floor of a strip-mall building—she’d abandoned the effort at spiritual peace and focused her energy on what she knew: increasing participation in the Episcopal Church by joining the Flower Guild, volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club. This summer she planned to expand her exercise regimen by playing singles as well as doubles in the Ladies’ League at the Merion Cricket Club.
Then when she’d discovered Bill’s infidelity, she knew what it was to truly ache. And by that point, there was nothing left to add to her life for distraction.
This wasn’t about pain or loss. Bill’s actions had nothing to do with Foster. She wanted to throw the timeline in his face, but all she could manage in response was “I’m sorry.” The words came out flat, devoid of any feeling. “I’m sorry for you.” Sorrier for me, she didn’t have to add.
Bill shrugged and gave her a look as if he wondered who she was, or perhaps who she had become. It was the same puzzled expression she gave herself most mornings when she arose, looked in the mirror, and found herself unrecognizable.
“You can reach me through the office. I’ll let you know the number when my telephone gets installed. I spoke to the accounting department and half my draw will be wired into your account on the first and fifteenth. That should get you through until . . . until . . .”
She nodded.
“Okay then.” As he leaned toward her and gave her a kiss on her cheek, his familiar sandalwood scent filled her nostrils. She couldn’t move. He was leaving for good. She’d never be able to enter Crabtree & Evelyn without bursting into tears. Their lives were henceforth separate. Mrs. William Herbert no longer existed. In her wildest dreams of envisioning life at forty-three years of age, she’d never thought she’d need for there to be an extra man for her at a dinner party.
Faith watched as he walked past the moving truck to his sedan, which he’d parked on the grass to keep out of the way. Even with the weight of two suitcases and a briefcase, his stride was quick and strong. He lifted his bags into the trunk, slammed the door, and then folded his trench coat neatly on the passenger seat. Before settling into the driver’s seat, he removed his suit coat and draped it in the back. No break in rituals. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder when he might return from this next business trip.
Never
seemed impossible to fathom.
She walked out of the library and stood in the entrance foyer. On the side table a silver platter held the daily mail. Without thinking she flipped through the pile of bills, catalogs, an oversize charity invitation, a members’ newsletter from the Union League. What was she hoping to find? An answer to her problems, to her prayers, a handwritten note from her husband telling her that he’d made up the whole sordid story? That Little Miss Wunderkind was a figment of his imagination? Was there even any collection of words that could possibly mend the gaping holes in her life?
Her mouth was parched and she was about to head into the kitchen for a glass of water when her eye caught a light blue envelope. She picked it up and felt the thick, high-quality stationery. “Mr. and Mrs. William Herbert” was written on the outside in navy felt-tip pen. The engraved return address—a street in Bryn Mawr—was unfamiliar. Without bothering to get her silver-handled letter opener, she tore one end of the envelope and pulled out the single sheet.
Although this letter will no doubt come as a surprise—or perhaps a shock—to you both, I hope that it can be read in the spirit in which it has been sent. I am the biological mother of your adopted twins.
Faith felt weak in the knees; she collapsed into a chair and held on to one arm for extra support, while her eyes remained fixed on a single sentence. Nine words.
This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t have happened. It had to be some horrible prank, a practical joke the humor of which
Then when she’d discovered Bill’s infidelity, she knew what it was to truly ache. And by that point, there was nothing left to add to her life for distraction.
This wasn’t about pain or loss. Bill’s actions had nothing to do with Foster. She wanted to throw the timeline in his face, but all she could manage in response was “I’m sorry.” The words came out flat, devoid of any feeling. “I’m sorry for you.” Sorrier for me, she didn’t have to add.
Bill shrugged and gave her a look as if he wondered who she was, or perhaps who she had become. It was the same puzzled expression she gave herself most mornings when she arose, looked in the mirror, and found herself unrecognizable.
“You can reach me through the office. I’ll let you know the number when my telephone gets installed. I spoke to the accounting department and half my draw will be wired into your account on the first and fifteenth. That should get you through until . . . until . . .”
She nodded.
“Okay then.” As he leaned toward her and gave her a kiss on her cheek, his familiar sandalwood scent filled her nostrils. She couldn’t move. He was leaving for good. She’d never be able to enter Crabtree & Evelyn without bursting into tears. Their lives were henceforth separate. Mrs. William Herbert no longer existed. In her wildest dreams of envisioning life at forty-three years of age, she’d never thought she’d need for there to be an extra man for her at a dinner party.
Faith watched as he walked past the moving truck to his sedan, which he’d parked on the grass to keep out of the way. Even with the weight of two suitcases and a briefcase, his stride was quick and strong. He lifted his bags into the trunk, slammed the door, and then folded his trench coat neatly on the passenger seat. Before settling into the driver’s seat, he removed his suit coat and draped it in the back. No break in rituals. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder when he might return from this next business trip.
Never
seemed impossible to fathom.
She walked out of the library and stood in the entrance foyer. On the side table a silver platter held the daily mail. Without thinking she flipped through the pile of bills, catalogs, an oversize charity invitation, a members’ newsletter from the Union League. What was she hoping to find? An answer to her problems, to her prayers, a handwritten note from her husband telling her that he’d made up the whole sordid story? That Little Miss Wunderkind was a figment of his imagination? Was there even any collection of words that could possibly mend the gaping holes in her life?
Her mouth was parched and she was about to head into the kitchen for a glass of water when her eye caught a light blue envelope. She picked it up and felt the thick, high-quality stationery. “Mr. and Mrs. William Herbert” was written on the outside in navy felt-tip pen. The engraved return address—a street in Bryn Mawr—was unfamiliar. Without bothering to get her silver-handled letter opener, she tore one end of the envelope and pulled out the single sheet.
Although this letter will no doubt come as a surprise—or perhaps a shock—to you both, I hope that it can be read in the spirit in which it has been sent. I am the biological mother of your adopted twins.
Faith felt weak in the knees; she collapsed into a chair and held on to one arm for extra support, while her eyes remained fixed on a single sentence. Nine words.
This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t have happened. It had to be some horrible prank, a practical joke the humor of which
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