“Mom, I’m fine.”
But was she? She didn’t know if she wanted them, but if she did . . .
If she calculated how long it might take to meet someone new, then to get to know them, hopefully enough to fall in love and maybe get married if they weren’t too jaded by the idea, that ate up years. Then time spent trying to get pregnant . . . she could be lucky or unlucky with that.
The decision was a luxury, before. She used to think she was safely partnered up, but suddenly she wasn’t. And that made all the rest of her assumptions about life nothing more than big old question marks.
“Calvin’s a good man at heart.”
Margo rolled her eyes. “No, Mom. He’s really not.”
“I don’t know what you two fought about but it must have been a whopper.”
“Well—”
There was a muffled sound as her mother obviously covered the phone instead of hitting “mute,” then she said, “Your father just came in. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Calvin left. Left left.”
There was a beat. “What?”
“Calvin left me. For good. We’re getting divorced.”
Another pulse of silence, then, obviously to Margo’s father, “Not a good time, Charlie. You go on up and I’ll be there shortly.” She came back clearly. “What happened?” She lowered her voice slightly. “Do you think this is for real?”
“Oh, it’s very real. And nothing happened. It was sudden.”
And then it all came spilling out. The tale of the last two weeks, including the thoughts of homicide-by-Shun, Robin, and her own suicidal ideations—though by admitting them out loud, she recognized them for their melodramatic nature.
“Oh, honey.”
“And I told my book club I was once a widow, like a crazy person.”
“You told your book club that he . . . died?”
“No, no, of course not. I made up a first husband.”
“Oh, of course not, that was silly of me. A first husband? Margo . . .”
“We can unpack what a psychopath I am later. But for right now I just need to freak out because suddenly, I am alone. I don’t have Calvin or the life I’ve been living and I don’t even have any real friends. I’m such a mess!” Everything, large and small, was making her cry. She’d almost added the upstairs sink that was draining slowly to her inventory of things that were wrong, but no one would understand unless they were going through it themselves.
“Oh, baby.” Something about the pity in her voice made Margo feel even sorrier for herself. “Do you need me to come home?”
It was like when Margo was little and would hurt herself. Somehow she could bear up until she got to her mother’s loving arms and then she’d lose it. That she called Maryland home, even though they’d moved south ten years ago just made it even more poignant. “I’ll be okay. I just need to get through this.”
“You need your family.”
She went to the pantry and pulled out a twenty-eight-ounce can of Wegmans San Marzano tomatoes. “Honestly, I’m not up for it. I don’t want to waste a visit on shock and misery, I’d rather you come when we can both enjoy it. Like in the fall, when we can go antiquing and do all the holiday bazaars.” She fished in the drawer for the can opener she needed to replace, found it, and pried the can open.
“Honey, are you sure? I can come twice, you know.”
“Dad needs you more than I do.”
“Oh, pshh, he wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”
But they both knew that was a lie. Ol’ Charlie was a great orthodontist at work, but at home he was a six-foot toddler who wanted his wife to do everything for him—gee, where had Margo gotten the nurturing gene?—and while he wouldn’t say anything if Jane came up to visit, he’d probably just quietly manage to burn his clothes in the dryer and flood the kitchen trying to boil water.
But on top of that, a visit would mean Margo would have to leap right into an energetic life, and she just wasn’t up for it. She needed to get out of her rut but not by running six marathons a day. “I don’t need anything right this moment, Mom, honest.”
“Every once in a while you need to accept help.”
She dipped her finger and thumb into the tomatoes and pinched off a piece. It was sweet and perfect, even without any seasoning or cooking at all. How could one strain of tomatoes, grown in one specific region in the world, be so superior to all others? “I promise I’ll let you know when I do. I promise.”
“All right . . .” She didn’t sound certain.
“I’ve got to go now, Mom; I’ve got stuff to do.” Her plans were to sit on the sofa and scarf this stuff down in three hours when it was finally ready. She was going to top it with as much nutty, salty, crystal-pocked Parmigiano Reggiano as she wanted, and she was going to give no fucks.
Then she was going to sleep as late as she damn well pleased tomorrow.
“Enjoy your pasta. And then get your butt out of that house. One thing I know is that moss doesn’t grow on a rolling stone and a glum mood can’t fester in an active person.”
Margo wasn’t so sure that was true, but it still made her smile. Momspeak. “I will. I really will.”
“I’m calling you tomorrow.”
“I’m sure.” Margo hung up, paused for a moment, then went back and dumped the tomatoes in the Dutch oven and prepared to simmer for three hours. With nothing better to do, she went to her computer and idly checked Instagram, or, as she’d come to think of it, her only portal to the outside world. Over the past couple of weeks, she’d subscribed to multiple food threads, decorating threads, and a few cute animal threads. If a hashtag had any of about fifty key words, she saw it. And so she saw food porn, fabulous homes, front porches, and cute animals every time she picked up her phone to look.
Her mom was right, she really needed to do more than this. It took no time to go from a sabbatical to an ancient hermit vampire in the imaginations of neighborhood children. She didn’t want to be a person who cowered like Nosferatu at the rays of the sun, or even like her neighbor, Mrs. Bach, who drove to the dentist literally three doors down the road from her house.
Good God, maybe Mrs. Bach had been looking at Margo’s house, shaking her head thoughtfully and saying, “Lazy, self-pitying cow, won’t even go out and get her mail.”
With a mental shrug, she returned to Instagram and cooed at a golden retriever slipping down a playground slide, then squinted at a table setting so elaborate she couldn’t even figure out how many courses there had to be. But she stopped at the third picture, a gorgeous baking tray of golden buttery-topped tiropetes, with a bowl on the side of bright-colored Greek salad with what appeared to be fresh oregano.
It had popped up because she was following #bethesdafood scene.
The caption, written by BoozyCrocker, said:
BoozyCrocker MUST EAT BUTTER. #TheCookbookClub is now open to new members. Foodies, come join us! Three-drink minimum. No skipping dessert. Meet in Bethesda. DM me. No psychos, no diets. #foodporn #saycheese #cheese #feta #musteatbutter #delicious #whenindoubtaddbutter #bethesdafoodscene
Chapter Three