The Wife Book
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The Wife Book
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^ "The Author of "The Wife" Had Fun at the Oscars, But Now She's Back to Work" . Time . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ " ' The Wife' author Meg Wolitzer answers your questions" . PBS NewsHour . 2019-02-26 . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ Dederer, Claire (2003-04-20). "In the Shadow of the Big Boys (Published 2003)" . The New York Times . ISSN 0362-4331 . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ "The Wife" . www.publishersweekly.com . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ The Wife, by Meg Wolitzer | Booklist Online .
^ "The Wife" . www.bookreporter.com . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ Bolonik, Kera (April 6, 2003). "The Ghost Writer" . Washington Post . Retrieved October 24, 2020 .
^ "Review: Glenn Close and Jonathan Pryce delve into the dark bargains of marriage in 'The Wife ' " . Los Angeles Times . 2018-08-15 . Retrieved 2020-10-24 .
^ McNary, Dave (May 16, 2014). "Glenn Close Heading to Sweden to Star in 'The Wife ' " . Variety . Penske Business Media . Retrieved January 13, 2017 .
^ Staff, THR (December 6, 2018). "Golden Globes Nominations: 'Vice' Leads With 6, 'Versace' Tops TV With 4" . The Hollywood Reporter . Retrieved December 6, 2018 .
^ " ' A Star Is Born,' 'Roma,' and 'Beale Street' Win Big at the Satellite Awards" . Retrieved January 9, 2019 .
^ "34th Film Independent Spirits Nominations Announced" (PDF) . Los Angeles: Independent Spirit Awards . November 15, 2018. Archived (PDF) from the original on November 17, 2018 . Retrieved November 17, 2018 .
The Wife is a 2003 novel by American writer Meg Wolitzer . The book was adapted into a film released in 2017, directed by Björn L. Runge , written by Jane Anderson , and starring Glenn Close , Jonathan Pryce , and Christian Slater .
On a plane, 35,000 feet in the air, Joan Castleman decides she is going to leave her husband. They are on their way to Helsinki , where Joe Castleman, a world-renowned novelist, is to receive a prestigious literary award. Joan describes her husband as "one of those men who own the world...who has no idea how to take care of himself or anyone else, and who derives much of his style from the Dylan Thomas Handbook of Personal Hygiene and Etiquette." For the forty years of their marriage, Joan has subjugated her own literary talents to support Joe's success, and now she wants to stop.
The story takes us back to the 1950s, to Smith College and Greenwich Village , to the meeting of the two, the development of their relationship, and all the decisions and life turns that brought them to this point, following Joe's success and compulsive cheating—culminating in the outing of a shocking secret at the root of it all.
Wolitzer has expressed that when she was young, she assumed that sexism would slowly peter out, and become a relic of the past by the time she was grown. When that didn't happen, and as a writer, she is especially aware of the continuing sexism in the publishing world, Wolitzer became interested in exploring this inequality in a book. She says, "the idea of male experience being representative of general experience, and female experience being women’s experience only is depressing.” She has previously expressed her frustration with the limiting designation of “women’s fiction”—describing it as “that close-quartered lower shelf where books emphasizing relationships and the interior lives of women are often relegated.” [1] She decided to explore how differently the world treats men and women in the context of a marriage. She notes that she herself hasn't experienced this dynamic, but that her mother, Hilma Wolitzer , also a novelist, was termed a "housewife turns into novelist" when she published her first novel, a description that Wolitzer finds both condescending and interesting, as her mother described it: "it's as if she was Clark Kent going into a phone booth and sort of turning into a superhero". [2]
In her New York Times review, Clare Dederer calls The Wife "..a light-stepping, streamlined novel" that in spite of rage being its signature emotion, "is also very funny". She concludes, "if The Wife is a puzzle and an entertainment, it's also a near heartbreaking document of feminist realpolitik." [3] Publishers Weekly also provided a positive review: " Wolitzer's crisp pacing and dry wit carry us headlong into a devastating message about the price of love and fame. If it's a story we've heard before, the tale is as resonant as ever in Wolitzer's hands." [4]
Booklist 's Donna Seaman raves that The Wife is "a diabolically smart and funny assault against the literary establishment and the tacit assumption that only men can write the Great American Novel." She describes as "shrewd" how Wolitzer "choreographs [Joan's] ire into kung-fu precision moves to zap our every notion about gender and status, creativity and fame, individuality and marriage, deftly exposing the injustice, sorrow, and sheer absurdity of it all. [5] In Bookreporter , Heather Grimshaw opines that Wolitzer crafted a "surprise ending that will startle the most intuitive of readers," and that " The Wife is a surprisingly perceptive story." [6]
