“I glance at my wife as she climbs into the passenger seat, and I am bursting with confidence. Today will be everything I’ve promised her…and more…”

Paul Strom has the perfect life: a glittering career as an advertising executive, a beautiful wife, two healthy boys and a big house in a wealthy suburb. And he’s the perfect husband: breadwinner, protector, provider. That’s why he’s planned a romantic weekend for his wife, Mia, at their lake house, just the two of them. And he’s promised today will be the best day ever.

But as Paul and Mia drive out of the city and toward the countryside, a spike of tension begins to wedge itself between them and doubts start to arise. How much do they trust each other? And how perfect is their marriage, or any marriage, really?

Forcing us to ask ourselves just how well we know those who are closest to us, Best Day Ever crackles with dark energy, spinning ever tighter toward its shocking conclusion. In the bestselling, page-turning vein of The Couple Next Door and The Dinner, Kaira Rouda weaves a gripping, tautly suspenseful tale of deception and betrayal dark enough to destroy a marriage…or a life.

Praise for Best Day Ever

“Riveting and provocative, Best Day Ever is a gripping suspense that plays with your mind and makes you wonder how well you truly know your spouse....You won’t be able to put this book down until its jaw-dropping ending. Absolutely brilliant!”

—Kerry Lonsdale, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Everything We Keep

“Deliciously diabolical and highly readable, Best Day Ever kept me flipping the pages with anticipation and fascination. Unputdownable!”

—A. J. Banner, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Twilight Wife

“Clever pacing and an unreliable and chillingly unrepentant narrator.”

—Kimberly McCreight, New York Times bestselling author of Reconstructing Amelia and The Outliers

“Kaira Rouda’s Best Day Ever is a breath of fresh air. Paul Strom’s narrative voice is irreverent, arrogant, and yet, utterly addicting. You’ll whip through the pages. Highly entertaining and truly surprising!”

—Kate Moretti, New York Times bestselling author of The Vanishing Year

“A creepy, spine-tingling and utterly addictive tale of domestic suspense.”

—Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, bestselling authors of The Good Widow

“This may well be the most entertaining read of your year.”

—Kathryn Craft, award-winning author of The Far End of Happy

KAIRA ROUDA is a bestselling, multiple-award-winning author of contemporary fiction. Her work has won numerous awards, including the Indie Excellence Award and Reader’s Choice Award.

The day that she found out that her new novel would be published by HarperCollins really was the best day ever, although she’s very glad that this one doesn’t come with a shocking twist.

She lives in Southern California with her family and is at work on her next novel. Connect with her on Facebook at Kaira Rouda Books, and on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram: @kairarouda. For more, visit her website, www.kairarouda.com.

For my daughter, Avery Robinson Rouda.

Continue to write the stories that speak to your heart and never stop believing in your power to change the world for the better.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise for Best Day Ever

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Morning 9:00 a.m.

Chapter 1

10:30 a.m.

Chapter 2

11:00 a.m.

Chapter 3

11:30 a.m.

Chapter 4

Noon

Chapter 5

12:30 p.m.

Chapter 6

2:00 p.m.

Chapter 7

4:00 p.m.

Chapter 8

5:00 p.m.

Chapter 9

5:30 p.m.

Chapter 10

6:15 p.m.

Chapter 11

7:30 p.m.

Chapter 12

8:00 p.m.

Chapter 13

8:15 p.m.

Chapter 14

8:45 p.m.

Chapter 15

9:00 p.m.

Chapter 16

9:15 p.m.

Chapter 17

9:30 p.m.

Chapter 18

10:00 p.m.

Chapter 19

10:30 p.m.

Chapter 20

11:00 p.m.

Chapter 21

11:30 p.m.

Chapter 22

12:00 a.m.

Chapter 23

12:15 a.m.

Chapter 24

12:20 a.m.

Chapter 25

12:25 a.m.

Chapter 26

12:35 a.m.

Chapter 27

1:00 a.m.

Chapter 28

1:45 a.m.

Chapter 29

2:45 a.m.

Chapter 30

4:45 a.m.

Chapter 31

One Year Later

Epilogue

Paul Strom’s Playlist for The Best Day Ever

Author Note

Acknowledgments

Reader’s Group Discussion Questions

Copyright

Morning 9:00 a.m.

1

I glance at my wife as she climbs into the passenger seat, sunlight bouncing off her shiny blond hair like sparklers lit for the Fourth of July, and I am bursting with confidence. Everything is as it should be.

Here we are, just the two of us, about to spend the weekend at our lake house. Today represents everything I’ve worked for, that we have built together. The sun blasts through my driver’s side window with such intensity I feel the urge to hold my hand up to the side of my face to shield my eyes, even though my sunglasses are dark and should be doing the job. Under any other circumstances, on any other day, they would be, I know. But today, something is different between us; some strange tension pulses through the still air of the car’s interior. I cannot see it, but it’s here. I’d like to name it. Discover its source and eliminate it.

Sure, this morning has been hectic. It’s a Friday, and Fridays always seem the most frenzied when you have kids. Getting the boys up and dressed, and then dropping them off at their immaculately landscaped and highly ranked redbrick elementary school where they will no doubt excel, in first and third grade respectively. Truth be told, though, I usually have little to do with the scenario I just outlined. Mia, my wife, handles all the tasks pertaining to the boys each morning. We’re a traditional suburban household in that respect. In the morning, I make coffee, shower, dress and leave for work before the boys awaken. Yes, mine is quite a selfish and single-minded pursuit on most days.

That’s another reason why today is so special. I drove the boys to school, reminded them that the babysitter would be picking them up afterward. When I returned to the house, I put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I can be helpful when I want to be, although I don’t want to remind Mia of this fact as she may come to expect it. Dishes finished, I had called up the stairs to Mia, urging her to hurry. We haven’t had a weekend together, just the two of us alone, for more than a year. This day was going to be just for us, and it was time to go.

She called back, her voice floating like a butterfly down the stairs, asking for my help with her luggage. The next moment, I found myself lugging two huge suitcases down the grand main staircase of our home. She followed behind me with a laundry basket filled with who knows what.

“Staying awhile?” I teased. She blushed, embarrassed by her notorious overpacking. But I didn’t complain. It was her day. She was free to overpack away. Once we got everything loaded into the trunk of the car, just as Mia was starting to relax, the packing part over, that was when my phone rang. I shouldn’t have answered it. But onward. Taking the call was just one small mistake in a day that’s destined to be brilliant. From the driver’s seat, I finally finish syncing my phone with the car’s system. I find the playlist I created for my wife. All her favorite songs will play during our drive. Music is such an important part of keeping romance alive.

And now we’re getting on the road. Mia turns toward me and smiles. She has a perfect smile: half-moon-shaped, with glistening white teeth. My smile is more of a rectangle; no matter how hard I try, I appear to be smirking, I know that. But my teeth are perfect, thanks to the cosmetic dentist. I grin back.

She loves me so much, and of course the same can be said for me. We’ve been together almost ten years now. We know each other’s best qualities, and we know each other’s dark sides. Although to be quite honest about it, I’m not sure Mia has what you’d call a dastardly alter ego. Her dark side is simply grumpy, and it typically only appears when she is tired, or when one of our boys faces a rough patch. For my part, I wonder if Mia thinks I have a dark side. Most likely, as far as she knows, I am just her dear loving husband.

Today, though, this morning, right now, she is exuding energy; it oozes from her pores, from her flawless face. It’s the cause of the strange pulsing between us, I decide.

“You seem wound up, honey,” I say. I want to pat her leg and tell her to relax but I don’t. Despite her odd mood she is still beautiful, almost perfect in every way.

“Do I? I guess I’m just excited,” she says, confirming my assessment while stretching her hands toward the front windshield. The diamond from her wedding ring flashes in the overbright sunshine as if imitating her energy.

“Me, too. But we’ve got a long drive ahead of us, so try to relax. Let’s make today the best day ever.” I attempt to add the proper lilt to my voice. I need her to believe I am just as happy and carefree as she is. That driving up to our lake house for the first time this season is the most exciting thing I could ever imagine doing on any day, ever.

“In that case, can I request a small detour? There’s a little bakery in Port Clinton, just before the turnoff to Lakeside. I’d like to stop there on the way in. For croissants for tomorrow morning. Do you remember the spot? We won’t arrive in time to grab croissants for breakfast today, of course, but tomorrow’s almost as good,” she says. Thankfully, her bright blue eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses that match mine. When I glance at her, we cannot make eye contact. Not really.

I wonder if the comment about not arriving in time is directed at me, and realize it is. Of course. I am the one who took the phone call just as we were packed up, ready to hop in the car and drive away. I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t anything new, but I had still held out hope that it would be. Instead, I spent thirty minutes on a worthless call with a headhunter, and, I know, made us late. The croissants will be gone by the time we arrive at the bakery; I know this, too.

“Yes, I remember the place. Ugly strip mall, but sure, we’ll stop. Not worried about gluten anymore, I take it?” I say. For a while, Mia and her doctor du jour thought her upset stomach, weight loss and other intestinal issues were caused by gluten. I was relieved when she decided not to hop on that fad after giving up wheat for a few weeks with no change. She still insists on a vegetarian existence, leaving her with few choices when we go out to dinner and endless questions for the waitstaff. It’s annoying. But I push those thoughts away. My wife is just doing her best.

