So Long, Summer Camp

Part 3: Jul 1993 – Jun 1996

We officially closed our company doors on July 31, 1993, three years after we’d opened them. We didn’t have any unpaid creditors, and our office lease was up, so we didn’t even have to declare bankruptcy. Our attorney simply filed the forms to dissolve the company. It was depressingly simple.

We managed to salvage more money than we thought, but not enough to maintain our current lifestyles. Fortunately, we didn’t need to. We had other plans.

Wren had accepted the job with the big sporting goods company. It was a huge step and an opportunity to work for a national brand. Trip was proud of her, which was understandable (we all were), but he was proud of himself too.

“Hey,” he boasted, “I’m putting my own career on hold for my wife’s.”

I didn’t point out that it was our own fault that our careers were on hold, or that the next few years would actually advance them quite a bit. But in a way he was right. We had decided on the current plan because of Wren’s job offer. Christy had been all for it, of course. She was excited to live near her nana.

* * *

We sold our houses and three of our cars in the summer of 1993. Trip was sorry to part with his fancy BMW, but we kept Wren’s smaller one. It was paid for and more practical. Besides, she’d be doing most of the driving after we moved. We sold or gave away a bunch of furniture, too, since we wouldn’t have room for everything. We stored some art and other things in the garage at my parents’ house, but not enough to inconvenience them. Then we packed the rest of our belongings into a single U-Haul truck and moved to Boston.

Wren started her job with the big company and loved everything about it. She came home after the first week and announced that she’d be working with a Who’s Who list of professional athletes. Even I recognized most of the names. And Trip nearly wet himself when she told him that sometimes her duties would include public appearances with said athletes.

“I might need you to tag along,” she said to Trip, almost casually, “if your schedule allows.”

I didn’t need the Psychic Friends Network to know that his schedule would definitely allow.

He and I started new jobs as well. Laszlo had made a few calls on our behalf, and his name still opened a lot of doors in Boston. We went to work for a midsize A&E firm that needed experienced architects for several short-term contracts.

We’d only be doing project management, not design, but a job was a job. Besides, we didn’t intend to stay forever. We simply needed something to pay the bills until we could put phase two of our plan into action.

* * *

Christy spent most of her days being a full-time mom to our kids and a nanny to Wren and Trip’s. The two older ones went to preschool in the mornings, while Christy and the younger girls had adventures at home and around the neighborhood.

They spent afternoons in the apartment. Christy picked up Laurie and Davis, fed everyone snacks, and put them all down for a nap. Then she went to work.

She didn’t have a proper studio, but we’d created one in the corner of the living room. She couldn’t work in metals or stone like she wanted, but her sketchbooks were full of designs and ideas.

Then she found a local artist collective with a kiln, and she began sculpting porcelain figurines, everything from cute little animals to larger statuettes of dancers. The collective sold them in its gallery, and they practically flew out the door.

She even started taking commissions. One sweet little old lady paid her to sculpt a life-size statue of her favorite terrier, long since deceased. Another lady wanted a series of custom dolls for her grandchildren, not deceased.

She even did a nude statuette for a woman about our age who wanted a gift for her very rich and much older boyfriend. He liked it so much that he made a couple of cautious inquiries and then commissioned several erotic pieces.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” Christy said one evening. “Yvonne posed for an hour today and didn’t stop masturbating the whole time. She came, like, a dozen times.”

I thought it was probably closer to half that, but my eyes still widened in alarm. Not because the woman had had so many orgasms, but because our daughters and two other children had been asleep in the next room.

“What about the kids?” I said as calmly as I could.

“I know, right!” Christy agreed. “I was scared one of them would wake up and come out.”

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t mind you taking a commission like this, but—”

“I can’t do the sketches at home. Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” I said in relief. “Maybe do them at her house next time? In the evening, I guess. I’ll watch the girls. Hold on… I don’t know if I want you going to some strange couple’s house by yourself.”

“Oh, no. Her boyfriend is married. He lives with his wife. Yvonne has her own place. She can pose there. We talked about it, and she apologized for getting carried away. She totally understood.”

“Good,” I said. “And good that she has her own place.”

“Yeah. And… um… maybe I won’t go alone.”

“Oh?”

“Well, we were talking last time—when I did her first statue, I mean, the nude—and she said he’s impotent. Her boyfriend, I mean. Something about his heart and medication. Or his blood pressure. I don’t remember.” She waved away the details.

“Anyway, he can’t get it up,” she continued. “So he likes to watch her masturbate. That’s why he wants these statues. They’re normal nudes from the top, but she’s playing with herself when you look underneath.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Yeah. And he likes to watch her do other things. Sex things.”

My eyebrows twitched with a question.

“She dropped a couple of hints when we were talking. Today, I mean.”

“Why would she do that?” I was fairly sure I knew the answer, and Christy confirmed it.

“Um… because she saw a couple of sketches of you? Nudes, I mean. Don’t get upset,” she added quickly. “But… I might’ve accidentally-on-purpose left my sketchbook open where she could see. I can’t help it! You’re totally sexy, and I like showing you off.”

“You know,” I chuckled, “usually guys show off their wives, not the other way around.”

“So sue me, Mr. Good for the Goose. Besides, I wanted her to see you, especially after all her hints. And… um… I might’ve said we have an open relationship.”

I sighed. “Even though we don’t?”

“I know. Sorry. Only, it’s easier than saying we’re swingers. Besides, Yvonne isn’t like that.”

“What about her boyfriend?”

“Ew, gross. He’s old! No. Just… no.”

“I’m surprised you still sleep with me,” I teased. “I’m getting pretty old.”

“Now you’re just being silly. You’re even handsomer than when I first met you. It isn’t fair, either. I get older and more wrinkled, and you get sexier.”

“You aren’t old or wrinkled.”

“I have lines around my eyes. And my mouth. I’m sure it’s from sucking your cock all the time. Anyway, stop changing the subject.”

I pursed my lips in a grin.

“We’re talking about Yvonne,” Christy continued, “and how her boyfriend likes to watch.”

“Hold on… Why’re you doing this? Is it because you want to sleep with her?”

“No! Only, maybe I do. But I know it isn’t going to happen. She doesn’t mind masturbating in front of me, but she’s an exhibitionist, not bi. My radar’s never gone off with her. She’s strictly into men.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “And her boyfriend likes to watch her have sex with other men?”

“Uh-huh. And I thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

“I wouldn’t mind. As long as I can watch too. And maybe join in? I think Yvonne would like that. Double-teaming you, I mean. She’s pretty wild. Sexually, I mean.”

“What about her boyfriend?” I asked. “You don’t mind him watching?”

“No, of course not. Besides, he can’t do anything. He can’t get it up. Remember? I told you—”

“He might want to do other things. Like go down on you.”

Christy wrinkled her nose and shivered in mock revulsion. “No, thank you.”

“You really want to do this?” I asked. “Fool around with Yvonne?”

“I… think so. I don’t want things to get boring. With us, I mean, you and me.”

“Not possible,” I chuckled. “You don’t do boring.”

“So you’ll do it? Have sex with Yvonne, I mean.”

I feigned resignation, “If you insist.”

She beamed. “I thought you’d see it my way.”

“Did I have any choice?”

“No, of course not. You never do. Not really.”

* * *

Once Trip and I settled into our jobs, we started working on phase two of our plan. He wanted to get an MBA, and he’d convinced me to get an MArch. And, of course, he didn’t have his sights set on just any schools. Oh, no. He wanted a degree from Harvard, while he and Laszlo had convinced me to apply to MIT. (To be fair, it wasn’t a hard sell.)

So I began studying for the GRE, while Trip did the same for the GMAT. We asked for letters of recommendation from friends and former colleagues, and we called for our undergraduate transcripts. In addition, I had to assemble a portfolio of my work and write an essay about my goals as an architect. I dug deep and went back to something I’d done almost a decade earlier.