According to The Washington Post , "To say that The Wife is Wolitzer's most ambitious novel to date is an understatement. This important book introduces another side of a writer we thought we knew: Never before has she written so feverishly, so courageously... Hers is a wholly original voice, as she tells the story not only of a marriage built on uneven compromises, but also of a woman's poignant self-discovery." [7] The Los Angeles Times calls the novel "a rollicking, perfectly pitched triumph". [8]
The film The Wife came out in 2017, directed by Björn L. Runge and written by Jane Anderson . It stars Glenn Close , Jonathan Pryce , and Christian Slater . [9] The film garnered lead Glenn Close multiple awards for Best Actress, including a Golden Globe , [10] Satellite Award , [11] and an Independent Spirit award . [12]
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The Wife (novel) - Wikipedia
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Alafair Burke is a New York Times bestselling author whose most recent novels include The Wife and The Ex, which was nominated for the Edgar Award for best novel. She also co-authors the bestselling Under Suspicion series with Mary Higgins Clark. A former prosecutor, she now teaches criminal law and lives in Manhattan and East Hampton.
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When Burke opens the novel, Angela Powell is finding out an incident at her husband's office through his eyes. The young woman went on and on about her engagement and he made a comment about being too young to get married and her getting upset about it. You read the police report where she seems suspicious in her nonanswers. You like Angela and you know that she went through something traumatic when she was a teenager, that she was kidnapped by a man held captive for three years before being found with a kid, named Spencer. You don't want her world to explode with a true accusation of sexual harassment. But then you watch as she doesn't mean to help them dismantle that case by blaming the victim.The ADA leaks the case to the press hoping to get more accusations to come forward. And one does. A Kelly Lynch accuses him of raping her. She has pictures of belt strap marks on her wrists and his DNA on her underwear and her skirt. Jason Powell explains to his wife that he had an affair with her but that he didn't rape her. That she was helping him take down her company Oasis which was doing questionable business practices and that he had brought together with some investors. But if they were not on the up and up he had wanted to know about it and to end his relationship with them and to bring them down too.Angela's best friend Susanna senses that she isn't telling her everything when Angela starts to tell her about a bad night she and Jason had, Susanna gives her a paper on when women don't realize they've been raped. Now, things don't look too good for Jason. Burke emotionally manipulates you from the very start making you feel guilty for not wanting to believe the young intern to the very end of the book where a surprise awaits you. To be honest this book pissed me off with its emotional wrangling. But I believe I just didn't like being manipulated to this degree. If I am being honest I would give it two stars for being poorly written, but I think I am letting something that the author did well affect my judgment on this review. I, therefore, give it an extra star for the work she put into it.
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The wife, Angela. is our narrator. She is somewhat of a stepford wife loved her husband and son Spencer, but she has a huge secret, in fact several. The husband Jason is a successful author, business man and university professor, he is also a huge flirt. They are living in a dream home in Greenwich Village and their son attends a prestigious private school. Rachel, an intern at work, enters the story with some accusations against Jason and things start to get messy. Angela will do anything to protect her husband (or will she)? The second narrator, Detective Corinne Duncan is relentless and keeps showing up on the couples front door step. She is sure that she will evenutally turn Angela against her husband. We'll soon find out just how good an investigator she is and what Angela is willing to do or not do to protect Jason. In THE WIFE, Alafair Burke has created the perfect blend of a character driven suspense novel with some police investigation, some legal maneuvering and a lot of family and friendship drama and angst. Burke is a gifted storyteller and creates tension in small ways. The story is very realistic and timely, with all the women coming forward recently. The story is full of twists, some small, some large but not obvious. There are clues throughout the book, and I had begun to piece some things together before they were revealed, but that ending .... WOW! If you love psychological suspense, legal wrangling, questions of guilt and innocence with a twist, then you need to read this book.
