Page 72 of Christmas at the Ranch
It was all right when Arthur’s parents lived in New York. I like his mother, and she visited fairly often. Two years ago, his father had a heart attack and they moved to Palm Beach. After that, I tried to join a mothers’ groups and attend meetups, but the other mothers are different. They either have important careers or they’re members of charity boards. They aren’t interested in a former ranch hand from Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
I thought it would get easier when Drew was older. And I adore him. He’s sweet and bright and everything I could ask for. But I’m not a good mother. I’m always nervous something will happen to him: he’ll get sick; we’ll get into an accident in a taxi. When he’s away from me—at preschool, or with a little friend—I worry about him even more.
I often wonder if it would be different if we lived in Jackson Hole. I never worried about anything before. It’s as if being in New York doesn’t provide me enough oxygen. I can’t tell you how much I miss the mountains and the fields. Every morning before I open my eyes, I hope for one small second that I’ll see buffalo crossing a field. When I do open them, all I see is Mrs. Abernathy’s laundry hanging in her kitchen window.
Thank goodness I have one friend. Arthur doesn’t approve. Ellery is our building doorman; I don’t know what I’d do without him. He lets Drew push his little trucks around the floor in the lobby and we chat. Ellery is Irish, he moved to New York to be close to his daughter after his wife died. He lived on a farm his whole life; he misses horses as much as I do.
Arthur is coming home early; he has a surprise for me. Maybe it will be tickets to Jackson Hole for Christmas. We usually go to Palm Beach. I’d happily give up seeing Santa Claus on a boat from Arthur’s parents’ marina and visit Santa under the antlers in Teton Village instead.
The next entry was dated a week later.
Dear Diary,
Arthur and I are in a terrible fight. He hasn’t talked to me for days and he’s sleeping in the study.
It started the day he had a surprise. He insisted I hire a babysitter, even though I get anxious leaving Drew with anyone. So I called an agency. We left Drew with an older woman named Beth and climbed into a cab.
“You complain that you don’t have anyone to talk to, but you haven’t said a word,” Arthur said, when we were sitting in traffic on Lexington Avenue.
“You asked about my morning and I told you I hadn’t done anything,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I know what you’re saying even when you don’t sayit.” Arthur folded his arms. “It’s usually that there isn’t a single person in Manhattan to talk to.”
Arthur has become so touchy. And he’s always rearranging my words. Sometimes I feel like we’re playing a complicated game of snakes and ladders.
“That isn’t true. I love to talk to you.” I fiddled with my hemline. “I was thinking about Drew. What if he wakes from his nap and thinks something’s happened to me?”
“Beth will tell him you’ve gone to lunch.” Arthur sounded exasperated. His tone softened and he took my hand. “I’ve cleared my work calendar for the next two hours; can we please try to enjoy ourselves?”
Oh diary, I still love him! I love his eyes and his smile and even the way he hunches over when he’s upset. But we can’t seem to get along.
“I promise,” I agreed solemnly. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going. I didn’t know how to dress.”
Arthur turned to me. His eyes were warm.
“Do you remember years ago when I said I’d meet you at the altar even if you were naked, because I couldn’t live without you?” he asked. “I still feel the same. It doesn’t matter what you wear, you’ll always be the most beautiful woman in New York.”
We kissed. For a moment I thought everything would be all right.
The taxi pulled up in front of one of those fancy co-op buildings on the Upper East Side.
“I thought we were going to lunch.” I frowned.
“We are, I have to drop off a manuscript first.”Arthur stepped out of the cab and opened my door. “It will only take a minute. Come with me.”
The lobby was elegant with plush white carpet and crystal chandeliers. I guessed that the apartment probably belonged to a famous author. Arthur’s company is doing very well. He’s signing well-known authors and getting their new books onto bestseller lists.
Arthur knocked but there was no answer. He turned the handle and the door was unlocked.
“He probably stepped out for a minute,” Arthur said. “Let’s wait inside.”
The living room was beautifully furnished with modern sofas and bright rugs. The walls were practically all glass. It was so high up, I looked down on Central Park and the East River.
The front door opened and a man entered. He wore a pin-striped suit and carried a briefcase.
“You must be the author,” I introduced myself. “I’m Diana Wentworth, Arthur’s wife.”
The man shook my hand. “I’m not an author, I’m the Realtor.”