I’d always been fascinated by traditional Japanese building techniques, especially their use of natural materials. I argued that we should be using wood as a structural element instead of just a decorative one, especially in larger buildings. It was a renewable resource that would play a key role as we moved toward more sustainable designs, ones that didn’t contribute to acid rain or the hole in the ozone layer.

I finished with a bold assertion, that architects should focus on social responsibility as we approached the new millennium. We needed to place an emphasis on people and the environment rather than profits and costs. We only had one Earth, and we had a duty to protect it for everyone, not just the privileged few who could afford to live in glass skyscrapers.

“Wow, this is good,” Trip said when he read it. “Do you really believe any of this stuff?”

“I believe every word of it.”

“Aren’t you a do-gooder, Mother Paul,” he chuckled. “And when did you become a tree-hugger?”

“Hey, what’s the matter with that?” Christy glared defiantly.

“Yeah,” Wren agreed, “there’s nothing wrong with hugging the occasional tree.”

“Oh, for sure,” Trip said. Then he grinned at me. “It’s a good thing I’m the practical one.”

I started to reply when five-year-old Davis thundered down the stairs and into the room.

“Mom, make Dookie-bird stop,” he complained. “She won’t let me play my game. She keeps standing in front of the TV.”

Wren gave Trip a withering look. This is your fault, her glare said. Then she returned her attention to her son. She forced a smile, but it held enough of a threat that I immediately felt sorry for the kid. I’d been on the receiving end of that look, and it wasn’t fun.

“Davis,” she said calmly, “if I hear you call your sister ‘Dookie-bird’ one more time, you’ll lose your Nintendo for an entire month. That’s four whole weeks. Thirty days. Do you understand?”

“But—!”

“I don’t care. She’s your sister. Her name is Missy.”

Davis glared sullenly.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, polite and thoroughly ominous. “Say it. Missy.”

“But—!”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Missy,” he said, but his pout practically shouted that he didn’t have to like it.

“We’d better get ours and go,” I said. “It’s their bedtime soon.”

Christy’s eyes flashed. “Ooh, princess time.”

“What’s this?” Wren asked. Then she bent to Davis and said, “Go check on Emily and your sister.” She prompted him with the eyebrow.

“Missy.”

“Good. And please tell Laurie that her mommy and daddy said it’s time to go.”

He nodded and ran back up the stairs.

“What’s this?” Wren repeated as she stood. “Princess time?”

“You know,” Christy said. “I told you. Remember? The princesses and their tower…?”

“Oh, that’s right! What’s the adventure tonight?” she asked me.

“They moved to a new tower, and the oldest princess misses her friends. She has to make new ones.”

“Good luck with that,” Trip chuckled.

I shrugged. “The old ogre from the library came with them. And the beautiful queen of the water fairies. They’ll help.”

Wren rolled her eyes when she realized who I was talking about.

“You should write this down,” Trip said. “You could sell it as a book.”

“He’s right,” Wren said.

“Nah. It’s just something I tell my girls,” I said. “No one wants to read my silly stories.”

“Whatever,” Trip said, but he’d already moved on. “Leave a little early in the morning? I wanna take our applications by the schools and submit them in person.”

“Mmm. You wanna go to the gym with me after work?”

“Um… no?”

Wren did the eyebrow thing.

He laughed. “I can’t believe that works on me too.”

“Like father, like son,” she said, faux-sweet.

“You won’t beat me up?” he asked me suspiciously.

“Ha! No. They have regular weights and machines. You don’t have to get in the ring if you don’t want to.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t wanna mess up this pretty face.”

“Oh, boy, here we go,” Christy said. Then she flashed a grin at Wren. “C’mon, I’ll help you clean up. I’m sure the girls have everything out again.”

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Christy laughed. “Now we just have to teach them to put it all back!”

* * *

Between the kids, work, and the occasional horny client, Christy was the happiest she’d been in years. So I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she started hinting about a third baby. I was happy with two, but she wanted more, which made sense—we both wanted what we’d grown up with.

We didn’t exactly argue about it, but the issue never completely went away. My demure and submissive wife didn’t issue ultimatums, but she was too stubborn to concede defeat. She tried subtlety instead. After all, it had worked before, hadn’t it?

She began pointing out other couples with babies. At night she lamented that Laurie and Emily were growing up so fast. She mentioned several times how we might need a bigger house when we moved back to Atlanta.

I had fun teasing her and playing dumb for a while, but then she enlisted her parents’ help when they came to Boston for the holidays.

“Do you ever wish you had a son?” Anne asked on Christmas Eve.

Christy and I had come with the girls to spend the night in Nana C.’s enormous house. They were all safely out of earshot in the living room, counting presents under the Christmas tree. Harold, Anne, and I were relaxing in the dining room with drinks after dinner.

“Of course not,” I said. “I love having daughters.”

“What’s not to love?” Harold agreed. “But… you need someone to carry on your name.”

“Ah,” I said, “so you’re in on it too?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied glibly.

Anne dispensed with pretext altogether. “She’s our daughter. What did you expect?”

“Besides, you know we’d love more grandkids,” Harold said.

“Why?” I laughed. “You already have more than a dozen!”

“But we could use a few more. For the football,” he said with a completely straight face. “At Thanksgiving.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think about it,” he said.

“We’d love a little Paul Junior,” Anne agreed.

Christy recruited my own parents next. They called to say Happy New Year and to talk to the girls.

“They’re growing up so quickly,” my mother said. “We love them both, but we’d love a grandson too, you know.”

“To carry on the family name,” my father added from the background. It had become a consistent theme.

“Have you thought about it?” Mom asked.

“Why?” I said flippantly. “Everyone else is doing it for me.”

“You can’t blame Christy. She grew up in a large family. Besides, like your dad said, she wants someone to carry on the family name.”

“Mmm.”

“Three kids aren’t any more work than two,” Mom added. “I’m the youngest of three. And the best, if I do say so myself.”

“And you do!” I laughed.

“She is!” my dad agreed from the background.

“You’re biased,” she told him. To me, “Just think about it, honey. And talk to Christy.”

“I already know what she’s going to say.”

“Then maybe you should listen?”

Our friend Renée came to visit at the end of January. She was freshly divorced from Olivier, and she needed to get away from France for a couple of weeks. She’d always been a hedonist at heart, and she simply wanted to enjoy herself with mindless diversions like shopping and sex. So I was a bit surprised when she mentioned children.

We’d gone to church together and eaten brunch at her hotel. At the moment we were strolling across Boston Common. It was a blustery and cold afternoon, and the pale sun did little to warm us.

The girls were bundled in matching pink parkas. They ran ahead. Laurie stopped and looked back, while Emily kept going with a two-year-old’s speed and determination. Christy called out, but she didn’t stop.

“That girl,” Christy muttered. “She’s going to be the death of me.” She called out again and ran after her.

“Your little girls are precious,” Renée said as we watched Christy chase down Emily, who’d finally stopped, although she refused to come back.

“Mmm,” I agreed.

“Why do you not have more children?” Renée asked. “A man like you needs a son.”

I glanced at her sideways and decided to turn the question around.

“Why don’t you have children?” I asked.

“And spoil my figure? Pah! Besides, I am divorced now, and not likely to marry again.”

“You could still have children.”

“Are you volunteering?” she teased. “To be ze father?” She laughed at my expression. “Non, mon cher. I know you are not.” She nodded at Christy and the girls. “But zey need a brother.”

“Why? You’re an only child.”

“But I always wanted one. A little brother. When I was growing up.”

“We’ll see,” I said vaguely.

“Mmm. But do not wait too long. Christy is not patient, not like me.” She looped her arm through mine, and we walked in silence for several moments. “You need a son,” she repeated firmly. “Vraiment. He will be strong and handsome, like his father.”