“Turns out gluten isn’t the culprit,” Mia says. She smiles. “So yes, I’d love to stop. If it’s okay with you, of course.”

Stopping on our way to the lake house at a bakery that will no doubt be out of croissants was not on my agenda today. She knows I’m a man of action and when I have a plan, I follow it. I just want to get up there already. But today, Mia’s every wish is my command.

“As you wish, my dear.” I am the perfect husband. I smile as one of the songs from our early dating days comes on. There’s an art to crafting the perfect playlist. This song, “Unforgettable,” was the soundtrack to our first night together. Innocent Mia, a virgin even after four years of college, somehow untouched by all of those lecherous fraternity guys. She was waiting for someone older, someone sophisticated, someone who could take care of her. She found that in me.

I had reserved a suite in the finest hotel in downtown Columbus, with views of the river sparkling below. We’d been dating a couple of months by then and I’d waited as long as any man could be expected to. Mia was nervous, uncomfortably sitting on the edge of the red-and-white-striped upholstered chair, gripping her champagne flute like a weapon she’d use for protection. She wore a light blue dress that matched her eyes. The dress slipped easily over her head once I’d pulled her to me, asked her to dance. The memories of that night are vivid. It took me until the sun was coming up to convince her to go all the way. She worried about the promise she’d made to her mother. I told her if a tree falls in the forest but no one is around to hear it, then did it really fall? She laughed and I slid on top of her, pinning her arms gently above her head, pressing my mouth firmly against hers. And, she fell. I lick my lips at the memory and shift in my seat.

“Who were you talking to on the phone? The office?” she asks as I back out of our driveway.

“Who else? Sometimes I think they can’t last a moment without me,” I say. Some sort of emotion crosses Mia’s face before she turns toward the passenger side window. I guess we’re finished with that topic. I should apologize for the delay, but I don’t. An amicable silence falls between us.

Personally, I have to admit I love the implied success I feel being able to drive out of my very nice neighborhood, my wife by my side, on a Friday morning on my way to my second home. I am driving a Ford Flex, navy exterior, by choice. Supporting America while demonstrating that my ego does not require a fancy sports car or luxury sedan. No, I am secure in my status and a family man, all rolled into one. The American dream, that’s what we’re living right here.

My wife is still looking out her window. She seems to be taking in the signs of spring around us. The lawns are greening up nicely and the trees, so stark for the long, dreary months of winter, are budding and flowering. Our suburb is becoming a lovely place to live again, just in time. We pull onto the freeway heading north through downtown Columbus, and I feel a pride for my hometown that extends beyond the college sports franchise. It’s growing up. People from all over consider us a sophisticated, cosmopolitan place now, not just a college town or a field of grazing cattle. I don’t have to say Columbus comma Ohio anymore. We are on the weather maps internationally as the city in Ohio. Our weather matters more than Cleveland’s or Cincinnati’s does. That, to me, is a sign we have arrived as a great city.

Ironically, as we zip through the periphery of downtown, skyscrapers slicing the clear blue sky, we are headed to farm country. Most of Ohio still is agrarian, it seems, no matter how much Columbus has changed. My wife and I, we spend our time in the bubble of suburbia mostly, cutting through the city on our way out of town. We really should explore downtown more, I realize. There always seems to be so much more to do in a day than you can ever accomplish. That’s why I make plans.

Mia shifts in her seat, angling her body toward me as much as possible for someone strapped in by her seat belt, and asks, “Do you really think the strawberries will take hold? I mean, they looked like they were from the photos Buck sent me. They might even have grown a little. But things can change.” I notice she holds her phone in her hands now; her lovely fingers, accented by a cheery red—strawberry red—fingernail polish, move quickly across the small keypad. She was a copywriter at the advertising agency when I met her, and she has amazing keyboard speed still.

“It says strawberry plants should be bought from a reputable nursery. I’m just not sure I picked the right one. And they need deep holes, wide enough to accommodate the entire root system without bending the roots. Very persnickety plants,” she continues. Her lips are pursed together, as if she has eaten a sour berry.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” I reassure her. “No one will nurture them more than you.” A black sports car passes us on our right, only a flash of metal actually, because it’s moving so quickly. I hadn’t even seen it coming in my rearview mirror. It’s funny how things can sneak up on you, appear out of nowhere.

“It’s like having babies again, or puppies,” she says, ignoring the race car as I turn on my blinker and slide us out of the passing lane. “Don’t plant too deep, it says. The roots should be covered, but the crown should be right at soil surface. I should call Buck and ask him to check on the crowns.”

She glances at me, no doubt catching my smirk. First, what kind of name is B-U-C-K? I mean, really. But despite his ridiculous name, Buck Overford is a nice enough guy, I guess. He’s our neighbor at the lake, a widower even though he’s about my age, who likes to talk gardening with my wife. I should be clear. I’m forty-five, and Mia is only thirty-three. Buck is closer to my age than hers, maybe even a bit older. I look younger anyway. Not that we’re old geezers by any stretch. Buck does have this affinity for gardening, which to me is a woman’s thing, so that makes him older, weaker than me in my book.

At least gardening is what Mia tells me she and Buck have been talking about since we met him last summer. It was just after our moving truck had left. He brought over a bottle of Merlot, a nice one if memory serves, and the three of us spent a pleasant evening together on the screened porch until it was time for us to find our boys and get them ready for bed. The boys were free-range chickens up at the lake, had been every summer we’d rented. Now that we were owners, members, they’d increased their span of wandering, it seemed.

There were countless wholesome activities at the lake to draw their attention, from sailing lessons to shuffleboard, skateboarding to bike riding. Sometimes, we’d find them sitting by the edge of the water, skipping rocks, like they’d stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was all perfectly safe, these endless summertime activities that delighted our boys and made them beg us to head to Lakeside whenever possible. When it was bedtime, though, finding them, corralling them and then getting them into bed was a process best left for family only. We never wanted witnesses to that exhausting exercise.

“Right, I don’t need to bother Buck. I can check the crowns as soon as we get there,” Mia says in my direction before returning her attention to her phone screen.

“Good call.” I check the rearview mirror for any more speeding sports cars. I had an expensive sports car before, of course. I’ll likely have one again one day when my lifestyle dictates a change, I muse, taking in the interior of my sensible Ford Flex. Room for the whole family, and as many strawberry plants as Mia could handle planting. I can haul as much of the boys’ sports equipment as they can throw my way. It is a sensible, practical car. For a responsible family man. It fits me perfectly, this car. Me and my hot, newly skinny again wife. If she loses any more weight, though, she’ll disappear. It’s a real shame about the nausea she’s been struggling with. The latest doctor is convinced it’s stress-related. He told her to meditate.

“Did you know my strawberry plants’ runners are called ‘daughter’ plants?” she asks. The air between us pulses, I feel it. Ping.

“No, I didn’t,” I say, taking a deep breath before I realize I am doing it. It’s funny how the absence of a daughter catches your breath at the strangest times, over the silliest topics. “No ‘son’ plants? How sexist.”

“I still wish we’d tried,” Mia says quietly, stirring the age-old pot. Just that topic, that old leathery shoe of a stew makes me swallow something bitter. I cough, trying to clear my throat, my dark mind.

“Can we not have that old discussion today, of all days?” I ask. I focus on the farmland beginning to open up on either side of the road. We’re finally out of the reaches of the city, finally free from the responsibility, the shiny office buildings, bespoke suits and country clubs that that part of civilization values. I would miss golf if I had to live in the country, of course. And many other things. Country visits are for weekends, a touch-base with our more rural and simple selves. Not a place to live full-time. I hope we aren’t going to disagree this early in our country excursion.

Mia turns to me and I can hear her gentle, agreeable smile in her next words. “Of course, no fighting. This is our happy day, the start of a wonderful weekend. I just didn’t realize until this moment about strawberry seedlings and ‘daughter’ plants. I should have grown peppers.” Her voice is soft, a stealth dagger to my heart. This statement, the peppers, is a jab. Sure, we could have tried to get pregnant one more time, but I was convinced it would be another boy. We had two of those, perfect little specimens, each a miniature version of me, as they should be. I realize Mia would enjoy seeing a little version of herself walking around this world, following in her footsteps. But why tempt fate?

I glance at my wife. Did I see Mia wipe under her eye? No, I’m sure it must be an errant eyelash. This topic is almost as old as Sam, our youngest, who is six. We have been arguing, disagreeing let’s call it, over our phantom daughter—her name would have been Lilly, Mia had said over and over again—for six years. The whole thing is absurd. She should be counting her blessings, like her strawberry daughters at her beautiful lake house, for example. She should be thankful for everything she has, everything I’ve provided, not missing something, someone who never existed. I feel myself squeeze the steering wheel, watch my knuckles whiten.

“Or beans. Green beans. Those would be fun to grow,” I say in a concerted effort to play along. I have a passion for green beans and have since I was a child. I’ve learned not to question why. It’s just a fact, like the impossibly blue May sky or the brown-green fields stretched out for miles on either side of the car.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents took us to a fancy restaurant in town—this was long before their tragic accident, of course. Before everything changed. Just goes to show you, one thing can happen and poof, all bets are off.