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I had a hard time putting this book down!! This book did not disappoint. After reading a few books by this author, I was expecting something, but not what actually happened.
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Twists and Turns I enjoy Ms. Burke's surprises. And I appreciate the fact that even though she is a lawyer she doesn't use complicated language for the average reader.
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Nach einer schrecklichen Entführung in ihrer Jugend scheint Angela endlich das zauberhafte Leben führen zu können, von dem sie in ihrer ärmlichen Kindheit immer geträumt hat. An der Seite des Wirtschaftsprofessors und erfolgreichen Beraters Jason Powell verbringen sie und ihr Sohn Spencer sorgenlose Tage – bis eine Praktikanten unglaubliche Anschuldigungen erhebt: Jason habe sie sexuell belästigt. Dieser streitet den Vorfall ab und misst ihm keine große Bedeutung bei. Bis eine weitere Frau auf den Plan tritt und Vergewaltigungsvorwürfe erhebt. Dieses Mal scheint die Beweislage eindeutiger, aber Angela hält zu ihrem Mann. Sie kann und will nicht glauben, was die Frauen behaupten, vor allem, weil diese scheinbar auch die Gelegenheit nutzen möchten, mit einer geschickten Erpressung Nutzen aus der Situation zu ziehen. Je länger sich die Affäre hinzieht und je mehr Details über Jason an die Öffentlichkeit geraten, desto mehr wachsen auch Zweifel in Angela, wichtiger jedoch als dieser Fall ist ihr noch etwas gänzlich anderes, das sie vor der reißerischen presse schützen muss.Alafair Burke wählt ein Szenario, das viel Spannung verspricht und Potenzial für zahlreiche Verwicklungen und Wendungen hat, jedoch auch bereits mehrfach als Basiskonzeption gewählt wurde. Im Vergleich zu ähnlichen Stories konnte mich die Autorin nicht ganz überzeugen, was vor allem an der Protagonistin lag, die für mich etwas zu diffus blieb und mich nicht wirklich für sie einnehmen konnte.Der Spannungsaufbau kann überzeugen, immer weiter zieht sich die Schlinge um den untreuen Gatten, immer mehr Enthüllungen lassen ihn in einem immer schlechteren Licht erscheinen. Auch wenn einem die Mutmaßungen, dass die Frauen geschickt seine Lage nutzen möchten, um sich selbst zu bereichern, glaubwürdig ist, kommt er doch nicht auch ganz schadlos aus der Nummer heraus. Aufgrund der gewählten Erzählperspektive bleiben bei Jason Lücken, so dass man nicht sicher sein kann, wie weit er gehen würde und ob man seinen Aussagen trauen kann. Da man sich als Leser immer auf Angelas Seite befindet und sie das offenkundig wahre Opfer ist – gleich in mehrfacher Hinsicht – ist man geneigt, für sie eher Sympathie zu empfinden und ihr Glauben zu schenken. Leider lässt sich dies nicht lange genug aufrechterhalten und man kann daher die letztlichen Entwicklungen schon bald sehr deutlich vorhersehen.Insgesamt überzeugender Plot, der jedoch für mich im Detail bei der Figurengestaltung etwas schwächelt und leider im letzten Drittel zu vorhersehbar wird und dadurch an Spannung verliert. Daher das Fazit: solide Unterhaltung, die aber noch steigerungsfähig gewesen wäre.