Perhaps my favorite hint came from Nana C. She asked me to stop by her house on the way home from work one day. She had Valentine’s cards and candy for the girls. She also had a couple of choice observations. One was a subtle hint. The other bordered on risqué.

“You know,” she said, “I always said that Christine was the daughter Anne deserved. She was such a headstrong child.”

“And now the tables are turned,” I agreed. “Emily’s the child Christy deserves?”

Nana C. considered her next words carefully. “I’d never say that Emily was sent by God as a punishment—she’s a blessing, to be sure—but I believe He has a sense of humor about these things.”

“No kidding. She drives Christy crazy.”

Nana C. gave me a long look. Her eyes were darker than Christy’s but just as piercing and intelligent.

“I think He’d send you a son to make you proud,” she said.

“I’m proud of my daughters.”

“Mmm, yes. But a man needs a son.” She smiled fondly. “He’d favor you. And it would make Christine happy.”

“I’m starting to get that message.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Are you starting to listen?”

“Maybe. But I’m stubborn too.”

“Yes, but you’re a man. You can’t possibly be as stubborn as a woman.”

“Ask my wife what she thinks of that.”

The old woman laughed before she turned serious again. “Christine takes after us, you know, her mother and me.”

“Oh?”

“We both enjoyed being pregnant. I rejoiced on my knees. Anne too. I’m sure Christine will do the same.”

I started to nod innocently until I pictured what she’d said—Christy on her knees, “rejoicing.” My eyes flew wide and my cheeks must have glowed.

Prim and proper, my ass, I thought archly.

Nana C. knew exactly what she was doing, and she laughed at my reaction. Then she gathered the candy and cards for the girls.

“Give them hugs and kisses for me,” she said. “And think about what I said.”

“Oh, I will,” I promised.

Christy didn’t say a thing when I came home. She had accomplices for that, and her message had come through loud and clear. She wanted another baby, and a son would do nicely. Chop-chop, Mr. Husband, time to get with the program.

* * *

Trip and I received our acceptance letters to Harvard and MIT. Our boss had known all along that we planned to go back to school, but he was still disappointed when we told him the news. He wished us well, though, and made sure we had work until the last week of August.

Trip started class the next day, and I began about a week later. I suffered the usual first-day jitters, although I settled down and relaxed fairly quickly. Then I took some time to look around, and I realized that my fellow students looked like kids. I didn’t feel old, but the current crop of undergrads were all ten years younger, children of the seventies.

Fortunately, no one mistook me for a professor. Many of them had earned their tenure about the time I’d taken my first steps. Worse, some of them looked the part, like they hadn’t changed their wardrobes or hairstyles since the Carter administration. I didn’t look like a grunge college student, but at least my style had come from the current decade.

Class itself was a different experience from the campus at large. The Master of Architecture was absurdly selective, only twenty-five students in each class. It was a three-year program for students fresh from their Bachelor’s degree, but people with real-world experience (like yours truly) entered the second year curriculum. So about a third of my classmates were like me, men and women who were licensed architects that had decided to return to school.

I enjoyed the program and wasn’t surprised that several of my professors were friends with Laszlo. And because of my connection with him, I enjoyed a lot of automatic goodwill and respect. I called him on a semi-regular basis to give him updates. He and his wife had never had children of their own, and his favorite students filled the void. He kept tabs on about a dozen of us, including Diana Lamberton.

She and I talked as well, but not like we had when I’d worked for her. We were equals now, colleagues separated by years and miles but united by a common experience. She told me about her projects and life in Knoxville. She was married now and thinking about children. I told her about mine, along with my projects and life in Boston. She and I didn’t have the same relationship I had with Trip, but it was definitely on the same level.

* * *

Susan Renée Hughes blessed us with her presence on a balmy Sunday in December 1994. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even red-faced and slightly confused. She wasn’t grumpy or even suspicious. She was our first baby with dark hair, and she looked back at me like she couldn’t understand why we were the same. Then she sighed and decided I was probably okay, especially if I looked like her.

Nana C. moved to my side and smiled at the little girl. I knew a hint when I felt it, but I wasn’t ready to give up my newest daughter. Still, I couldn’t exactly say no to an octogenarian force of nature who wanted to hold her great-granddaughter.

“Would you like to…?” I offered.

She reacted with almost convincing surprise. “Oh, may I?”

I slid Susie into her arms.

“Oh, how precious. She looks just like you.” She smiled down at the little girl and cooed, “You were supposed to be a boy, but we’re glad you aren’t.”

Susie screwed up her face and looked like she wanted to cry. Then she caught sight of me and settled immediately.

Nana C. laughed softly. “She’s going to be a daddy’s girl.”

“I think they all are.”

“Mmm. And whose fault is that?”

Later that evening, after everyone had left, Christy’s doctor returned to check on her. I made a point to tell him about her history of postpartum depression.

“Why’s this the first time I’m hearing about it?” he chided her gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most women experience some form of baby blues. It’s natural.”

Christy glared at me, but it bounced off my armor.

“This is a bit more than ‘baby blues,’” I said. Then I described some of what we’d gone through after Laurie and Emily. The doctor listened and nodded gravely.

“Your hormones might take a while to find their balance,” he said to Christy. “And untreated depression is bad for you. It’s bad for your baby, bad for your husband, and bad for your other daughters.”

“What do you recommend?” I asked for both of us.

“Let’s just keep an eye on things,” he said. “Postpartum depression can be unpredictable. It can happen with every child or only one. The second but not the first, for instance. Or the first two and not the third. It can take a few weeks or even a few months to manifest. And it may not ever. Her body and hormones may recover naturally, and this will be the last time we worry about it.”

“Well, just in case…” I told him about the counseling and medication after Emily.

“I’m not crazy,” Christy grumped. “I don’t need drugs to be normal.”

“No one said you’re crazy,” the doctor said reasonably. “If a medication helps, it isn’t a mental problem—it’s a chemical imbalance. You’d take medication if you had high blood pressure, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose, but—”

“Or insulin if you had diabetes?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is the same. If you suffer from depression, many times it’s a chemical in the brain that causes it. Sometimes it isn’t, which is why we recommend counseling too.”

Christy pouted mulishly.

“Keep an eye on her,” the doctor said to me. “If she suffers from”—he listed a number of symptoms I was all too familiar with, as well as several we hadn’t experienced, thank God—“make an appointment with my office. And here’s my pager number.” He took out a business card and wrote on the back. “Any time, day or night.”

I nodded gratefully and pocketed the card.

He leaned in to meet Christy’s eyes. “Your physical and mental health are just as important as your baby’s. You can’t care for her if you don’t care for yourself first. Now, I don’t think we should worry just yet, but let’s schedule more frequent checkups once you leave the hospital, hmm?”

He glanced at me to make sure I was onboard, and I was, a million-billion percent.

“Why’d you tell him?” Christy griped after he’d gone.

“Because I’m not going to watch you suffer. Not for six months or six minutes. Not in silence, not at all.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need pills, either.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded. “But if you do, you’re going to take them.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I can, and I will.”

Her mood changed abruptly, and she began to cry. “I’m not crazy.”

I slid my arms around her and rocked her gently.

“I’m not crazy,” she repeated like a small child. “I’m not. I’m not crazy.”

* * *

Christy made it almost six weeks. The normal baby blues passed and she seemed fine, but she was lying to us and lying to herself. I missed the signs at first, since they happened so gradually. I was also busy with a project for school, so I saw what I wanted to see.

When I finally started putting the pieces together, I realized that Christy had sunk into a funk. She suffered from mood swings, insomnia, and irritability. She drank more, and she cried at night. She started watching home shopping networks again, and she bought things until I canceled her credit card. She argued or sulked, sometimes both at once.

Worst of all, she didn’t seem interested in Susie. I had to remind her to nurse, and I changed Susie’s diapers and gave her baths more than Christy did.