People said it was an odd twist of fate, bad luck that both of my parents had decided to take a nap in the afternoon. Mom’s friends in the neighborhood told the police my mom hardly ever rested during the day. But she had Alzheimer’s, early stage, so things changed all the time. Bottom line was she did take a nap that day. My dad was slowing down in his old age even though he was stubborn and wouldn’t admit it. He napped daily. While my mom’s disease was progressing, she still functioned, still had more energy than he had. Sure, she forgot little things like her neighbor’s name, but until then she hadn’t forgotten big ones—like turning off the car when she had parked it in the garage, most notably.

But my dad always napped, from twelve thirty to two every afternoon. He’d pull out his hearing aids, put the golf channel on the television and commence his obnoxiously loud snoring. He sounded like an uncontrolled train screeching down the tracks. I can almost picture my mom returning from her errand, pulling the car into the garage and pushing the button to close the garage door. She’d walk inside the house, accidentally leaving the door connecting the garage to the house open, the car running. She would have heard my dad’s freight-train snores coming from the bedroom and for some reason, that afternoon, she’d decided to join him in bed. Maybe she had too much to eat at lunch that day and had a stomachache, maybe that’s why she decided to take a nap? The investigators found a bottle of Tums on her bedside table.

It comforts me to know they both slipped into death, like when you have anesthesia for a surgery. The nurse slides the IV in your arm and before you can count backward from ten, you’re out. But in their case, they never woke up. The silent killer, that’s what they call carbon monoxide. I made sure to install detectors in our house after it happened, even though only about four hundred people a year die from the colorless, odorless toxic gas. Still, you have to be cautious, consider every threat. Be one step ahead of everything, everyone. That’s how the universe is working these days.

But before the tragedy, back when I was a kid, my parents would sometimes take us to the fanciest restaurant in town. It would only be when my dad was in a good mood, when he got a bonus and hadn’t blown it yet on booze or whatever. We’d dress up in our little suits and ties, and Mom would beam and tell us we were the most handsome men ever and then we’d drive to The Old Clock Tower restaurant. All the staff would dote over my brother and me. That’s where I had my first taste of perfectly prepared green beans, sliced thin and painted with a buttery mustard sauce. I remember the beans glistening in the light from the candle on the table. I can still taste that first bite, the smile it put on my face. Those beans weren’t anything like the ones we had at home.

Mia and I don’t have a family restaurant we take the boys to on a regular basis. Not one with flickering candles and crisp white tablecloths at least. We manage to sit down together fairly regularly at the kitchen table. Never at the dining room table, not yet. The boys are too messy to be dining above our fine Tabriz rug. A gift from Mia’s parents, a souvenir from one of their exotic vacations, of course. I checked online one day. The rug is worth almost $70,000. So we stick to the kitchen for family meals, though neither Mia nor I would be considered a good cook, not by any stretch.

Sometimes I’ll help throw something together, but usually Mia is in charge of meals, truth be told. Obviously this makes sense: she is the housewife. I’m uncertain why, then, after all of our years together, she hasn’t grown and developed her cooking expertise. I know she’s invested in cookbooks, and cooking classes even, but still, her best efforts can only be awarded a C. Barely edible, actually, when compared to fine dining. The boys and I struggle through “Momma Mia’s Lasagna” every week on Italian Tuesdays. Every week, it’s soggy and almost tasteless. It’s a shame, really.

On the rare occasions when I’m in charge of mealtime, I like taking the boys to Panera. It’s not quite like going to McDonald’s or Wendy’s for dinner—although I’ve been known to do that, of course. Please don’t tell Mia, though. No, Panera is almost a sit-down establishment, a step above, say, a pizza joint or fast food. Sometimes I try to talk the boys into eating green beans there, you know, for tradition’s sake. They don’t have the taste for them, though. Mikey actually grabs his throat and makes choking, gagging sounds at me. He doesn’t eat anything that’s the color green, Mia says. She says he’ll come around, his taste buds will mature. In my day, those taste buds wouldn’t really have a choice, thanks to dear old dad. You ate what was served to you. But I love my kids. Those little guys. Despite the family resemblance, sometimes I like to wonder aloud if they’re mine, they’re so perfect.

“Green beans,” Mia echoes, pulling me from thoughts of parents and offspring and crumbs on expensive rugs. Her back is to me; she seems fixated, fully focused on the farmland rolling by the window. Even though I cannot see her face, I detect a tone in her voice, something that sounds like the feeling you get when you can’t understand a joke. Like you are the joke, like you are an idiot. Only someone you love can make you feel that way. “I can ask Buck if that’s possible, over the summer.” I notice she’s nodding, the landscape is rolling and the overall effect is dizzying. I turn my eyes back to the road.

Since when do we consult with good old Buck on all things garden-related? I wonder. And what else do Buck and Mia discuss: The weather, the pros and cons of fertilizer, our marriage? Soon the road will narrow, and it will be down to one lane, each direction. That’s when I’ll really need to pay attention. That’s when it gets dangerous. If you make a mistake, there is no forgiveness on a two-lane country road.

10:30 a.m.

2

This monotonous stretch of highway, the section between Columbus and, say, the big Pilot Travel Center where we typically stop for gas, is boring: flat, semigreen farmlands, and few sights out the window to feed your imagination. Usually when we hit this point in the journey, I start daydreaming about the destination, thinking about that first moment when I’ll see the lake again.

I know what you may be thinking: Is this guy really daydreaming about Lake Erie? Yes, I am. If you’ve never been you’re probably envisioning the dead lake of the late 1960s fed by the burning Cuyahoga River. By that point, Lake Erie had become a toxic dump thanks to the heavy industries lining its shore, the sewage flowing into it from Cleveland and the fertilizer and pesticide runoffs from agriculture. Dead fish littered its banks. This poor lake was the impetus for the Clean Water Act in 1972, thank goodness.

Or, more recently, you may have heard of the toxic algae blooms that turn the lake water into green goo that looks like the slime they spray on people during that teen awards show the boys like to watch. But that doesn’t happen all the time. Sure, there are invasive mussels and some nasty, dead-fish smells in the air sometimes. But mostly I find, if I sit on a bench near the lake and just listen to the water playing with the boulders along the shore, I feel at peace. It’s hard to explain, I suppose, to someone who has never seen a Lake Erie sunset. But they’re beautiful. And, if you don’t turn your head too far left or right, you can almost imagine you’re at the ocean. It’s almost possible to believe that you could start your life over again, just as the sun drops into the water. And then everything would be simple, just like the little lakefront community where our lake house is nestled under a big oak tree. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?

Our lake house is part of a special, gated community appropriately named Lakeside, a Chautauqua community started by Methodist preachers more than 140 years ago as a summer retreat for adult education and cultural enrichment, with a heavy dose of religion sprinkled in. Not that there’s anything wrong with religion, of course; it’s just that I didn’t grow up with it, and we’re not raising our kids in it. That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy the amenities these fine Christian souls have blessed the community with. Even an atheist like me can appreciate its many glories.

At one point or another, Presidents Ulysses S. Grant and Rutherford B. Hayes stayed at Lakeside. My wife likes to note that Eleanor Roosevelt stayed here, too. Mia quotes that woman a lot. I don’t. I find her to be too ugly—I mean, that face of hers is hideous. I could never wake up every morning to a face like that. But Mia doesn’t care about that. Says Eleanor Roosevelt inspires her to do one thing every day that scares her. I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea. I tell her seeing that woman coming at me in a dark alley would have scared me and Mia doesn’t laugh.

The point is, it’s a great little community, and it’s located on a peninsula, halfway between Toledo and Cleveland. But don’t think of those big, dirty cities that the weather maps have forgotten. Imagine instead a place right out of Mayberry RFD. Remember that TV show? No, I’m not old enough to have watched it, of course, but just think about Ron Howard and freckles and simpler times—that’s this place. Its wooden cottages were originally designed to use the lake as the only air conditioner. Now with global warming, most of them have central air.

There’s a little main street with a pizza parlor, a shop selling the best glazed, potato donuts in the world, T-shirt stores and the rest. We have a historic inn built in 1875 that sort of seems haunted to me, what with its old, uneven wood floors, squeaky screen doors and musty smell others might call charming but that gives me the creeps. The windows are too tall, too narrow in my opinion, like inside there is something to hide. The place was supposed to be bulldozed in the mid-1970s, half of its rooms as unusable as the lake was polluted. It was saved from demolition by a group of Lakeside residents and they’ve been sprucing it up, slowly, ever since. Good for them, although I doubt they ever actually stay there. But it is right on the lake and it’s what they call gracious.

My favorite spot in the whole community is the dock and the boathouse. It’s so all-American with its decorative Victorian scalloped roofline, its prime position in the heart of the place. I can just imagine the important visitors arriving by boat back in the day. I like the way I feel when I stand at the end of the dock. The backdrop complements me like a movie set: oh, look, there’s handsome, wealthy city-dweller Paul Strom enjoying a carefree day of leisure at his lakefront community. Very presidential.

Not sure any current-day presidents even make it to Cleveland, our distant neighbor to the east, let alone to our little haven by the lake. But that’s just fine with me. Enough people have discovered it already. When the boys were tiny, we’d come up once a summer and stay with the Boones, our neighbors two doors down back in Columbus. That lasted about three summers or so, and then we started to rent our own place. When we saw the Boones at the pizza parlor after, it wasn’t even that awkward. They’d moved on, invited other neighbors to take our place at their huge cottage. We weren’t able to buy a place of our own until last summer and when we did, it was a cottage on the very same street as Greg and Doris Boone’s stately second home. Not as big, of course. Ironically, though, because we’re up the street we’re on a higher lot so we look down over their property now. It was a dream come true, especially for Mia.

