “Did you miss me?” Judging by the number of licks, I knew he had. I petted his wiry gray hair, and his darling tail wagged with glee.
With Philippe at my heels, I did a quick walkthrough of the rest of the downstairs, making sure we were prepared for tonight. Rory and I were hosting yetanotherfundraiser. At least I think it was a fundraiser. We’d hosted so many events that year that they all ran together. If we weren’t hosting, we were attending something. I had no idea how social one could be until I married Rory. Even as a practicing lawyer in our early years, he’d loved to go out on the town and say hi to people. Now that he was the mayor, we never stopped. He could shake a thousand hands a day, and it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his inner extrovert. For this reason, winning the mayoral election came so easily to him. His most amazing skill was that he didn’t forget names. For every hand he shook, he knew the names of that person’s family members. He could even remember the names of their pets.
Rory’s unending craving for the support of other people was what started us on our downhill slope. His pursuit of a political career became his mistress, and I faded into the background. My not remembering which fundraiser we were hosting doesn’t mean I was against helping people. Not at all! I was going through a lot, working my plan with everything I had in me, and trying not to acknowledge the deep pain in my heart. I had become a zombie. Fundraisers were a great thing, and as Rory and I hit the political world, I embraced helping on a larger scale. At first, I even thought Rory’s new shoes as mayor were the perfect fit, and I was even more attracted to him. But hosting and attending those numerous events were certainly wearing me down.
I sashayed into the kitchen, where my team of University ofVermont culinary students were finishing up the hors d’oeuvres. My parents had instilled in me a love for the cooking process, and when I left the stage, I satisfied my desperate need for creativity by spending more time in the kitchen, creating another form of art. Fortunately, Rory and I were in a financial position that afforded me the luxury of not working outside the home unless I chose to. In my case, I had chosen to live the life of a homemaker, putting healthy meals on the table and giving Jasper and Rory my full attention, giving them a rich and full life.
Sure, I could have had the city pay for caterers. In fact, that’s exactly what Rory wanted me to do, but I found great pleasure in preparing the food for those events. Especially with our marriage becoming somewhat blurry, I fell even deeper into the culinary arts. Rather than hiring a caterer, I’d put together a team from the University of Vermont who shared my passion. Unlike many others, I, as the kitchen leader, didn’t scramble at the last minute. I ran my kitchen like an admiral runs her ship. We still had the rest of the afternoon for detail work, but we’d prepped most everything.
I clapped my hands, and we did our pre-party lineup. Eager heads nodded as I ran through the checklist. We’d stuffed the Castelvetrano olives with roasted garlic and Parmesan breadcrumbs, and the olives were ready to be deep fried at the last moment. We’d par-baked the baguettes. The onion tarts and the leek and mushroom croquettes were ready to bake in one of my three ovens. Bowls of spiced pecans, Ribiola-stuffed figs, and dips such as my to-die-for beet hummus waited in the fridge. In addition to a nice selection of wine, we’d made several pitchers of a wonderfully boozy eggnog, using my famous recipe. Despite all the work we’d put into making this long list of deliciousness, the kitchen was sparkling clean. I was an admiral proudly looking over my shipshape galley.
As I was about to thank my team and ascend the stairs to dressfor the occasion, Rory appeared. Though he was simply my husband, a regular guy, he was also the mayor, and people treated him like a celebrity. All eyes turned toward him as he approached me.
I feel the wind leaving my sails even as I introduce him to you for the first time.
Rory was still as good-looking as he had been when I’d married him. In fact, he’d aged well. His gray sideburns and mild wrinkles gave him an attractive, rugged look. That’s why the fact that we hadn’t slept together in more than a year grated on me. I still wanted him. Did he still want me?Thatwas yet to be determined. He hadn’t yet dressed for the evening and was still in loafers, jeans, and a polo shirt.
“Smells good in here,” he said, bouncing his eyes from person to person and flashing his politician’s smile. Stopping when he found my eyes, he asked, “Did you overdo it again?”
Rory didn’t appreciate my efforts in the kitchen like many others did. He didn’thatemy food. He loved eating it. But the closer he came to “game time,” as he called it, the less he cared about food and such things, and the more he cared about us nailing our speech and creating an unforgettable party. One thing I hadn’t considered when he first told me he wanted to run for mayor was that his appointment would mean I would also find a new role. Like the First Lady, a mayor’s wife has tremendous responsibilities too. In his opinion, working in the kitchen had nothing to do with being the mayor’s wife.
I didn’t like the feel of his question, but I had no interest in a public joust, so I simply said, “I think your constituents deserve the best, and that’s what we’re giving them.”
He nodded, knowing I’d won that one. Rory obsessed over many things, and if he became fixated on an idea—like that he needed me upstairs—he had a hard time letting go. He rubbed his hands together and almost walked away. I wished he had. Instead,his OCD won, and he said in a degrading and demanding tone, “I need you upstairs. We have a big night ahead.” He glared at me and made a motion with his thumb, a command to follow him.
The admiral didn’t take commands well. As part of my plan to get him back, I’d been letting him get away with such comments. Not now though, not in front of my staff. Not in front of the people who looked up to me. Going against my plan, I looked him right in the eyes and calmly said, “You do what you do best. I’ll do what I do best. You may not appreciate our food, but I assure you the guests tonight will.” Continuing with my own glare, I made a similar motion with my thumb and added, “Why don’t you go upstairs and prepare yourself? Go put on your mayor cape.”
Rory gritted his teeth. “Margot, stop playing house and get your ass upstairs. Right now.”
How dare he? I was furious. Livid! I crossed my arms and stared at him with angry eyes. Through gritted teeth, I said with fire, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
He bit his tongue, perhaps disinterested in continuing our spat in public. At the same time, I wasn’t sure he worried about what my “lowly” staff thought of him.
Verifying my suspicion, he said, “The rest of these people can cut up your carrots and your celery and pour some ranch into a bowl. You have animportantjob to do.”
I stepped toward him and put my finger to his forehead. “You can go fuck off.”
You see, I was unraveling.
Rory's eyes bulged, and it was obvious by the red flushing of his cheeks that he was not only suffering from shock, but he was also embarrassed. No one speaks to the mayor that way. “Be careful,” he whispered.
Be careful?I thought, chopping him into little pieces with my eyes.No one speaks to me that way, especially my husband.I will mop the floor with your face.
And such was the evidence of my plan backfiring. Though I’d bitten my tongue for almost a year, my discipline had left the building. Six months ago, I might have capitulated with a playful salute and ayes, sir, as if I were an obstinate child.Sorry, dear, I’ll go to my room and recalibrate.
Realizing how far I’d strayed from my plan, I took a deep cleansing breath, relaxed, and put my hand on his cheek. The girls in the kitchen didn’t dare move, unable to avert their eyes. I knew I might enjoy a round of applause from my team if I punched that pompous ass right in his pompous mouth. Controlling myself, I patted his cheek and said, “Don’t be nervous. I’ll be up in just a minute, and we’ll collect ourselves.”