Wren saw what was happening, but she couldn’t do much to help. She had to work during the day and was usually worn out at night. Trip was too busy even to lend moral support. Harvard MBA students were the cream of the crop, and he was struggling for the first time in his life.

At least Wren’s salary allowed them to hire a real nanny for their own kids, although it was a blessing and a curse. Christy’s life was easier with only our children to look after, but she loved Wren’s kids and felt like a failure because she couldn’t take care of them too.

I nearly killed myself trying to do everything for us on my own. I stopped going to the gym and went grocery shopping instead. I kept the older girls busy with coloring books and rocked Susie while I made dinner. I even started doing the laundry so Christy could catch up on her sleep. I felt like Mr. Mom and Mr. Dad, but what else could I do?

Christy insisted she was fine and would recover if I just gave her time. I gave her two more weeks. Then I called the doctor and took her to the emergency room. I didn’t know what else to do. He prescribed antidepressants and counseling, like Kara’s psychiatrist friend had done. Christy didn’t want to take the pills and didn’t want to see the therapist, but I told her she didn’t have a choice.

She gradually recovered over the next few months, and things returned to normal, but “normal” was a relative thing. She took care of herself and the girls, but she wasn’t the same as before. The drugs killed her libido, so I had to jerk off in the shower if I wanted any attention. Her artistic urges cratered as well. Her sketchbooks collected dust, and half-finished statuettes sat on the shelf in her little studio corner. She wasn’t quite a robot, but she wasn’t my Sunshine anymore.

* * *

I went through my own crisis at the same time, my dark night of the soul. I thought about leaving Christy and even divorcing her. I hadn’t signed up for a sexless marriage or a wife on antidepressant autopilot. I still loved her, but I couldn’t go on like things were.

Worse, I’d met someone at school. I’d known her from the beginning, but we’d always run in different circles. She was a decade younger and without any real-world experience. But then everything changed when we started working on a project together.

We connected over the usual things, a love of art and beauty. Our friendship blossomed into something more, something very intense and intimate. We never crossed the line into actual sex, but we both wanted to.

She fed my ego in addition to my fantasy life. She was young and very pretty. She thought I was brilliant. She was full of life and excited about the future, our future. We didn’t argue about money or kids or anything else. I was miserable at home, but I could forget about my problems when we were together. I could be happy again.

I lay awake at night, wondering why I stayed in a marriage that was over. It was, wasn’t it? I tried to convince myself to leave, but I couldn’t bear the thought of life without my little girls. Besides, an idealistic part of me wanted to try and fix things with Christy. After all, hadn’t I sworn to love her in sickness and in health? What kind of man would I be if I abandoned her and our daughters at the first sign of trouble? Granted, it wasn’t the first sign, but no one had ever said marriage would be easy.

I eventually told my female friend that I wasn’t going to leave my wife and family. I loved her and didn’t want to break her heart, but I also loved Christy and our girls. My friend said she respected my decision, although things changed between us. I wanted to stay friends, but she started avoiding me, and I blamed Christy for the emptiness in my life.

* * *

Christy and I started seeing a counselor together, a woman named Kay. We also saw her separately, and she helped me realize how angry I was. I blamed Christy for lots of things. Some were her fault and some weren’t, but my anger was a sign of depression.

“You need an outlet,” Kay said. “One where you can connect with your wife instead of avoiding her. Why don’t you try dancing instead of boxing? You enjoyed it back in college.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but dancing has a couple of bad memories for Christy.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

“Not really.”

“That’s what we’re here for, though, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

She waited. She was very good at it.

“I… um… was seeing someone else,” I admitted. “For a couple of months. When Christy and I were first engaged.”

“Mmm. Go on.”

“How much has she told you about our lifestyle?” I asked obliquely.

“The swinging? Enough.”

“You disapprove?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s healthy. For you, at least. And… I’ll be honest, I’ve never encountered a couple who’ve made it work. Not long-term like you have. But you and Christy both have a healthy mindset about it. I think it’s one of the strengths you should focus on. But let’s get back to this other woman. Were you actually dating her?”

“She thought we were.”

“What about you?”

“Not at first,” I admitted, “but… yeah, maybe we were.”

“So it was more serious than just sex.”

“Yeah.”

“She was your dance partner?”

“She was an instructor. But she was also my partner. In more ways than one, I guess.”

“What happened?”

I told her the short version of the Terri story.

“Ah, I see,” Kay said. “So you thought Christy was cheating, and she thought you were.”

“More or less.”

“Were you?”

“In my head…? Not really. But… yeah, maybe. I guess I wondered if Christy was the right choice.”

“Was she?”

“What do you think?” I said, a touch sarcastically.

Kay made a note and then dropped a bombshell. “Would it surprise you that she was excited when I mentioned dancing?”

“A little, yeah,” I admitted.

“She wanted me to tell you. I think it would be a good way for you to reconnect, without your daughters. That’s important to couples, to have a life where you aren’t ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ all the time.”

“I suppose.”

“Christy also needs the activity. She doesn’t do well in situations without physical stimulation.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “You mentioned that in the joint sessions. But that’s your department. She doesn’t do well in any situations at the moment.”

“I know,” Kay agreed. “I’m going to speak to her physician about reducing her medication. Part of her problem is that she’s ‘on autopilot,’ as you said.” She made a note. “I also think it will help her libido. Your sex life is important to both of you. It’s important to every couple, but you and Christy have a much deeper need for sex than most people.”

“You can say that again,” I muttered darkly.

Kay laughed, which wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.

“What?”

“Oh… let’s just say that your answer wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it.”

“Christy said the same thing?”

“I couldn’t say,” Kay said aloud, but her expression was answer enough.

“I like how you do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Skirt the line. Ethically. You can’t tell me what Christy said in confidence, but you can tell me that I already know the answer to my question.”

“It’s a trick you learn,” Kay admitted. “And I can tell you things if Christy gives me permission.”

“Like the dancing.”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

She pursed her lips, and her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Well, you have my permission to tell her anything I say. I don’t like hiding things from her. I’ve been doing that too much lately.”

Kay nodded and made a note.

“And tell her that I’d love to start dancing again. With her, duh! But you knew that.”

Kay smiled and suggested, “You can tell her yourself.”

“Because that’s what couples do?”

“That’s what couples do,” she agreed.

* * *

We found a ballroom dancing group across the river in Beacon Hill. The people were mostly older couples, although a surprising number were single, widows and widowers looking for love. A couple of the older gents even thought they had a chance to score with the mother-daughter duo who ran the group. They didn’t, but I gave them an A for effort.

Christy and I mostly ignored everyone else. She loved the movement and flow of dancing, and I loved the feeling as she came alive in my arms again. Our relationship didn’t change overnight, but things were definitely headed in the right direction.

Our sex life started to improve as well, especially after her doctor reduced her antidepressant dosage. We didn’t go back to being teenagers again, but we went from sex once a month, maybe, to once a week and then once a night.

Kay also agreed when I suggested a vasectomy, although Christy argued. I was happy with the children we had, while she wanted more children.

“Why don’t you freeze some of your sperm?” Kay suggested. “That might be a good compromise.”

Christy wasn’t convinced. “What good will that do?”

“It’s called ‘in vitro fertilization.’” Kay explained the process. “So you can have more children if you decide to later, but you don’t have to worry about birth control now. Your physician thinks that will help with your hormone balance as well.”

“Besides, we can get back into swinging,” I said, “and I won’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant.” Kay and I had discussed that part in private, and Christy reacted predictably. She sat forward, her eyes bright.

“We can start swinging again?”

I nodded. “Not just with friends, either. We can meet new people if we want… new women.”

“Like the one who pierced my nipples? Oh my gosh, Paul, you have to meet her. And,” she added coyly, “she has some piercings I want to show you.”