We like visiting Lakeside best just before and after season. Season is the ten weeks in the heart of the summer when the place is crazy packed with tourists and the gates are down. Even homeowners have to pay the stupid gate fees during the summer. That doesn’t make any sense to me, but it’s the way it is.

But, on the plus side—and today is a day for positivity, I remind myself—Lakeside is wonderful, especially during the relatively deserted off-season times like now. I remember our first trip up here, back when we were newly married, the Boones having invited my wife and me up to stay for the weekend. We were thrilled for a chance to leave baby Mikey at home with my parents and have a weekend on our own, just the two of us and some other young parents. It was the start of the good times at Lakeside, and it was all thanks to the Boones. We’d play card games, especially euchre. Drink too much, eat too much, and then the guys would smoke cigars on Greg Boone’s back porch while the women relaxed in oversize white wicker chairs with pink cushions on Doris Boone’s front porch and gossiped. We could hear them, laughing and making fun of things, probably us, from the back porch. Us guys all rolling our eyes; women will be women, you know.

If you ask me, I’d tell you I’m still not really sure what happened, why the Boones stopped inviting us up, but it doesn’t matter. We managed to take ourselves up here every summer, no invitation necessary, and rented great places all on our own. And now we actually own a cottage, perched on a grassy lot above the Boones’ place. If I sit on my screened-in porch at night, I’ve noticed I can even watch Greg on his back porch, with his male guests du jour, smoking all his smuggled-in Cuban cigars. But who needs lung cancer? Not me. No, I think it all worked out beautifully.

Like the Boones’, our primary residence is located in the highly coveted Grandville suburb of Columbus, the city’s nearest northwest suburb, and is approximately two hours south of Lake Erie. All of what we own in the world is in Ohio, in this politically decisive, coastally deprived state. I am a native, born in the suburb we are raising our family in. Don’t tell anyone, but it wasn’t considered upscale back then. No, Grandville has grown into its—well, grandness, to use an apt term—as the Ohio State University and Columbus grew in prominence and wealth. Before, Grandville was a community filled with butchers and factory workers and the like. Now it’s filled with country-club brats and men like me who don’t ever have calluses on their palms. It’s like my dad and me, actually. Callous versus refined. But as far as picking a place to call home, not only did the apple not fall far from the tree in my family, but our crab apple tree was actually started by a seed from the apple tree in the next yard over. Literally my parents had lived right next to us. Before the accident.

Yes, I bought the home next to my parents, even before I met Mia. I knew where I wanted to live, and when it became available, I was there. Life requires planning, don’t you agree? My wife had grown comfortable with the arrangement, though of course, like any new bride, initially Mia had her concerns. She wasn’t from here, so she didn’t understand how close family can help you out, how nice it would be for the kids to know their grandparents and be able to toddle over to their home. She came to appreciate the setup, after our home was whipped into shape. Naturally, I let Mia and her mom completely renovate the place. You wouldn’t even recognize it from my primitive man cave days. But that was all part of the plan. I provided the shell, a “fabulous 1931 masterpiece,” according to the Realtor’s brochures, “that just needs some TLC.” Mia and her parents provided the TLC and much more. Our wedding gift. As a thank-you, I presented Phyllis, Mia’s mom, with a vintage Italian Mosaic pillbox.

“This is fabulous, thank you. I’ll add it to the collection, next to the other one you gave me. You are just so thoughtful. And I don’t have any mosaics, how did you know that, Paul?” Phyllis’s bony arms had wrapped around my waist. I tried not to flinch.

“Just a lucky guess, Phyllis,” I managed, although of course I knew. I’d saved a photo Mia took of Phyllis’s collection, the little trophies displayed on a mirrored table in Phyllis’s dressing room. It’s very important to keep your mother-in-law on your side.

On mornings like this, before my parents died, we would have walked the boys across the green grass of our lawn and then over to the front walk of my mom and dad’s one-story house, depositing them for safekeeping for the weekend. My boys weren’t old enough yet to notice how small their grandparents’ home was, compared to the rest of the street. I’m just waiting for the new owners to smash it down, build a McMansion.

But anyway, back when the boys were little the smell of my mom’s famous chocolate chip cookies would have greeted us at the door and the comforting sound of cheers from fans at some sporting event would be blasting from the television set my dad turned up too loud. The rocking chair my mom had used to calm me as a child had been returned to the corner of my parents’ bedroom. The tub of wooden blocks I’d played with as a kid magically appeared in my parents’ family room as soon as Mikey was old enough to start creating forts.

Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Just as life should be for my privileged sons. Doting grandparents next door, a luxurious home to live in filled with pricey furnishings, a stay-at-home mom and a hardworking dad. My boys had it made. And they loved my parents, especially my mom. As for me, as long as my dad and mom both followed my rules everything was perfect. Family is family. Family first, and all that. If you aren’t needed, then fine, make other plans. But grandkids come first. They only violated that rule once, my parents. In my book, you always make time for your favorite son’s kids, no matter what. I’m sure you agree.

Of course, now that my parents are gone we rely on babysitters of varying skill levels. In retrospect, my parents, despite their age, probably would have done a better job of keeping my sons safe than the gangly teenagers we now employ and overpay.

My parents would have been a better choice for this weekend, for example, undoubtedly more effective than Claudia, who arrived this morning looking overwhelmed. Big dark circles hung below her wide eyes and her nails were bitten to the core. Maybe she’s on drugs, I think suddenly, wondering if I should ask Mia her opinion. Better not, though. She’d want to turn around and rescue the boys. We need this time together, this great day together. Claudia isn’t the only one who is overwhelmed; she just looks the most like it.

I’m pretty adept at covering my emotions. For instance, my wife always wonders if it bothers me, living next to the ghosts of my parents. She doesn’t put it that way, just says things like it’s odd seeing the new family painting the front door a different shade of brown. I think it’s odd they haven’t torn the thing down, but I don’t say that. Things like that, the little things, don’t get to me. Big things, those bother me, but still I might not show it. “Poker-face Paul,” my friends called me growing up. I’m proud of that. It has served me well in sales.

A natural born salesman, that’s me. I’m not bragging, not at all. I know, in fact, that many people don’t even like salespeople. They think we’re unsophisticated and lowbrow, no matter what we sell. Me, I don’t care, not as long as I’m making the big money. And I have. It has been a great ride. Even Mia, when we first met, may have considered herself above me. She was a copywriter on the creative team and I was just a client services guy. Now she knows what’s what. It didn’t take long for me to teach her how the world works.

“Paul, I need to use the bathroom,” Mia announces, closing the magazine on her lap as if she could just pop out of the vehicle and relieve herself along the side of I-71.

“Oh, okay, I’ll pull off at the next exit and try to find someplace acceptable,” I say. The facilities on this road are subpar at best.

“Make sure it looks clean,” she adds as if I have X-ray vision capabilities. Typically, we do not take bathroom breaks on the drive to the lake house. The boys know this, Mia knows this. But in her weakened state, and on this, the best day ever, I will make an exception without shaming her. I’m in a loving, flexible mood.

“Right. Gas station or fast food? Your choice,” I offer. I’m not about to be blamed for choosing the wrong bathroom for her. This I say with warmth in my voice although I do not want to stop at all.

“I’ll let you know when we see the options,” she says, reopening the magazine. I’ll let it go, my disdain for the fact that she isn’t more appreciative of my willingness to stop for her. I glance at her, engrossed in the meaningless celebrity drivel opened on her lap.

She should stop reading that trash.

“You know that magazine is all gossip. The stories about celebrities are completely made up. Nobody is as happy or as sad as they make it seem in there. Life is lived in the middle. In middle America, like here, in the middle of nowhere, like now, and in the middle of life, like us,” I say. I’m feeling poetic today, although I don’t believe for a moment that I am normal, or in the middle of anything.

“Paul, I’ve never heard you call yourself middle-aged.” I think Mia is teasing me but there is an edge in her voice.

“I’m not,” I say. “All those guys are older than me in there. They get airbrushed. If you saw them on the street, you’d be disgusted at how old they are. It’s not real. That’s all.” I’m tired of this subject. I’ve never been a gossiper, or a reader of tabloid magazines, of course, but I know how the world works. People are always talking. Heck, a few years ago Mia heard from somebody back home that people think we aren’t happy. And just recently, the rumor has something to do with me flirting with a saleswoman at the mall. Ridiculous. I hate malls. As a rule, I shop at boutiques or online. Not that the gossips care to take a little thing like facts into account.

Anyway, back when the first wave of rumors started a few years ago, Mia launched what she called the “rebranding” effort on Facebook, posting photos of the two of us in various places, laughing and smiling together. Some of the shots are really old, but as long as I look good, I’m fine with it. She says it has worked, because she hasn’t heard the rumors anymore. I don’t tell her I have, and I certainly don’t mention the mall rumor, because she’d ask me when and where, who and in what context and I wouldn’t be able to tell her that, of course. I’m not a gossip.

