terrified to walk through it. No matter what she did, or said, or how she said it, once she told him, everything in their lives would be changed forever.
“I've been thinking about that.” She advanced cautiously.
“And?” He waited.
“What do you mean 'and'?” She was scared of him. It was rare for her. But for the first time in her life, she was terrified of her husband.
“You never think about anything without coming to some kind of conclusion, or taking action.”
“You know me too well.” She smiled, suddenly looking sad again, and desperately not wanting to tell him.
“What aren't you telling me, Sarrie? Not knowing what's on your mind is driving me crazy.”
“Nothing is on my mind.” But she wasn't convincing either of them, and she was going around in circles. “Maybe it's just midlife crisis.”
“That again?” He grinned. “You went through that two years ago, and you only get one go around. Next time it's my turn. Come on, baby … what is it?”
“I don't know, Ollie …”
“Is it us?” His eyes looked sad as he asked her.
“Of course not. How could it be us? You're wonderful … it's just me, I guess. Growing pains. Or the lack of them. I feel like I've been stagnant ever since we got married.” He waited, holding his breath, the champagne, and the wine, and the party atmosphere all but forgotten. “I haven't done anything. And you've accomplished so much.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I'm a guy like a million other ad men.”
“The hell you are. Look at you. Look at what you just told me over dinner. In five years, you'll be the head of Hinkley, Burrows, and Dawson, if it takes you that long, which I doubt. You're one of the biggest success stories in the business.”
“That doesn't mean anything, Sarah. You know that. It's transitory. It's nice. But so what? You've raised three great kids. That's a hell of a lot more important.”
“But what difference does that make now? They've grown up, or practically, in a year or two they'll be gone. Mel and Benjamin anyway, and then what? I sit and wait around for Sam to go, too, and then I spend the rest of my life watching soap operas and talking to Agnes?” Her eyes filled with tears at the prospect, and he laughed. He had never known her to watch daytime TV. She was far more likely to bury herself in Baudelaire or Kafka.
“You paint a mighty gloomy picture, my love. Nothing's stopping you from what you want to do.” He meant it, but he had no concept of the scope of her ambitions. He never had. She had buried them all long before, left them behind somewhere in a duffel bag or an old trunk, with her Radcliffe diploma.
“You don't really mean that.”
“Of course I do. You can do volunteer work, get a part-time job, write short stories again. You can do absolutely anything you set your mind to.”
She took a breath. The time was now, whether she was ready or not. She had to tell him. “I want to go back to school.” Her voice was barely audible across the narrow table.
“I think that's a great idea.” He looked relieved. She was not in love with someone else. All she wanted was to take some courses. “You could go to the state university right in Purchase. Hell, if you spread it out over time, you could even get your master's.” But the way he said it suddenly annoyed her. She could go to a local school, and “spread it out over time.” How much time? Ten years? Twenty? She could be one of those grandmothers taking creative-writing courses and producing nothing.
“That isn't what I had in mind.” Her voice was suddenly firm and much stronger. He was the enemy now, the one who had kept her from everything she wanted.
“What were you thinking of?” He looked confused.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and then opened them and looked at him. “I've been accepted for the master's program at Harvard.” There was an endless silence between them as he stared at her and tried to understand what she was
“I've been thinking about that.” She advanced cautiously.
“And?” He waited.
“What do you mean 'and'?” She was scared of him. It was rare for her. But for the first time in her life, she was terrified of her husband.
“You never think about anything without coming to some kind of conclusion, or taking action.”
“You know me too well.” She smiled, suddenly looking sad again, and desperately not wanting to tell him.
“What aren't you telling me, Sarrie? Not knowing what's on your mind is driving me crazy.”
“Nothing is on my mind.” But she wasn't convincing either of them, and she was going around in circles. “Maybe it's just midlife crisis.”
“That again?” He grinned. “You went through that two years ago, and you only get one go around. Next time it's my turn. Come on, baby … what is it?”
“I don't know, Ollie …”
“Is it us?” His eyes looked sad as he asked her.
“Of course not. How could it be us? You're wonderful … it's just me, I guess. Growing pains. Or the lack of them. I feel like I've been stagnant ever since we got married.” He waited, holding his breath, the champagne, and the wine, and the party atmosphere all but forgotten. “I haven't done anything. And you've accomplished so much.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I'm a guy like a million other ad men.”
“The hell you are. Look at you. Look at what you just told me over dinner. In five years, you'll be the head of Hinkley, Burrows, and Dawson, if it takes you that long, which I doubt. You're one of the biggest success stories in the business.”
“That doesn't mean anything, Sarah. You know that. It's transitory. It's nice. But so what? You've raised three great kids. That's a hell of a lot more important.”
“But what difference does that make now? They've grown up, or practically, in a year or two they'll be gone. Mel and Benjamin anyway, and then what? I sit and wait around for Sam to go, too, and then I spend the rest of my life watching soap operas and talking to Agnes?” Her eyes filled with tears at the prospect, and he laughed. He had never known her to watch daytime TV. She was far more likely to bury herself in Baudelaire or Kafka.
“You paint a mighty gloomy picture, my love. Nothing's stopping you from what you want to do.” He meant it, but he had no concept of the scope of her ambitions. He never had. She had buried them all long before, left them behind somewhere in a duffel bag or an old trunk, with her Radcliffe diploma.
“You don't really mean that.”
“Of course I do. You can do volunteer work, get a part-time job, write short stories again. You can do absolutely anything you set your mind to.”
She took a breath. The time was now, whether she was ready or not. She had to tell him. “I want to go back to school.” Her voice was barely audible across the narrow table.
“I think that's a great idea.” He looked relieved. She was not in love with someone else. All she wanted was to take some courses. “You could go to the state university right in Purchase. Hell, if you spread it out over time, you could even get your master's.” But the way he said it suddenly annoyed her. She could go to a local school, and “spread it out over time.” How much time? Ten years? Twenty? She could be one of those grandmothers taking creative-writing courses and producing nothing.
“That isn't what I had in mind.” Her voice was suddenly firm and much stronger. He was the enemy now, the one who had kept her from everything she wanted.
“What were you thinking of?” He looked confused.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and then opened them and looked at him. “I've been accepted for the master's program at Harvard.” There was an endless silence between them as he stared at her and tried to understand what she was