“Hold on…,” I said, “you want another piercing?”

“Or two,” Christy agreed.

I reacted with mild alarm. “Where?”

Christy glanced at Kay but then lowered her eyes. “Um… can we discuss it later?”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. Then I had an idea. “Maybe you can get your piercing while I’m healing after the vasectomy.” I didn’t know what she wanted done, but I was fairly sure it would affect our sex life.

“So we’ll both be out of commission at the same time?” Christy said. “I suppose. Only, I should probably get them done at different times.”

“Them?”

“I told you,” she said, “I want two. For… um… different reasons.”

“Sure,” I agreed vaguely.

“And… you said we can try swinging with other women?” Christy hinted.

“Absolutely.”

“Oh my gosh, you have to meet this one I know from the park. My radar goes off like crazy every time I talk to her. Only, you know how I am. I can’t seduce women like you.”

Poor Kay had to cover her mouth to hide a smile at Christy’s sudden enthusiasm.

“Will you do it?” Christy asked earnestly. “Seduce her for me?”

“Let’s do the other things first,” I chuckled, “but then we’ll see.”

“Oh, oh! And there’s a woman from church. She’s a lot younger—like, nineteen or twenty—but you should see the way she looks at you. I think she might be like me, only she never had anyone like you to corrupt her properly. She’s…”

* * *

The phone rang one day in November 1995, and I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Paul, it’s Susan.”

“Susan! Hey, great to hear from you.”

She’d come to Boston after Susie had been born, but we hadn’t spoken since. And she usually called my mother, not me, so I knew something was up.

“Is everything okay?”

“No. It’s Granville. He’s sick. He’s been sick for a while—his liver—but the doctors say it’s time.”

That sounded ominous. “Time for what?”

“Time to make him comfortable. For the end.”

I sat down. I hadn’t thought of Granville in years, but the news still managed to affect me.

“He asked me to call you,” Susan added. “He wants to see you.”

“Sure, of course! I’ll fly down. Is tomorrow soon enough? Or should I come tonight?”

“Tomorrow’s fine. But don’t wait any longer. He doesn’t have long.”

We talked a few minutes longer, practical arrangements, and then said goodbye.

Christy stuck her head into the living room. “Who was on the phone?”

“Susan.”

“Is everything all right?”

“What? Oh, yeah, she’s fine. But Granville’s dying.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Do we need to visit him?”

“I do,” I said. “I don’t think you and the girls need to come.”

“We can—”

I shook my head. “They’re too young. Besides, they never met him.”

“You’re probably right. But what about Trip? He might want to see him too.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll ask him. And if it’s just me, I’m tempted to fly myself instead of commercial. They have a flying club down in Norwood.”

“Can you still do it? With your license, I mean. It hasn’t expired or anything, has it?”

“No. And my medical’s still current. I’ll have to check out with an instructor, but that’ll only take an hour. Piece of cake.”

She grinned.

“What?”

“Pilots. You sound just like my dad. My brothers too.”

“There’s a reason you married me,” I said.

“You’ll have to remind me. Tonight? After the girls are asleep?”

“It’s a date.”

Her eyes flashed. “Or a not-date.”

* * *

Trip was busy with a project for school, but he’d never been that close to Granville in the first place, so I rented a plane and flew down alone. Susan met me at the airport. She wore jeans and a sweater that showed off her figure, even under a jacket.

“You look great,” I said, “like a brunette Farrah Fawcett.”

“Thank you.” She smiled but then frowned in puzzlement. “What made you think of her?”

“She’s in Playboy this month.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It just came out. I saw it before I left. And you look better, even in clothes.”

“I don’t know about that,” she demurred with an easy laugh.

“You do. Trust me.”

“Good genes, I guess. My father looked forty until the day he died. I just wish I didn’t feel so old sometimes.”

“You’re… what? Fifty-five?” I scoffed. “That’s still pretty young. Besides, you’ll always be young in my heart.”

She rewarded me with a sideways grin. “My, it’s getting thick around here.”

“I mean it. You look awesome.”

“And you still say the sweetest things.”

We shared a smile of genuine warmth. Then she gestured toward her car and started walking. She’d finally traded her trusty old station wagon for a new Jeep Cherokee. It looked exactly like the one I’d bought a decade earlier.

“Some things never go out of style,” I mused aloud. “Just like some women.”

I threw my garment bag into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Not that I mind,” Susan said as she pulled out of the parking lot, “but is there a reason you’re being so appreciative?”

“Just being polite,” I said. “But… maybe it’s ’cause I realize how lucky I am. I mean, you saw something in me all those years ago.”

“The constant erection?” she teased.

“Well, yeah. But I hope it was more.”

“Oh, it was. I don’t remember the specifics, though. They’re lost to time.”

“Like everything else,” I agreed. “But still… some things haven’t changed.”

“Such as?”

“How I feel about you.”

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.” She rewarded me with a smile, and we drove in companionable silence until she turned onto the road to town instead of the one that led to Granville’s.

“He had to sell the big house,” she explained.

“Why?”

“Money.”

“I thought he had family money,” I said. “The Blair fortune. I always assumed…”

Susan shook her head. “It was mostly gone by the time he inherited, and he always lived beyond his means. He mortgaged the house—twice, as a matter of fact—and he couldn’t afford the upkeep anymore.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I hope the new owner appreciates its history.”

Susan pursed her lips. “Oh, she does.”

“Wait… You bought it? Why?”

“The price was right, although it needed a lot of repairs. And…” She glanced sideways. “I had to renovate it for what I wanted. I hope you don’t mind that I used a local architect. You and Trip were busy in Atlanta.”

“It’s fine. Did you turn it into a B&B or something?”

“No, even better. It’s a group home for battered women. Fitting, don’t you think?”

I chuckled. Granville had never abused women physically, but he was a diehard (and oblivious) member of the patriarchy. His brand of sexism wasn’t a felony or even a misdemeanor, but it was abuse all the same.

“Truth be told,” Susan said, “I’ll be sorry to see him go. We never saw eye to eye on women’s rights, but he was a good man in many ways.”

“He was,” I agreed.

“Still is,” she amended.

She parked in front of a tidy postwar house that looked like it belonged in rural England more than a small town in South Carolina. Granville’s long-time housekeeper answered the door. Beatrice greeted Susan warmly and then made a fuss over me as she took our jackets.

“I didn’t believe it when he tol’ me you was coming,” she said in tones of pure molasses.

“Susan called, and I came,” I said.

“I bought lemons, jus’ in case. I’ll fetch you a lemonade. Fresh squeezed, like you like. And for you, Mrs. MacLean?”

“Please, Bea, you’ve known me forty years. It’s about time you call me Susan.”

“M’yes’m,” Beatrice said without any intention of doing so. “Sweet tea? With a touch o’ lemon?” She made it sound like a question, but she clearly knew what Susan liked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Bea?” Granville called from the next room. “Show our visitors into the parlor.” His voice was reedy and weak with age, but still full of southern character.

“Go on in,” Beatrice said. “I’ll bring yo’ drinks.”

The “parlor” was really the living room of the small house. I suspected that Beatrice kept the master bedroom for Granville and lived in the spare bedroom instead.

Granville himself looked much the same as I’d seen him last, although his monogrammed shirt was rumpled and stained, and his bowtie was a clip-on. I couldn’t hold it against him, though, since he was confined to a hospital bed. His body matched his voice, thin and weak, and his white hair was limp instead of the mane it had once been.

Beatrice brought our drinks and then disappeared into the back of the house. Susan and I sat and talked with Granville for an hour, although he did most of the talking. He was still a windbag, still a narcissist. Some things never change, after all. He knew he was dying, though.

“Cirrhosis,” he said. “I say, I tried to get a transplant up in Charlotte, but they judged I wasn’t a good candidate.”