I glance over and see my wife is reading an article about one of the late-night television hosts. Now, that’s a job I could nail. I mean, sitting behind a desk, talking with famous people about nothing but fluff and getting paid like a king. I don’t even know how you get a gig like that. As I look a bit closer, I realize the guy in the magazine looks a lot like Buck, our neighbor at the lake. Kind of a refined look, I guess you’d say. Lean but muscular build, dark brown eyes, a strong, manly jaw. It’s the type of look you see in New York, on Wall Street, or on television, not something you see around here. That’s what makes it odd that Buck lives at the lake year-round. Hardly anybody does because it’s cold and miserable in the off-season and nobody else is around. It’s like he’s a spy and he’s hiding from something or someone, that’s what I think.

He seems successful, though. I heard through the grapevine that he sold his big home somewhere in Connecticut when his wife died, and now he’s here “regrouping,” whatever that means. The woman who told me doesn’t know much, though she’s the designated neighborhood gossip for our block up at the lake. Every street has one. She’s just not very good at her job. Google knows a lot more about Buck than she does. And that’s not much.

“McDonald’s or BP?” I say as I pull to a stop at the stop sign. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The town of Kilbourne is several miles west down Route 521. A right turn will take us to a McDonald’s, a left is the gas station. And as far as I can see, there is nothing else.

“McDonald’s,” Mia says with that tone of disgust she uses for all things—people and situations—that are below her. Recently, Mia has become a firm anti-GMO, anti-fast-food mom. She was leaning that way before her recent illness, but now she’s militant. I applaud her for the herculean effort it takes to say no to two boys who will, as soon as they are old enough to hang out with friends at malls or go to the movies alone, be the first ones in line at every fast-food restaurant in town, stuffing themselves with all things nonorganic and fried. I also have pointed out, at least once each year as we drive to the lake, the fields as far as the eye can see of Monsanto Roundup Ready corn and soy proudly framing the highway. It’s almost un-Ohioan, Mia’s stance on the issue.

We should embrace what we are, don’t you think? We’re a no-till farming, profracking, pro-GMO, pro-Monsanto state. It’s our heritage, I tell her. Did you know Columbus is a fast-food mecca? It’s true. We are the test market for most major fast-food chains. Us folks are the definition of America. We are the barometers of taste, at least the kind of taste that comes when you can buy an entire “meal” for under a dollar. We’re the hometown of Wendy’s and White Castle and of several others like Rax that have come and gone. Remember Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips? Yep, that started in Columbus, too, thanks to Wendy’s Dave Thomas, who made his fortune as a Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken franchisee. Makes me hungry just thinking about that battered British fish. Not that I regularly partake in any of these low-class foods myself. When I do it’s just a guilty pleasure. Everyone has his occasional vice.

“Do you want anything?” Mia asks, her hand already opening the door.

“Fries?” I ask, just to get a reaction. It works.

“Honestly, Paul? I meant do you want water or coffee or something. You know how I feel about this so-called food. A poor diet leads to a shorter life, all the studies agree. I’ve been reading a lot about this, remember? I’m trying to get healthy and it wouldn’t kill you to work on that, yourself.” She leans forward and points her finger at me like I’m a child. I feel her eyes on my stomach. I suck in.

The magazine ruffles in the wind from the open door and the blonde female singer on the cover looks as if she’s waving to me. She’s cute, I notice. I reach out and smooth the cover with my hand, touching the cool, glossy paper.

My wife softens her tone. “I’ll get you a water. Hydration is key to health,” she adds and then slams the car door before I can reply. I watch her walk away. From behind, she looks like the same woman I married a decade ago. Her hair still swings halfway down her back. Her butt is small and firm and perfectly toned. She looks very much the same, but she’s not. Not at all. None of us really stay the same, though, do we?

My transformation is more apparent, I realize, as I look down at my middle-aged, small beer belly and sigh. It’s comprised of something called internal fat, I’ve discovered, a fat that appears suddenly, like an army of ghosts, and then digs in to stay. It’s distasteful to think that fat isn’t just sitting in a layer on top of my belly, like I’d imagined, but is actually tucked in beside all of my organs, oozing around them like it’s a part of the whole, not an addition to the top. It’s in the ice cream, it’s not the cherry. Basically, they can’t liposuction it off and they can’t freeze it away. The only way I can shed this thing is through hard work—less food, more exercise.

I plan to tackle this unwanted midsection addition soon. It’s next on my list. I’ll eliminate it as I do anything I set my mind on. It’s just a matter of willpower and mental fortitude. I’ve got those, don’t worry. When I suck in my stomach, as I did for Mia, it doesn’t follow my command, not nearly enough. I’m on it, soon.

Unlike me, in the last six months or so, Mia has really thinned out. She’s shed the baby fat even though I swear she eats more, and more often, than I do. And though she looks fit, she’s also a bit worried about the weight loss. I tell her that’s crazy, most middle-aged women would die to have their weight melting away despite eating anything they like. And she looks good. She took up jogging a year or so ago, but cut back on that. Just doesn’t have the stamina these days. Mostly, she uses the free weights in our basement. Sometimes she’ll still walk around our block, if she has the energy.

Maybe she’s so thin because she stopped eating meat—excuse me, “animal protein.” That could be, but I attribute it more to stress; you know how parenting can take a toll on your intestines sometimes. Worry ties your system up in knots, or so I hear, not being prone to worry myself. They checked for ulcers, but she didn’t have any. Just a mystery, I guess.

She even went to this one doctor who had her hold different vitamins and minerals in her hand, and then pushed on her arm. I mean really? What does that do? Spend your money is what. Mia came home with hundreds of dollars’ worth of herbal treatments. None of it has helped, of course. She’s big on drinking water now, too. Staying hydrated. She tries to drink only from glass bottles. Good luck with that here, honey.

Mia has pulled her hair into a ponytail, I notice. I can see her standing at the counter, placing her order. The other thing I see is the other customers, the men, checking her out. Yes, guys, she still has it, I confirm with a nod to myself while watching them all watch her. She is walking toward the car now, a plastic water bottle in each hand and a big tooth-whitened smile eclipsing her face. She was voted best smile in high school, and it’s still there, that smile. Although it’s bigger now, I suppose. Our gums recede with age, making all of us long of tooth, and Mia especially. But don’t get me wrong, only I would notice such a thing. Her bright blue cotton sweater, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes make her stand apart from the rest of the people going in and out of the McDonald’s parking lot. Everyone else seems more muted, a black, gray and navy composite of people dressed for business, farming or trucking. It’s an eclectic yet monochromatic bunch this morning, except for my wife and her bright blue.

Mia pulls open the car door and slips inside. “Good choice. Cleanish bathroom. Short line. Here’s your water,” she says as she hands me the cold bottle. The plastic is cheap and crackles in my hands. It’s the type of water bottle that will spill out half its contents when I open it, I know it is. The bottle will have a label explaining why this cheap, shitty plastic is better for the environment than any other, more sturdy plastic. I know it’s just cheaper. I also know I should have gotten out of the car to open the bottle. I should have gotten out, just to stretch. Perhaps I should have gotten out of the car and opened the door for my wife. I’ll do that when we stop for gas in a little while. We have all day and she could use a reminder that chivalry is alive and well thanks to Paul Strom.

“So you think Taylor Swift is cute, huh?” Mia asks as I pull out of the McDonald’s parking lot.

“Who?” I ask. I know who the pop starlet is, everyone does. I even like her song, “The Story of Us.” But why would my wife ask such a random question?

“I saw you checking out the cover.” Mia holds up the gossip magazine while tilting her head. Her eyes are shining as if she has caught me drinking milk out of the jug. I love drinking milk out of the jug, but alas, if my wife catches me, it’s that same disappointed, shiny-eyed look I receive. Usually, she adds a hand on the hip, but that’s hard to execute in the front seat of a Ford Flex.

“Why would I check out some magazine when I could be checking out my beautiful wife?” I protest, pushing the accelerator hard to merge back onto the highway. I’m glad they finally finished the fifty-million-dollar project to widen this freeway to three lanes on either side. I slide back into the flow of traffic without a problem. They have spent more than a billion dollars on this road since it opened in the 1960s. What I would do for a billion dollars. Taylor Swift has a billion dollars, I’m sure. “She’s a very talented young woman, but I had no idea that was her on the cover. They all look the same with the makeup and airbrushing and all.”

“You’ve got a point there,” she says. She has opened the magazine on her lap, to a different story now I see. She twists open her bottle of water and, as I could have predicted, spills a fourth of it on the magazine. “Darn it.”

How adorable. Mia’s ban on swearing in front of the boys has resulted in this childlike response from my wife, even though the kids aren’t around. I should tell her to express herself freely in my company.

Before I can think to stop her, she has popped open the glove compartment and she’s rummaging around in it. “I don’t have any napkins in there,” I say quickly. I feel my palms begin to perspire. I check myself in the rearview mirror and notice my forehead is shiny, suddenly damp. It’s so hard to keep secrets these days. People can find out anything, ruin all kinds of plans. Sometimes, all it takes is just opening the wrong door. “Just close that back up. Here...” I know my voice sounds terse but I can’t help it. I reach into the back seat to grab my gray cotton sweater, and toss it into her lap. “Use this.” My voice has returned to its normal tone. That pleases me.

