My Father's Wives by Mike Greenberg Read Free Book Online

kidding,” I said. “I hate it too! I thought you loved it.”
    “Never! My parents have been making me ski since I was six; I’ve hated every day of it. It’s freezing cold, the lift lines are endless, and the food in the lodge is disgusting, even the hot chocolate. I just never had the heart to tell my parents because it makes them so happy. But come on, I’m a married woman now.”
    I think every couple has that perfect moment, when both people realize they really are right for each other and all the assumptions they had to make along the way have been verified. Little doubts melt away, and for the first time they both know for sure they really are going to be all right after the euphoria of the engagement and the buzz of the parties and the whirlwind of the wedding and the sporadic arrival of fancy dishes; when life becomes just life again, they really are going to love each other after all. For Claire and me, that was our moment. We embraced like we had never embraced before and made love on the floor. Afterward we sat in our underwear and drank tea andsearched the Internet for the name of a Vermont inn we could give to her parents to complete our lie.
    As it turned out we found a place that sounded so delightful, so far from the hectic squalor of the slopes, that we decided to try it, and we loved it and have spent at least one weekend a year there ever since. And every time we go, at least once during the visit, often while savoring the last remnants of a particularly piquant Burgundy, I am reminded of how casually and artfully Claire began the whole thing, how naturally the deceit had come to her. How easy the smile had been on her lips, and the steadiness of her breathing, the certainty of her eyes. And the stillness of her hands.
    That is one thing about my wife that is remarkable: her stillness. There are some people who are naturally jumpy, constantly tapping their feet or jiggling their legs or rustling their fingers; Claire is the exact opposite. Her hands never move. It is an amazing quality, one you would not notice until you became aware of it, but once you do it never ceases to draw your attention. It was in Vermont that I first noticed her hands, at the dining table, resting ever so gently on a folded linen napkin, graceful, slender, perfectly still. There is something in her stillness that suggests everything is all right. Which, if you know Claire, it usually is.
    So, as I watched the Range Rover circle around the rear of the aircraft and stop beneath the stairs, my first thought was that I needed to see her hands.
    The window went down and Claire looked up at me with a crooked smile on her face. “Surprise!” she shouted. “How’s this for service?”
    “Very nice.” I couldn’t quite manage to return the smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    “Well, did you want to spend your fortieth birthday with your wife or your driver?”
    “Isn’t that tomorrow?” I said. I had been so preoccupied I had completely forgotten my birthday, my fortieth no less. Although, we don’t normally make too much fuss over birthdays anyway. The day I turnednine was the worst day of my life. Since then, I haven’t had much appetite for celebration.
    “This is close enough,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go have dinner!”
    “How about the kids?”
    “I got a babysitter, they’re fine.”
    “But I won’t see them tonight, and I’ve been gone so long.”
    Claire shook her head. “Jonathan, you’ve been gone one day. The kids are fine. Let’s go to Angelo’s and have some fun.”
    Angelo’s is our favorite spot: Italian, great food, charming owner who always greets me with a kiss on both cheeks and a bottle of Pinot Grigio on ice. I love Angelo’s, but I was in no mood to go out.
    I stepped carefully down the stairs and kissed Claire as quickly as I could. Her lips were dry. Usually they were not. Backing away, I darted around behind the car and slid into the passenger seat.
    “Not much