“I’m sorry to hear,” I said.

He waved it away. “I’m too old to change. It’s time for your generation, my boy. Well, yours and Susan’s. Why, I remember when she was just a girl. Now, her father and I…”

We listened for another half-hour, until Beatrice interrupted.

“You need to rest a little, Mr. Granville, before you have yo’ dinner.”

“It’s Wednesday,” he said to us. “Bea’s made pork chops and collard greens, haven’t you, Bea?”

“M’yessir.”

“It smells delicious,” Susan said graciously. “We’d love to stay, but Paul’s doing some work for me at home.”

It was a polite fiction, but Granville nodded like he was my mentor again. Beatrice simply looked grateful. I suspected that his reduced fortune didn’t cover things like groceries for entertaining. We said our goodbyes and promised to visit again.

Granville wasn’t entirely coherent when we saw him the next day. Still, he smiled when I patted his hand. The hospice nurse arrived while we were there, and she explained in the hall that his liver and kidneys were shutting down. Beatrice wrung her hands as she listened.

Susan asked, “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No’m, but thank you.”

“Do you have somewhere to go? When the time comes?”

“This here house,” Beatrice said. “He lef’ it to me in his will.”

Granville lapsed into unconsciousness that evening and died peacefully in his sleep the following afternoon.

I felt a sense of loss, but I didn’t shed any mawkish tears. And I certainly didn’t have any illusions that he’d molded me into the man I was today. My parents, Susan, and Joska deserved credit for that. Still, Granville had definitely been a mentor and an ally when I’d needed it most.

He was a complicated man, difficult to like but impossible to hate. In the end, he’d been my friend, warts and all.

* * *

Susan and I spent most of Saturday walking the camp and talking business. She’d become a regular tycoon over the past decade. She’d expanded her hotel and real estate empire, of course, but she’d made even more money in the stock market. She’d invested in computer and tech companies based on her son Doug’s advice, and her investments had paid off, big time. She’d reinvested the profits, and her net worth had snowballed from there.

The camp itself was a different story. It hadn’t changed much at all, not since Trip and I had done the last major renovation back in the mid-eighties. A local contractor had built six more bungalows at the Retreat, plus a fitness center and laundry, but that had been the only new construction in a decade.

At least the maintenance was up to code, although I felt a surge of anger when Susan told me about her current manager. The woman had been a plumber before her husband had accused her of being a dyke. He was a Southern Man, by God, and her very existence was a threat to his manhood. So he’d beaten her with a steel pipe and left her for dead. He’d eventually gone to prison for it, while she’d gone through a year of rehab and reconstructive surgery.

I met her myself and couldn’t decide if she was a lesbian or not. She had a butch haircut and brusque attitude, so maybe she was. Then again, maybe she was straight and blunt, and not interested in redneck assholes with fragile egos. Whatever she was, she was good at her job and loyal to Susan. And whoever shared her bed was lucky to have her.

Susan and I continued our tour, and she eventually brought up the camp’s future.

“The problem is,” she said, “visitors have been declining for a decade. Nudists are an aging demographic, while younger families have more options than ever.”

“No kidding. We get junk mail all the time, everything from beaches to borscht.”

“Moscow is huge these days,” Susan agreed. “Vietnam, too, if you can believe it. Even Las Vegas is becoming a family-friendly destination.”

“What about closer to home?” I asked. “I mean, what about swingers?”

“AIDS.”

I understood without an explanation. The Moral Majority had started the process, but the AIDS epidemic had been the death knell for the free-love sixties and seventies. Our own group was incredibly selective these days, and we never had sex with anyone new without protection or test results.

“Besides,” Susan continued, “online services like AOL and Prodigy make it easy for people to connect semi-anonymously. They don’t need ads in the back of magazines or traditional word-of-mouth anymore. They don’t need special venues, either. All they need is a computer and a hotel room. So we’ve seen a decline in— What’s so funny?”

“You,” I said. “Talking about swinging in marketing terms.”

“The camp is a business,” she said tartly. “I seem to recall you were part of the conversation when Trip convinced me.”

“Oh, I know! Sorry, I’m not criticizing, but I think it’s interesting how you’ve changed over the years. I mean, you’ve always been a businesswoman, but now you’re single-minded about it.”

“You’re probably right,” she admitted. Then she laughed softly. “I’m my father’s daughter.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I remember him doing this when I was a girl, first with the mills and then with real estate. He bought all the land, but he said it was my job to develop it, so that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m sure my realtor thinks I’m angling for his job, but I’m really just a simple businesswoman.”

“There’s nothing simple about you.”

“Perhaps.”

We walked in silence for several minutes. The day was damp and cold, and the forest smelled strongly of pine, without any of the softer scents of summer.

“The camp is a business,” Susan said eventually, “and it has to change if I want it to run in the black.”

“Mmm,” I said noncommittally.

“My hospitality manager wants me to turn it into a traditional resort and put it under her control. She wants to cater to weddings and corporate events.”

I nodded and gave it some serious thought, although I came up with several benefits right away. (I’d changed over the years too.)

“You’d be able to book events year-round,” I said. “And you’d be able to offer package deals to larger groups. You could upsell them as well, depending on what kind of facilities and services you want to add.”

She gestured for me to continue.

“I’m thinking spa treatments, specifically, but local food and drink packages would also sell. You could even branch into ecotourism.”

“We thought of the spa and local options,” Susan said, “and I’ve seen the numbers. They’re promising. Ecotourism’s an interesting idea. We hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’ve been reading about it. Quite a bit, actually. I’m writing my master’s thesis on sustainable architecture. Most of the focus is on urban settings and the modern built environment, but changing suburban demographics have led to an increase in—” I broke off and laughed. “Sorry, I turn into an urban planning nerd if I don’t watch it.”

“No,” Susan said quickly, “I was following along just fine.”

“Why’m I not surprised? Anyway, back to the camp. I could design an environmentally friendly resort with tourism in mind.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to rebuild entirely,” she demurred.

“It was just a thought.”

“And I like it. A lot, as a matter of fact. But I’m not sure ecotourists would come to rural South Carolina. At least, not in the numbers we’d need to make it worthwhile.”

“You might be surprised. I mean, you’re close enough to the interstate for easy access, with two large airports within an hour’s drive. Still, you’re surrounded by thousands of acres of relatively unspoiled piedmont wilderness. People would pay good money for that kind of retreat. If you advertise and market it right, you could attract visitors from large metropolitan areas like Boston, New York, and Chicago.”

She frowned. “Why not closer, like Charlotte and Atlanta?”

“They have the same ecology, so this is old hat to them. We saw it firsthand with the people in New England. We were amazed the first time we drove up to New Hampshire and saw the fall colors, but the locals are totally blasé about it. They see it all the time, so… no big deal.”

“That makes sense,” Susan said. “And it’s a thought. But even if we don’t go that route and go more traditional instead, I’d still be able to shed the stigma of being ‘the woman who runs the nudist camp.’”

“That still bothers you?” I said in surprise.

“Being the local Jezebel? A little,” she admitted. “Sheriff Pharisee had a point, bless his black heart. I was a social pariah. I still am, to a certain degree. I haven’t had a serious threat to my business in years, but I still don’t have legitimacy. Not around here, at least.”

“That’s important to you?”

“It is. I stopped keeping score with money a few years ago. I have more than I’ll ever be able to spend in my lifetime. Now I want people to respect me. The money gives me influence, but I still have an asterisk after my name, so to speak.” She looked around and sighed as she returned to the original question. “I want to stay true to my parents’ vision, but the times, they are a-changin’.”

“So you’re back to the same choice you had ten years ago,” I said. “Is this a business or your personal estate?”

“And if it is a business, can it survive in the current market?”

“To be honest,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

“Me neither.” She fell silent and considered the future. “I don’t like my options. I think that frustrates me as much as anything. I can ‘fix’ the problem, but at what cost?”