“You’re acting weird,” she says, instead of thanks. I’m going to let it go, though. She doesn’t know I have a surprise hidden in there, part of our special day. I can’t tell her that so I say nothing as she mops up the magazine with my sweater. She could have simply ripped out those two pages. Maybe there is someone important in there. All I see is another guy with a two-day beard, sparkling brown eyes and a thick head of hair. Another Buck look-alike. There really aren’t any men in her magazine that look like me, not now anyway. Actually, that’s not quite true. I could give George Clooney a run for his money, and I’m taller, too. When I was younger, watch out world. I would have been on the cover, you know, Sexiest Man Alive, if I had wanted to be. But I hate all that celebrity garbage, as I told you.

“I’m going to call Claudia. Can I use your phone so it’s on Bluetooth? I want her to have the boys call us after school, just to check in,” Mia says. We have been gone for about an hour so far. This is ridiculous.

“We haven’t been driving for that long. The boys are at school, and I guarantee you they’re having too much fun with their teachers and their little friends to spare us a thought. We can call them this afternoon. We don’t need to talk to Claudia.” Sometimes my wife acts like the kids are still babies in playpens. That bugs me; them, too. They’re big guys, both in elementary school. They’ll be men before we know it. My parents started treating me and my brother, Tom, like grown-ups as soon as we started school. Dad wanted us to toughen up, fend for ourselves, especially me since I was older. Ah, the good old days. Speaking of Tom, I wonder if I should tell Mia that I think Claudia is on drugs, but decide not to rev her up further. “You need to relax, let go a little.” I pat her thigh for reassurance.

I feel her eyes on me. “I know. But the thing is, they’re my life. You encouraged me, begged me, not to work outside the home, so I quit my job at the ad agency, the job I loved, and built my whole world around the kids. They just don’t need me so much now that they’re in school most of the day.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes shiny but this time it’s because they are filling with tears.

“You raised them well. Now it’s time for them to learn independence so they can tackle the world. Boys pulling away from their mommy is natural. It’s how they become young men,” I say. “You still baby them too much. But that’s part of what makes you a great mom, the kind of mom I knew you would be when we first discussed your staying home. Don’t cry, honey.” Honey, such an interesting word to apply to a person. I guess she is dripping, sappy, syrupy, her tears like actual honey drizzling from a spoon. “This is our weekend. The boys are fine.” With their druggie babysitter, I don’t add.

I flash Mia my biggest rectangle grin, adding my signature wink, the account-winning combination. It’s the smile that launched a thousand new accounts for the advertising agency—until it didn’t. I swallow, holding the smile to reassure Mia that this is a joyful day filled with fun. “This isn’t a day for tears,” I tell her softly. I am a kind, loving husband. I understand her pain, I do. “This is our special day, a day for reflection and for being thankful for everything we created. A day to enjoy being together.”

“Of course,” she says, taking a big drink of water from the crinkly plastic bottle. Hypocrite. She reads my mind, a wifely skill I can’t say I’m overly fond of, and says, “They didn’t have any glass bottles, Paul. I need to start grabbing my glass water bottles for road trips. I don’t even know if I have any at the lake.”

“I don’t think you realized the peril of plastic water bottles last season,” I comment mildly, and now she smiles.

“Well, you know I’m right,” she says.

“Every woman’s favorite phrase,” I tease. We’re back to happy ground, I notice. She’s even tapping her right thumb on the bedraggled magazine, keeping time to one of our favorite songs, “Still the One.”

Until.

“So how is Caroline doing? Still flirting with you?”

I take a deep breath and squeeze the steering wheel.

11:00 a.m.

3

I check my expression in the rearview mirror, forcing my face into a blasé look of nonchalance: mouth relaxed, shoulders down. Poker-face Paul. I inhale a deep breath. I’ve got this, I do, but then I feel the heat on my cheeks. I pretend to check the driver’s side mirror.

“Caroline?” I ask, stalling for a moment as a shiny silver frame holding a photo of a smiling young couple thuds into my awareness. I shake my head, erasing it. My brain has enough to do. I must recollect everything I’ve uttered to my wife about Caroline, and the Thompson Payne office in general over the past few months. Then, like for one of Sam’s first grade projects, I must sort what has been said into one pile and what hasn’t been into another. This is an important exercise, best done on my terms, not hers. Too late for that, though.

“Your jaw is twitching,” Mia says.

It’s true. I unclench my jaw, sliding it back and forth. I take a deep breath and force a smile. This is disappointing, her observation of me. My skills are slipping. Not so poker-faced, after all, these days. I glance at my wife, who is smiling, presumably at my discomfort with this topic.

She adds, “So Caroline is still bothering you, huh?”

“No, not anymore,” I say, speaking slowly to find the right words. “She’s young. It’s her first job. She just didn’t know what is appropriate and what isn’t, that’s all.”

“Everyone knows it’s inappropriate to call your boss at home at midnight,” Mia says. “Especially when you’ve been drinking.”

“She was upset, Mia. I explained all of that.” I check the side mirror and pass the stupid green Honda traveling at a snail’s pace in front of us. It’s almost time for the two-lane road, so I need to get this menace far behind me. “Her father died. She didn’t know where else to turn.”

Mia gives me the look that says she doesn’t believe me, still. “So you turned her in to HR, but she’s still working at Thompson Payne?” she asks, her fingers drumming on the car door handle. I maneuver the car back into the right lane.

“We don’t fire people who need help, Mia. That’s why we have human resources. It’s their job to explain policies and help make people better employees.” I feel my eyes narrowing. I do not like this topic. Just the fact that I had to speak of human resources brings an unpleasant event to mind. I shake off the remembered smell of Miracle-Gro and old cat.

Mia isn’t backing off. “And we suggest these people who need help, people like Caroline who we have turned in to HR, to our wives as appropriate babysitters, do we? As part of some employee rehabilitation program?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, honey. We were in a pinch, you and me, remember? And that was ages ago. I’m not sure why you’d bring it up today of all days,” I say. I feel my jaw begin to clench again and rub the back of my neck with my left hand. I’d rather be talking about the strawberry daughters. I feel like I’m being squeezed too hard, and all the air is gone.

“Right,” Mia says. “Best day ever, I know. I’ll drop it. She still bothers me, though.”

“Honey, I never even see her at the office.” This is the absolute truth. I feel my jaw calming down as if someone released the vise around my head, relaxed the grip around my chest. Good old Thompson Payne. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my life at those gleaming suburban offices. Much of my job has been to make sure everyone looks good to potential clients. Are the women wearing heels and short skirts? Are the guys clean-shaven and friendly, nonthreatening but cool? Advertising agencies are all about the sizzle, all about appearance instead of reality. Making a good first impression. And that’s why yours truly was a perfect fit for director of client services. I am like the man in the top hat at the three-ring circus that is an advertising agency. I am the person running the show, communicating with overbearing clients and the crazy creative team attempting to serve them. Running interference between the staff and the partners who are never satisfied even with our vast successes. Do they think it just runs itself? Without me, everything falls apart, as they have no doubt discovered.

When John Larson left three years ago, an exit I’ll admit I had a hand in, I transitioned into his role with ease. And I learned from his mistake. He had trusted me, made me into his number two. I make sure I never elevate any of the account executives reporting to me. They are all equal in my eyes. In fact, I make certain they feel equally unstable, that their jobs are at risk all the time. That keeps me in control. I don’t have a right-hand man. Don’t need one. Never have. I know what you’re thinking, for a sales guy I sound like a loner. The irony is that I do prefer to be alone, most of the time. People in general, employees in particular, can be more trouble than they’re worth. Just ask good old John.

“Have you heard from John?” Mia asks, reading my mind for the second time today. I mentioned, didn’t I, what I think of that particular talent? I turn to look at her but her face is calm, almost friendly, indicating the topic of Caroline is behind us, for now.

“No, not at all. Why the sudden interest in Thompson Payne, past and present?” We’ve arrived at the turnoff for the two-lane road. Once I exit the highway, I’ll turn left, passing one of the iconic old barns that was painted white for the Ohio bicentennial. I worked on that campaign for the state, back when I was a lowly account executive. It was a good campaign. Full of government-funded perks like fancy meals at the taxpayers’ expense, and a lot of time spent driving around and identifying old barns across the state. Perfect for me. A lot of alone time.

“Oh, well, I actually ran into John recently, at Whole Foods of all places. He’s a vegetarian now and he looks really great. He’s lost the beer belly,” she tells me.

I’m making the turn onto the two-lane road as she says this, and I cannot take my eyes off the road to stare at her. I sense, however, that something is up. The tone of her voice has changed. It’s thin. It’s hiding something. The air sizzles between us. How long ago did she run into John? I wonder. How much did they talk, do they talk?

She adds, “He looks great. Says leaving Thompson Payne was the best thing for him. He started his own advertising agency, did you know that?”

Interesting. His noncompete must be up. He won’t be a real threat to Thompson Payne for years, I know. He’ll start by knocking off the small clients who don’t get serious attention from the big guys like Thompson Payne, and then he’ll work his way up the client food chain. It will be a decade or more before he reclaims his status, flying to New York or LA for commercial shoots. I pity him, poor man.

“Good for him,” I say. I do wish him well, of course. Nice guy, actually. He was simply in the way.

I hear my wife take a deep breath, an annoying sound, but I’m focusing on my barn. We’re passing it now, two red silos behind it, green fields, no doubt Roundup Ready soybean, for as far as you can see behind it. Everything here is as it should be, orderly, symmetrical and productive. A beautiful farm. Perfection through pesticides and genetic modification. If only people were so easily controlled. Mia is droning on about John.

