it’s going to land.”
Where to land—it came up again and again as we squeezed tightly around the table, unveiling dishes and passing them family style, hand to hand. Lesley contributed chicken tartly perfumed with sliced lemons, rosemary, olives, and a South African chutney made with apricots. I had brought sinfully buttery mashed potatoes and sautéed brussels sprouts, a nice contrast, I hoped, with Tara’s crisp salad. Dawn poured a late-vintage Malbec.
That would have been the moment for me to present my idea for the group, but I let the opportunity get away from me again. Marcia told us she was facing a dilemma about her home, too. Like many couples with all-consuming jobs, she and her husband had relied on each other to make the most of what little time they spared from work. He had been the gregarious one, hosting clamorous parties on weekends at a country house that they owned. During the week,with Marcia logging long hours at the office, they camped out in a basic city apartment that was more like a dorm room.
“After he died, it was too hard to manage the house,” Marcia said. She sold it, but now she was holed up alone in that claustrophobic apartment, isolated, extending scant invitations to family or friends. It was where she lived, but it didn’t sound like where she belonged. Between her corporate schedule and that spartan setup at home, I wondered whether she had any space or time for pleasure, any inducement to engage a wider world now that her partner was gone.
For Tara, the question of where to live was only one strand in a snarl of problems tangled up with her husband’s alcoholism. First: work. She had quit her job under the strain of his final years, and now she was looking for something else. Next: social standing. She had filed for divorce after one of his failed attempts at rehab, but she hadn’t followed through with it before he died, which made her role in society even more confused than it was for the rest of us.
“Divorced or widowed … I don’t fit in anywhere,” she said in her elegant, smoky voice. “That’s the problem with labels. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t … love my husband. It doesn’t mean that I wasn’t … in shock when he died.” But it did mean that she now felt like an oddity in her circle, where society revolved around couples.
That left the matter of home. “I love my house,” Tara went on. “But I’d like to live … somewhere where there are a lot of single people … and whether you’re divorced, widowed, whatever … you’re still included.”
Everyone nodded. “Moving would be good for you,” said Dawn.
“Except I don’t know where I’m moving.” Tara toyed with some chicken on her plate. “I’d just like to be more … settled. I’d liketo know where I’m going to live … what my life will be like.” I was sure the others knew how she felt. I certainly did, even now. “But I’m also trying to embrace the openness of this situation. I don’t think there’s a timetable for everything … falling into place. I’m trying to come to appreciate the lack of knowing.” She gave a skewed little chuckle at the absurdity of that quest.
The glamorous Dawn told us that she knew where she belonged—with her children, guiding them through their own course of grief—but that she also wished she could meet the right man and re-create a family like the one they’d lost.
She had tried dating a couple of times but was daunted by the complications with an eight-year-old girl and nine-year-old boy at home. None of the other women had dipped their toes in the intriguing waters of dating yet, except for Lesley, who was considering whether to leap to the next level.
“I have a revelation,” she said in her flirtiest tone. “I met a man seven months ago, and when I move into my new house, I’m thinking of asking him to move in with me.”
Dawn’s eyes popped. “How did
this
happen?” We dropped our forks and
Where to land—it came up again and again as we squeezed tightly around the table, unveiling dishes and passing them family style, hand to hand. Lesley contributed chicken tartly perfumed with sliced lemons, rosemary, olives, and a South African chutney made with apricots. I had brought sinfully buttery mashed potatoes and sautéed brussels sprouts, a nice contrast, I hoped, with Tara’s crisp salad. Dawn poured a late-vintage Malbec.
That would have been the moment for me to present my idea for the group, but I let the opportunity get away from me again. Marcia told us she was facing a dilemma about her home, too. Like many couples with all-consuming jobs, she and her husband had relied on each other to make the most of what little time they spared from work. He had been the gregarious one, hosting clamorous parties on weekends at a country house that they owned. During the week,with Marcia logging long hours at the office, they camped out in a basic city apartment that was more like a dorm room.
“After he died, it was too hard to manage the house,” Marcia said. She sold it, but now she was holed up alone in that claustrophobic apartment, isolated, extending scant invitations to family or friends. It was where she lived, but it didn’t sound like where she belonged. Between her corporate schedule and that spartan setup at home, I wondered whether she had any space or time for pleasure, any inducement to engage a wider world now that her partner was gone.
For Tara, the question of where to live was only one strand in a snarl of problems tangled up with her husband’s alcoholism. First: work. She had quit her job under the strain of his final years, and now she was looking for something else. Next: social standing. She had filed for divorce after one of his failed attempts at rehab, but she hadn’t followed through with it before he died, which made her role in society even more confused than it was for the rest of us.
“Divorced or widowed … I don’t fit in anywhere,” she said in her elegant, smoky voice. “That’s the problem with labels. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t … love my husband. It doesn’t mean that I wasn’t … in shock when he died.” But it did mean that she now felt like an oddity in her circle, where society revolved around couples.
That left the matter of home. “I love my house,” Tara went on. “But I’d like to live … somewhere where there are a lot of single people … and whether you’re divorced, widowed, whatever … you’re still included.”
Everyone nodded. “Moving would be good for you,” said Dawn.
“Except I don’t know where I’m moving.” Tara toyed with some chicken on her plate. “I’d just like to be more … settled. I’d liketo know where I’m going to live … what my life will be like.” I was sure the others knew how she felt. I certainly did, even now. “But I’m also trying to embrace the openness of this situation. I don’t think there’s a timetable for everything … falling into place. I’m trying to come to appreciate the lack of knowing.” She gave a skewed little chuckle at the absurdity of that quest.
The glamorous Dawn told us that she knew where she belonged—with her children, guiding them through their own course of grief—but that she also wished she could meet the right man and re-create a family like the one they’d lost.
She had tried dating a couple of times but was daunted by the complications with an eight-year-old girl and nine-year-old boy at home. None of the other women had dipped their toes in the intriguing waters of dating yet, except for Lesley, who was considering whether to leap to the next level.
“I have a revelation,” she said in her flirtiest tone. “I met a man seven months ago, and when I move into my new house, I’m thinking of asking him to move in with me.”
Dawn’s eyes popped. “How did
this
happen?” We dropped our forks and
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