And so he and Pauline had made it official in a very small civil ceremony followed by a lunch at Le Bernardin.
At the time, Doug could never have imagined the way he felt now. Disenchanted, trapped, eager for his freedom. He had thought that he would live out his days with Pauline in comfortable companionship. He had not predicted that his needs and desires would announce they wanted something more, something different.
When Doug got back to the house, it was only eight o’clock, and the sun was still up. He would have preferred to wait until dark when he could be sure Pauline was asleep, but he had nowhere else to go. He didn’t want to drink anything more with the long, middle-of-the-night drive ahead; he didn’t want to go to the club and get sucked into inane conversation about Mickelson’s chances at Oak Hill. He didn’t have a single person he could talk to. In a pinch, he supposed he could call Edge, but Edge lived in the city, and he had endured so much personal drama of his own that Doug would feel terrible heaping on more. Plus, Edge wasn’t particularly fond of Pauline, and so if Doug told Edge he was thinking of leaving Pauline, Edge might give him too much encouragement. Furthermore, Edge had been distant lately, and increasingly vague about his own romantic life. He was dating someone, Doug was sure of that. Edge had the measured calm and patience these days that he only displayed when he was having sex on a regular basis. But Edge didn’t talk about the girl, whoever she was, and the one time Doug had asked about the lucky woman who was keeping Edge on an even keel, Edge had shaken his head and turned away.
Doug had been puzzled by this reaction. He’d said, “Okay, sorry, not up for discussion, then?”
And Edge had said, “Not up for discussion.”
Doug entered the Tonelli house, afraid of what he might find. But everything appeared to be normal. The kitchen was quiet and undisturbed; the lamb chops still lay in the sink. Doug got himself a glass of ice water. His alarm was due to go off at 3 a.m.; he needed to get to sleep.
He crept up the stairs, feeling spooked by the silence. He had half expected Pauline to meet him at the front door with a frying pan in her hand. He had expected to hear her crying.
The door to their bedroom was closed. Doug thought: Go to the guest room. Sleep for a few hours, then hit the road. But that was the coward in him speaking. Plus, his suitcase was in the bedroom.
He cracked open the door enough to see rays of the day’s last sunlight striping the floor. Pauline lay on the bed, still wrapped in her towel. She was awake, staring at the ceiling, and when she heard him, she turned her head.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. He paused, waiting to see if there was going to be a scene, but she was quiet. Doug sat on the bed and took off his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his shirt and slacks, and stuffed them into the dry cleaning bag. He thought briefly of work and the shitshow Cranbrook case, which was going to trial in the morning. Then he thought about Nantucket and the house and the 150 guests, his children and grandchildren, his daughter’s future in-laws, his wife’s cousins. He had a wedding to host, a wedding his dead wife had planned and he had paid for. He couldn’t let the turmoil of his personal life get in the way of this weekend. In the hottest moment, as he was climbing into the car, he had sent Margot a text message that said, Pauline isn’t coming to the wedding. Now he regretted sending that message.
He climbed into bed next to Pauline, the way he had for the past five years. He had done something truly egregious, he realized, in marrying a woman he didn’t love.
“Pauline,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have read the Notebook.”
The Notebook, right. Doug had forgotten about the Notebook.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“You forgive me?”
“I forgive you for reading the Notebook,” he said. “Your curiosity was only natural. But Pauline…”
“And I can go to the wedding with you?” she said. “I mean, obviously, I knew you were speaking in anger when you said you wanted to go alone. I knew you would never, ever go without me.”
But he would. In his mind, when he pictured himself seven hours from now in the car, he was alone, windows down, singing to the radio.
“Pauline,” he said. But he was stuck. He couldn’t get the words out. Every single client he represented had endured a version of this conversation. Doug had heard about hundreds of them in minute detail, he knew which words to say, but he couldn’t make himself say them. Was it the courage he lacked, or the conviction?
Pauline laid her hand over his heart. She said, “You should get some sleep. We have to get up early.”