“After we ran into each other, he invited me to tour his agency. He even asked if I’d consider doing some project work for him, you know, copywriting and some press releases. Just something part-time since, as you said, the boys are in school all day and don’t really need me anymore. Or as much, I should say.”

This road is dangerous. I need to use my full attention to navigate. She knows this, and that’s why she dropped this bomb during this stretch of the drive. I glance over and see her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, her ring sparkling like the edge of a knife when the light hits it just right. I have been holding my breath, I realize, and I let it out with a sigh.

Mia cannot get back into the advertising business—now is not the time. “No, that won’t work,” I say. I know my tone is firm, my voice deep and powerful. My stage voice, that’s what I think of it as. When I was young, in high school, I loved performing in the school plays. Mrs. Belt, my drama teacher, said I had serious acting chops; she thought I would be a star someday. I guess I could have been. I had the looks, the talent. The road not taken, I suppose. “The kids do need you, honey. They’re just acting as if they don’t.”

“I’ve decided I’m going to take him up on his offer. I’ll work from home while the boys are at school,” she says. Defiance is making her voice shake. “I need to exercise my brain again. I almost didn’t tell you, but we’re having such a nice drive, and it’s a beautiful day. It seemed like the perfect moment. Don’t let this bother you, okay?”

I don’t say a word, a silent protest. Inside I feel heat, a flame igniting. We cannot ever predict what our supposed partner is really up to, can we? Even the best of plans can be ruined. That is why I must stay nimble, attempt flexibility. Not my strong suit. I’ll remain calm and later I’ll squash this foolish notion of Mia’s like a cockroach. I’m sure she doesn’t really mean this, that’s why her voice shakes. She’s in unfamiliar territory. This boldness is not like her. And I don’t like it, not at all.

My wife clears her throat, and says, “John told me there’s so much change in the advertising industry in town. He’s heard all kinds of crazy things.”

She pats my leg then and I almost jump. A chill runs through me and I grip the wheel. This is a challenge, I know it, but how and when did Mia become so confident? Where did she come from, this new Mia? And what, exactly, does she know?

11:30 a.m.

4

Mia’s phone rings and she takes the call. From her end of the conversation, I know it is Claudia. They are talking weekend plans for the boys, I am sure. I tune her out and I take a moment to breathe.

If she already knows the truth, then why isn’t she just coming out and asking me about it, demanding the information? This new, confident Mia certainly seems like she would just blurt it out. This is a surprising development, a stronger Mia. This is not my typical Mia—I know my wife. Therefore, she’s poking around the edges of things she doesn’t quite understand, things John Larson couldn’t possibly know about. She must have a few facts, and they’ve emboldened her. They know nothing. My wife knows what I tell her, nothing more. I take a deep breath and remind myself to relax. Everything is fine. John Larson will not be able to turn my wife against me, no matter how much he dislikes me.

To be fair, John has every reason to hold a grudge. I’ll admit it now. I set him up for his fall. He was once my mentor at the advertising agency, as I explained. He hired me during one of the most trying times of my life, when I’d just arrived back in town from Nashville. He believed in me, all those years ago. And I respected him, too. He was also the one who introduced me to Mia.

I smile at the memory of our first meeting, Mia Pilmer sitting at the glass-topped conference room table, her blond hair shining, her eyes bright and smart. Her long legs accentuated by a tight short black skirt. You could appreciate everything through that glass top, and there was a lot to appreciate with Mia back then. John had told me Mia was the best copywriter on the creative team, surprisingly one of the best he’d ever read, even though she was just out of college and so very young. Eventual creative director and perhaps even partner material, he had said. Thompson Payne and Pilmer it would be someday, John predicted. She was a product of New York University, at least a decade my junior, and from a wealthy New York City family. She was smart, beautiful, pure. The minute I took the chair next to hers, accidentally on purpose bumping my thigh against her leg under the conference table, I knew she was the one. I could feel the electricity zipping between us, drawing us together for all time.

Mia felt the physical attraction, too. I saw her blush as she shyly turned away from me at the conference table. Her mind, on the other hand, took some convincing. It was a sales job, one might say.

John, though, he and I hit it off right from the start. I guess the problem was simply this: at some point, we both knew I was the right man for his job. But he wasn’t going anywhere. The partners weren’t going to make him a partner, there would be no & Larson stenciled on the glass wall, they told him. So he was stuck, poor John. Eventually, I needed to help him move on. I was happy to be of service.

“Claudia says the credit card doesn’t work,” Mia says now, shaking her head at me and covering the phone. “What is she supposed to use to buy groceries? She had to leave the bags at the customer service desk at Kroger. Told them she’d be back to pay. This is embarrassing, Paul.”

“Just tell her to use her credit card and I’ll pay her when we get back,” I say. I am a logical problem solver.

“Paul, she’s a college student. We can’t ask her to do that.” The muscles on the side of her neck are taut, like rubber bands about to snap. I am wearing my calm, reasonable poker face again. Of course I knew the card wouldn’t work, but Mia is understandably surprised. I hope she keeps her head on. I cannot stand it when Mia starts whining and worrying. It’s beneath her, beneath us.

“When we get to the lake, I’ll transfer money to the card. It will work by this afternoon. Okay?” It is my turn to pat her leg. She ignores the gesture and conveys the message to the overtired Claudia. I watch as she presses End on her phone with an overt display of melodramatic disgust. Really? She’s acting like a child. It’s only groceries. Big deal. It’s not like the boys will starve. Our pantry is full of perfectly fine food. We have frozen organic macaroni and cheese lining the freezer. This is ridiculous. Neither the boys nor Mia understand what it feels like to be hungry, to be deprived: to open the door to an empty refrigerator, an empty pantry. So what if they don’t have their first choice of snacks for the weekend?

“Paul, honestly. That’s the only thing I asked you to do to get ready for the whole weekend. Leave enough cash, or enough credit at least, for the weekend. This is unacceptable,” she says. She is rubbing the back of her neck, trying to loosen the rubber bands, I presume. I imagine her shoulders knotted with worry. It’s sad, really, how the little things can get to her so easily. It’s not uncommon lately. She’s filled with anxiety these days, it seems. She’s worried about the boys, about her health, the gutters getting cleaned, the recycling being taken out, about, well everything. Wouldn’t it be ironic if all this worry is the cause of the weight loss? I’ve told her that’s my theory.

Nothing I can say will make the situation better, so instead I turn up the music as Amy Winehouse belts out “You Know I’m No Good.” I love this song, this whole playlist, and I know Mia does, too. Next up, Dinah Washington’s “Cold, Cold Heart.”

“Can we switch to the radio?” Mia asks. And then before I can answer, a static-ridden local station bursts into my ears, a country crooner hurting my psyche. No matter how often I explain to Mia that jazz is the highest musical form and country the lowest, still she tortures me.

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as this stupid hick song fills the car. I’ll bear it, though. We’re in the middle of nowhere, about thirty minutes from the bakery where we’ll stop and check for croissants. It would be so wonderful if the universe leaves me some croissants today. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. I need Mia to relax and back off on the questioning. Perhaps baked goods will help. I’ll suggest she eat a croissant or two rather than saving them all for breakfast. There’s something to be said for instant gratification every once in a while. And then if she’s happy, she’ll turn my music back on.

I can’t stop myself. I reach for the radio, punch some buttons; this whining country music is all I can tune in. This will please Mia as she is a country music fan. I had my fill of it when I lived in Nashville, thank you very much. Right about now I’m wondering why I discontinued the Sirius radio subscription in the Flex, a bad move when it comes to the middle of nowhere. Now I’m at the mercy of whatever station comes into range unless Mia switches back to my lovingly made playlist. A shame, really.

The country singer is the only one making a sound. The silence between us is thudding in my head. I didn’t want today to be like this. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to apologize. The road is clear ahead, and I haven’t had to pass anyone for miles.

“Hey, Mia. I’m sorry,” I say. “That was my fault. I’ll fix it, pay off the card as soon as we get to the cottage. Claudia will be able to use it this afternoon, pick up the groceries. All’s well. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy the music. Everything is going to be fine.”

Mia has pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She looks over at me with squinted eyes, probably a defense against the bright sunlight. She is staring at me like you would a spider making a web at your doorway, with both amazement and fear.

“What?” I say, not liking the look in her eyes. She usually gazes at me with such confidence, such love. Something has shattered that; someone or something has changed her opinion of me, I realize. How did this happen and when? I knew things were going to change, had to change as a matter of fact. I have a plan to handle it, of course.

Right at this moment I wonder what Mia sees in me. Does she still see the sophisticated older man of the world she pledged to love, honor and obey a decade ago? Does she still feel my experienced touch, does she remember everything I taught her about sex, about love? Does she still appreciate my encyclopedic knowledge of fine food and wine, does she dream of traveling with me to the exotic places I tell her I’ve visited? It’s too bad we didn’t make time to travel a bit, but the boys came along so quickly and, well, her place was in the home. I am no longer sure what she is thinking when she looks at me, not at all. But more than what she sees in me, it’s what I see in her that I do not appreciate. I shake my head. This was supposed to be the best day, and it’s deteriorating, decaying like the memories of childhood. You still have a sense of what it was like to be a kid, but the feeling of jumping into a swimming pool on a carefree summer day has faded. And you can never get that back.