“When do you have to decide?”

“Not immediately, but within a year. We don’t have enough reservations for next season to cover even half of our operating expenses, and the trend will only get worse in the years to come.”

I had a thought. “What if we could bring in a bunch of visitors, even for a week or two?”

“We might break even. Why? What’re you thinking?”

* * *

I returned home after Granville’s funeral and talked to Christy, Wren, and Trip about a swingers’ get-together at camp. They were easy to convince, so I began making phone calls. Everyone I talked to was open to the idea, especially since it might be our last chance to enjoy the camp as we remembered it. Most of us had kids in school, so we decided on the first week in July. We could celebrate the Fourth with a bang.

“Wow, that was quick,” Susan laughed when I called to make the reservations. “I should hire you as my marketing manager.”

“Eh, it was an easy sell. Besides, it’s the least I could do.”

“Still, nine reservations is nothing to sneeze at. Oh, have you thought about Doug and Olivia?”

“No. Are they swingers too?”

“Mmm hmm. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Okay, add them to the list. What about Kirk and Dawn?”

“They’re a bit more traditional, I’m afraid. But I’ll invite them anyway. They can stay in the main camp with the normal folks.”

“You should probably call my mom and dad,” I added. “And the Coulters. Maybe some of the other couples from the old days.”

“So it’s ‘the old days’ now?” she teased.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. And I’m one step ahead of you. I already made a note. If this is going to be the last year of the camp as we know it, we might as well go out with a bang.”

“It’s like you read my mind,” I chuckled.

* * *

We returned to Boston after Thanksgiving and celebrated Susie’s first birthday. I called Erin the next day and wished her a happy birthday as well. She was thirty.

“Are you doing anything special?” I asked.

“Dinner with friends,” she said vaguely.

“Guy friends?” I hinted.

“Sorry, Mom, I have to go.”

“Ha! Sorry, couldn’t resist. You know I’m kidding, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But she’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

“Eh, it’s what she does.”

“Yeah, I know,” Erin repeated. “I’ll get married when I’m ready. I need to meet a guy first.”

I heard something in her voice but couldn’t decide what it was. She continued before I could ask.

“I’m so busy with work. I swear, Paul, you have no idea how much money is here. Palm Beach gets all the headlines, but it’s really a small pool of clients. I mean, the big-name millionaires live there, but we have way more people on this side of the state.”

“And lemme guess,” I chuckled, “they all want trusts for their money.”

“It’s the best way to shelter that kind of wealth. Speaking of which, you and Christy need to let me set one up for you. Well, several, but we’ll get to that.”

“Why? We aren’t millionaires.”

“You’re probably closer than you think,” she said. “And what happens when Christy’s grandmother dies?”

“All her money is in trusts already. We get the statements every year.”

“Yes, but you need a trust that’s tailored to your needs, and especially to the girls’. There are some serious tax implications if you don’t. I mean, what would happen to them if you died? Do you even have a will?”

“Whoa, slow down, Clarence Darrow,” I laughed.

“Darrow was a criminal attorney,” Erin said with exaggerated patience. “It’s a completely different kind of law. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know. But he was the only lawyer I could think of.”

“Whatever. You need a will.”

“For the record, we have one. Nana C.’s lawyers wrote it for us.”

“Then I need to look at it. I guarantee it has—”

“Relax,” I told her. “You can look at it later. I just called to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Yeah, sorry. And thanks.”

“Now, you said you work too much? Seriously, Er, I tried calling you at home first.” I checked my watch. “It’s after eight. What’re you still doing in the office?”

“Working, you big dork!” she laughed. “But you’re right, I need to go. I’m meeting my friend at nine.”

“I thought you said friends, plural.”

“I did,” she lied. “Friends. So, I’d better get a move on. Love you. And thanks for calling. Give Christy a hug for me. And big kisses for the girls. Okay? Love you,” she repeated. “Bye.”

The line clicked, and I stared at the receiver.

Christy stuck her head into the bedroom. “Everything okay?”

“I think so,” I said after a moment. “But… Erin’s up to something.”

“Oh? What?”

“No clue. I’m pretty sure it involves a guy, though.”

“A guy? Oh my gosh, seriously? Do I need to call her?”

“No. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Okay. In the meantime, I know three little girls who’d love some princess time.”

“Sounds good. Does the queen need some attention later?”

“She might,” Christy said coyly.

“Good. ’Cause I’m in the mood all of a sudden.”

“Then you’d better hurry up and get the girls to sleep.”

“Yes, your highness!”

* * *

A week after New Year’s, we survived the biggest nor’easter in years. The storm dumped eighteen inches of snow on Boston, although we were luckier than most. Some places received nearly four feet. Then the weather turned warm, and torrential rain washed away the snow like it had never been there.

Trip and I returned to school, and the weeks passed in a blur. We celebrated Emily’s fourth birthday in February, but I barely had time for anything else. March and April were the same, a rush of classes and work. Christy spent a week editing and typing up my master’s thesis. Trip tried to get her to do the same for his business case study, but she said she was too busy.

“He can hire someone,” she said. “They can afford it. Maybe some poor undergrad.”

“Yeah, but you know Trip,” I chuckled. “He’s… um… frugal.”

“He’s cheap, you mean. Besides, I already watch their kids. What else do they want me to do?”

“Fair enough.” I shrugged. “He’ll probably get one of Wren’s interns to do it.”

“Ugh! Don’t get me started on her, either,” Christy said.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know!”

* * *

In May we began planning our next career move. Trip wanted to move back to Atlanta and start a design company, and I was all for it. Christy was too, which left Wren as the lone holdout.

In true Wren fashion, she’d been promoted twice at the sporting goods company, to the point where she currently managed an entire team of PR specialists who handled athlete endorsements, product placement, and sponsorship opportunities. Her salary had grown accordingly, and she was on track for a director’s job in a few years.

“Why do you always do this to me?” she accused Trip.

“Babe! I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose!”

“Just when I get settled in a job and see a real opportunity for advancement,” she huffed.

“You always knew this was a two-year gig,” he said. “We’re here for school, that’s it.”

“What about me? What about my ‘gig’?”

“What about mine?” Christy said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wren snapped. Then she heard herself and softened her tone. “I’m sorry, my love. I’m just upset that—”

“I know why you’re upset,” Christy said, “but at least you have a job. What about me?”

“But… the kids’re your job. I thought you liked being a stay-at-home mom.”

“Since you asked… I don’t. I do it because I don’t have a choice.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“What good would it’ve done?” Christy griped. “You work all the time. Paul and Trip are in school. And I’m the one who’s stuck with the kids all day. I don’t have a studio! I don’t have a job! I don’t have anything! And I’m tired of you complaining about your life and your career! What about me and mine? Ugh!”

We sat in stunned silence.

“I don’t think you understand what it’s like for me,” Christy continued in a tone that was only slightly calmer. “You leave for work every day and don’t think twice about the kids—”

“I do too!” Wren cried.

“No, you don’t,” Christy said implacably. “You have a job and people under you and a million things to keep you occupied. You even bring work home with you. I’m surprised you aren’t on your phone right now!”

Almost on cue, Wren jumped as if she’d been stung by a wasp. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her buzzing phone. It was new, one of the little ones that closed like a clamshell. She opened it and stared at the incoming number. She agonized for a moment but then closed it. The phone buzzed rhythmically until the call went to voicemail.

Christy crossed her arms and made her point without a word.

“What?” Wren said. “My job’s important.” It sounded like a cop-out, even to her.

“More important than your children?” Christy shot back. “Missy calls me ‘Mommy’ half the time.”

Wren slumped as her defenses crumbled.

“Mmm hmm,” Christy said. “Don’t get me wrong,” she added, “I love them both, but they’re your children.”

“What do you want from me? We can hire a nanny again—”

“That isn’t the point!”

“She’s right, babe,” Trip said.

Wren stiffened with anger. “I don’t need you piling on too,” she snapped. “You’re the problem here! My career always takes a back seat to yours!”

“At least you have one!” Christy shouted.

“Is everything okay?” a young voice asked.

Four heads turned. Davis stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Christy answered automatically, before Wren could.

“It’s fine, honey,” she said. “We’re just having a grown-up discussion.”

“I heard shouting.”

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “Go back upstairs. Tell the girls we need to leave soon. Start cleaning up, please.”

He nodded but then frowned. “I thought I heard Susie.”

Christy smiled, a look so full of affection that it was a dagger to Wren’s heart. She hadn’t meant it to be, but the blade had struck home and cut deep. Even Trip noticed.

“Will you look in on her?” Christy said to the boy.

“Okay.” He belatedly looked at his own mother. “Mom? Are you okay?”

Wren wiped her cheeks and forced a smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Go upstairs and check on Susie.”

He nodded uncertainly and looked to Christy.

“Go on,” she told him. “We’ll be up soon.”

He turned and climbed the stairs.

Trip and I shared a look, but we both knew better than to say anything.

Wren buried her face in her hands. “I’m a horrible mother.”

“No, you aren’t.” Christy said gently. “You’re a good mother. But you need to spend more time with them.”

“What about my job?”

“Which is more important?”

“Easy for you to say,” Wren snapped. “You don’t—” She swallowed and looked even guiltier than before.

“Yes?” Christy said. “You were saying?”

“So… what?” Wren said. “I can’t have a career and be a mother too?”

“You’re doing great, babe,” Trip said.

“Did you just see what happened?” she moaned. She gestured at the space where Davis had been. “My own son! But she’s more of a mother than I am!”

“Okay, everyone calm down,” I said. “Maybe we need to look at things from a different perspective.” I drew a breath and gathered my thoughts. “We’re out of balance. Wren spends all her time at work. Christy spends hers with the kids. Trip and I spend ours at school. We’re all doing it because we have to, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Christy shook her head in agreement.

“And moving to Atlanta is your solution?” Wren asked bitterly. “Who cares what I want?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying at all. We need to find a happy middle ground.” I glanced at Trip and said, “Maybe we stay here and start a company.”

“I want a house,” Christy said before he could reply. “I’m tired of our dingy little apartment. I want one with a studio. A real one! Not some corner of the living room. I want a pool too.”

“That’ll be expensive,” Trip said. He glanced at me for support, and I instinctively knew where he was going.

“We’d have to look out past Worcester,” I agreed.

“Or up toward Nashua. Maybe even as far as Manchester.”

Christy didn’t think in terms of money, so she didn’t even bat an eye. Wren, however, knew the cost of the housing market in Boston.

“Yeah, I get it. You don’t have to rub it in.” She glared at Trip but then sighed. “So, once again, I have to put my career on hold for you all.”

“Not for them,” Christy said, “for me. I want a career too, Wren. I put mine on hold from the beginning, when Davis was born.”

“She’s right,” Trip said.

“I know she’s right,” Wren snarled. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Balance,” I said before the argument could heat up again.

“What?” Wren scoffed. “We’re magically supposed to find it in Atlanta?”

“I think we have a better chance. It’s a big city with lots of jobs—”

“So’s Boston.”

I smiled tightly and continued, “We have family and friends there, and plenty of connections.”

“Please, Wren,” Christy added. “I want you to be happy, but not if it means I’m miserable at the same time.”

“We don’t have to decide right now,” I said. “We have a couple of months—”

“No,” Wren said, “if we’re going to do it, let’s just do it.” She held up a hand before Trip or I could reply. “Uh-uh. Don’t say a word. I’m not doing this because you convinced me. We’d still be arguing if it was just you two. I’m doing it for her. And the kids. You two can fuck off.”

Trip and I knew when to take yes for an answer.

* * *

Wren eventually resigned herself to the move. She updated her resume and sent it to several headhunters. She also called the man who ran her restaurant group and warned him to expect her in Atlanta in a few months.

“He’s a good manager,” she said afterward, “but he’s too much like my father, and he doesn’t like taking orders from a woman.”

“That doesn’t bode well for him,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Why don’t you take over?” Trip suggested.

“Because I’ve been out of the business too long.”

“What? No you haven’t! We eat at restaurants all the time!”

“Sweetheart, there’s a huge difference between eating in a restaurant and running one.”

“Like reading a book versus writing one,” I agreed.

“What?” Trip said. “That’s crazy.”

“No, he’s right,” Wren said. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Trip frowned at the macho-sexist reply.

“Let’s change the subject,” she continued. “When can we start talking about houses in Atlanta?”

Something in her tone warned us that she wasn’t talking about house-hunting.

“Uh, babe…,” Trip said. “It might be a while before we can build something custom.”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” she said coolly. “Christy wants a house with a pool and a studio. I’ll need an office instead of a studio, but—” She gestured impatiently at me, like I was one of the people who worked for her. “Shouldn’t you write this down?”

“Absolutely,” I chuckled. Then I took out a pencil and the little Moleskine notebook I habitually carried. It had been a gift from my female friend, the only thing I’d kept from our time together.

“Hold on,” Trip said to Wren, “we haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Yes, you have. When you said we were moving to Atlanta.”

“Babe, we can’t build a new house! Not now! It’ll cost a fortune! We need that money for the new company.”

“Again,” she said, as coolly as before, “that’s your problem, not mine.”

“Dude, relax,” I told him. “You know we’re going to do this. If it makes our wives happy, it’ll be cheap at twice the price.”

He rolled his eyes, and I surreptitiously winked at Wren. Her lips compressed in a grin. We hadn’t been in cahoots before, but we were now.

* * *

Trip and I graduated at the end of May, and in many ways it was the same as the first time. Our families were there and we posed for pictures. The speeches were definitely the same—do great things!—and the atmosphere was festive. Laszlo and his wife were there as well, and he was as proud as I’d ever seen him.

But it was a very different experience in other ways. I had a wife and children this time. I already had my license, plus several years of experience. I didn’t need to look for a job. Instead, I had plans to go into business for myself.

Part of me was excited about the future. But another part was sad to leave friends and professors, people I’d grown close to. I also felt a sense of loss for my female friend. We still had feelings for each other, even though our friendship had never recovered.

I searched the milling crowd and spotted her nearby. She was standing with her parents and grandparents, and her teenage brothers were horsing around in the background.

Our eyes met and she ventured a smile, but it was sad. Her expression hardened as Christy moved in front of me. Her mother noticed and asked her a question. My friend gave me a searching look before she turned away.

“Here, will you take her?”

I blinked and realized that Christy had spoken. “What?”

“Take her.” She handed me Susie, and my other daughters crowded around. “I want to take pictures for my parents,” Christy said. “Nana, you too. Move closer.”

We posed for several pictures. Christy checked the little screen on the back of the camera. It was new and digital, and she already knew how to use it better than I did.

“Who wants to see?” she asked Laurie and Emily with bright-eyed enthusiasm. She knelt, and the girls ran to her.

I looked for my friend, but she was gone forever, without even a proper goodbye.

“Who was she?” Nana C. asked quietly.

“What? Who?”

“That young woman.”

“Just a friend,” I said vaguely. “From the master’s program.”

“Ah.” She managed to convey a lifetime of experience in a single syllable.

I looked at her sideways, but she merely smiled back at me. Then her expression sobered, although she tilted her head in a gesture I was very familiar with.

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” she said.

“In other words,” I said after a moment, “you understand.”

“Of course.” She sighed and patted my arm, more in compassion than disapproval. Then she looked at Christy and the older girls, and her message was clear: You made the right choice.

“I think so too,” I said aloud.

“Mmm.”