Mia pulls her sunglasses back down and covers the squint. She folds her arms across her chest and says, “We’re almost to the bakery. Do you have money for croissants?”

Noon

5

The bakery is closed. Croissants sold out. Even from far away, I can tell Mia is fuming, her hands in fists on her hips, but as she turns back toward the car she forces a smile on her face. She’ll get over it, I remind myself. After I suffer through half an hour of hick country music for the remainder of the drive to the cottage, we’ll be back to being cordial again as we drive through the gates of Lakeside. She is happy there. Once we have arrived, she’ll forgive me for our late start. As we unpack, I will play some jazz, a far superior song structure than this simplistic insult to music blaring through the car radio at present. All will be well once we arrive. Marriage: it’s a give-and-take. One day, I get my way, the next, I do something nice for my wife. It’s how it goes. I reach deep into my patience well and find it’s almost dry. Almost.

It’s never ideal when I run totally dry, trust me. Plenty of people in my past found that out the hard way. But I’m more mature now, I don’t let myself get that depleted. I know how to soothe myself, I know what, and who, I need. And I usually get what I want. I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.

The good news with the detour to this strip mall in the town of Port Clinton is that I am at last getting to stretch my legs. When I finally parked the car and we climbed out, I realized my back was seizing up on me. I ignore this old-man type of physical pain, just as I ignore cashiers and parking lot attendants. They are all a bother, beneath my wasting a breath or thought on.

The fresh air feels good, crisp and clean. Although you can’t see the lake from here, you can feel the water’s presence like you do when it’s about to rain. There’s just something in the air that’s thicker, moist and heavy, like a humidifier on a dry winter’s night. There are cars towing boat trailers parked near us. Bumper stickers proudly proclaim the town as the Walleye Capital of the World, although I read they lost that distinction lately. Life: it’s transitory. And in life, there are always winners and losers. It’s nice to be a winner.

“How about getting some ice cream, honey?” I say as Mia returns with a frown on her face. She wanted to make certain the bakery was closed by walking across the parking lot, even though we could plainly see from here that nobody was inside and there were chairs on the tables. I guess she likes torturing herself, pressing her nose against the front window of the darkened shop, like a puppy hoping to get adopted at the shelter. Just like most of those puppies, the odds weren’t in her favor. She lost.

“We missed them by fifteen minutes. They close at 11:30,” she says. I don’t correct her and point out that it’s actually already noon. “I don’t feel like ice cream right now.”

“Not even Toft’s?” It’s a famous ice cream parlor from Ohio’s oldest dairy. I smile thinking about the bright blue Toft’s sign, the ridiculous sculpture of a cow wearing sunglasses inside a white wooden pen in the parking lot, the smell of vanilla beans and strawberries when you step inside the door. We have spent many an afternoon on the outside patio with the boys, ice cream dripping onto the round blue tables while they tried to lick every drop before it melted. My mouth is watering just thinking about a scoop of Java Chip. In a bowl, not a cone. With bowls, you’re always in control.

“Not even Toft’s. Besides, dairy is bad for you, you know that. It’s mucus. Perfect for baby cows but that’s all,” Mia says, opening the door to the Flex. If the car hadn’t been between us, I know she would have shot a glance at my belly. I hate that. “I would like a salad or something, though. Do you think the restaurants are open in Lakeside?”

Our eyes meet across the top of the Flex. She looks small, and no longer as angry. I feel like a large disappointment. I hate that feeling. She is waiting for an answer. I am preparing for country music mush through the speakers as my penance.

“Yes, I checked. Everything is open. We can eat in Lakeside,” I say with gusto. I’m suddenly very hungry, and I hope food will fix the hollow feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sort of craving Sloopy’s pepperoni pizza about now.” I open the car door and slide back behind the steering wheel.

“Pizza is a terrible choice, Paul.” Mia clicks her seat belt into place. I see her look at my stomach as she adds, “Processed meat, dairy—well, whatever. It’s your life.”

“They have salads, too,” I say. I know I sound defensive. I just can’t have her ruin my favorite pizza joint, too. I give her the freedom to eat as she pleases, so I deserve the same respect, don’t I? She gets to eat and do whatever she wants all day long, and all I ask for is just that: respect. “You are ruining food for me.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says. She thinks it’s funny. She finds another of her favorite country music stations and turns the sound up. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch the button to start the playlist, our playlist with the Police’s “Every Breath You Take” up next. That is the music we should be listening to instead of this. I keep both hands on the wheel but it takes willpower. Marriage, I remind myself again, is a give or take. I’ll give now, so I can take charge later. We’re so close to Lakeside. I can handle this.

Now I know who this new Mia is reminding me of: working girl Mia. The woman I met at Thompson Payne in the conference room. Confident. Sharp. Later, once we’d begun dating, she told me she’d never been in love before me, not really. And I told her what I told you: I knew we were perfect for each other from the moment we met. As long as she could become the wife I was looking for, of course.

She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met back then. Physical perfection she’s retained to this day, with the exception of the baby fat years, as I’ve noted. I poured on the Paul Strom charm, asking her to dinner that very afternoon. John had told me the company policy, of course. But no one paid any attention to policy like that, especially when it involved agency superstars like I knew I would become. I dropped by her office; it was a late afternoon in September and the sun was already making its way to the horizon. I knocked on her open door and she looked up. When a faint blush began circling her cheeks, I knew she was mine.

“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” I said, leaning against the doorway. I was wearing a new designer suit, navy, with a crisp white shirt and a red power tie. I knew I looked good. Her office was messy, a typical creative desk, strewn with rough sketches and preliminary layouts for ads; storyboards for television spots were tacked to the cork-covered wall on her right. The only non-work-related item on her desk was a framed eight-by-ten photo of her parents, who were notable Manhattan movers and shakers I already knew from my research. The only surprise: her office had a window as big as mine. That meant the partners were wooing her, though not the way I was, of course.

Behind her desk, Mia blinked those big blue eyes.

“I was thinking Diamond’s, the new restaurant in German Village. I haven’t been yet, but I hear it’s fabulous. I should be able to get us a great table.” I managed to employ my smile-wink right then and I saw she was interested. It was the chemistry in the air, that zing of electricity rushing between us. And we had barely touched yet. I felt an attraction to Mia that was foundational, at some cellular level. I knew she sensed it, too.

“Sounds good,” she said. “I hope to be finished with this ad by six, seven at the latest.”

“I’ll make the reservation for seven thirty. Shall we meet there or can I give you a ride?” I was hoping she would let me pick her up and drive her to the restaurant. I had a sporty two-seater black Audi back then, a convertible. She would look fabulous sitting beside me, I remember thinking. And then there was the anticipation of walking her to the door, of being asked inside. But it didn’t happen.

“I’ll meet you there. Thanks, Paul,” she said, blinking again, the color still in her cheeks. She tapped a pencil on her desk. She needed to get back to work, I realized.

“See you tonight,” I told her, disappointed I’d be arriving alone. I was hopeful I wouldn’t be leaving by myself after dinner. I was officially smitten. I knew I would do everything in my power to make Mia realize what a catch I was, too. It was time for my best moves, my most charming seduction. Of course I would succeed, I always do. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. I’m not bragging, really, I’m just telling you there are some things I’m really good at and this—women—is one of them.

At dinner, I continued my offensive. When the chocolate crème brûlée arrived, you should have seen her face.

“This is my favorite dessert,” she said, clapping her hands as they slid the decadent custard in front of her at the table. “How did you know?”

It’s funny the things you can learn on the internet, the little details that can betray so much about a person if only you know where to look. Like pictures on a society magazine’s website—a lovely young woman at a banquet with her wealthy parents, dainty dishes of a certain decadent dessert on the tables in front of them. I’ve never been one to pass up the opportunity to glean information on the people in my life—colleagues, clients, business rivals. Women. You never know, do you, when a trivial bit of background might turn the tide in your favor. But I could hardly tell Mia any of that; it was our first date, after all. Instead I smiled, gave her the signature wink and said, “A lucky guess.”

With the pleasant memory of a Mia who savored her desserts fresh in my mind, I have succeeded in tuning out the horrible country music bombarding my brain and focus instead on the happiness I feel driving into Lakeside without having to pay a fee. The gates don’t drop until Memorial Day weekend. I smile as I drive the Flex, too quickly per the posted 15 Miles per Hour sign, into our blissful little retreat. Whenever I drive into this place, with its charming cottages, most with rocking chairs dotting their porches, this community with its vast stretches of green-grass parks and big blue sky and water views, I’m reminded that I’ve made it. I know everything will be fine, no matter what the future brings. I’ve always believed that. Mia still loves me. I take a deep breath, sucking in pure Americana.

Enjoy the drive, I tell myself, noticing the little cottages in pink and white and red and green lining the street, with their tulip flags flapping, their cement geese dressed for spring. Enjoy driving through this picturesque Eden, heading toward Lake Erie, a lake so shallow all of the water turns over every two and a half years. Bet you didn’t know that.

Did you know if you didn’t put your foot on the brake as you came to the end of this street, you’d drive across some bright green grass, over the dark sand beach and into the water, ending up at the bottom of the shallowest Great Lake in the United States?

It’s still deep enough to kill you, of course.

12:30 p.m.

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