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This crime novel is full of twists and turns, with hardly a reliable narrator in the whole bunch of characters. The topic couldn’t be more timely. Jason Powell is a well-known economics prof at NYU and author of a best-selling book on “how to maximize profits by following guiding principles of morality and equality.” He has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior by one of his interns, much to the surprise and disbelief of his wife Angela. Angela hates publicity in any case; she wants nothing more than to have a quiet life with her secret, traumatic past well hidden. But now that is all about to change.When another woman comes forward more formally to charge Jason, the case is investigated by Detective Corrine Duncan, a very competent woman who trades findings and insights with the prosecutor. As with any “he said, she said” case, it is difficult to tell who is telling the whole truth, but each and every character has a reason to lie, and when a dead body suddenly turns up, everything about it takes on a new, sinister turn. Discussion: I have not previously read books by this author, but I certainly intend to remedy that lapse. The author is a graduate of Stanford Law School and now teaches criminal law and procedure at Hofstra Law School. She worked as a judicial clerk, a trial lawyer, and as liaison to the police department, and clearly knows what she’s talking about. She presents the legal aspects of the book in a clear way without making those portions sound like an infodump. I also liked her portrayal of the female detective, who is well-rounded, strong, and intelligent. And of course I’m a sucker for a book with twists you don’t see coming. Evaluation: This entertaining crime novel will keep you turning the pages, and will delight you with all the plot complications you didn't see coming.
"This year's Gone Girl ." — Harlan Coben
A Boston Globe Best Book of 2018 | A Sun-Sentinel Best Mystery Book of 2018 | A Crime Reads Best Novel of 2018
From New York Times bestselling author Alafair Burke, a stunning domestic thriller in the vein of Behind Closed Doors and The Woman in Cabin 10 —in which a woman must make the impossible choice between defending her husband and saving herself.
When Angela met Jason Powell while catering a dinner party in East Hampton, she assumed their romance would be a short-lived fling, like so many relationships between locals and summer visitors. To her surprise, Jason, a brilliant economics professor at NYU, had other plans, and they married the following summer. For Angela, the marriage turned out to be a chance to reboot her life. She and her son were finally able to move out of her mother’s home to Manhattan, where no one knew about her tragic past.
Six years later, thanks to a bestselling book and a growing media career, Jason has become a cultural lightning rod, placing Angela near the spotlight she worked so carefully to avoid. When a college intern makes an accusation against Jason, and another woman, Kerry Lynch, comes forward with an even more troubling allegation, their perfect life begins to unravel. Jason insists he is innocent, and Angela believes him. But when Kerry disappears, Angela is forced to take a closer look—at both the man she married and the women she chose not to believe.
This much-anticipated follow-up to Burke’s Edgar-nominated The Ex asks how far a wife will go to protect the man she loves: Will she stand by his side, even if he drags her down with him?
In an instant, I became the woman they assumed I’d been all along: the wife who lied to protect her husband.
I almost didn’t hear the knock on the front door. I had removed the brass knocker twelve days earlier, as if that would stop another reporter from showing up unannounced. Once I realized the source of the sound, I sat up straight in bed, hitting mute on the TV remote. Fighting the instinct to freeze, I forced myself to take a look. I parted the drawn bedroom curtains, squinting against the afternoon sun.
I saw the top of a head of short black hair on my stoop. The Impala in front of the fire hydrant across the street practically screamed unmarked police car. It was that same detective, back again. I still had her business card tucked away in my purse, where Jason wouldn’t see it. She kept knocking, and I kept watching her knock, until she sat on the front steps and started reading my paper.
I threw on a sweatshirt over my tank top and pajama pants and made my way to the front door.
Did I wake you? Her voice was filled with judgment. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.
I wanted to say I didn’t owe anyone an explanation for lying around my own house, but instead, I muttered that I had a migraine. Lie number one—small, but a lie nonetheless.
You should take vinegar and honey. Works every time.
I think I’d rather have a headache. If you need to talk to Jason, you can call our lawyer.
I told you before, Olivia Randall’s not your lawyer. She’s Jason’s.
I started to close the door, but she pushed it back open. And you may think your husband’s case is on hold, but I can still investigate, especially when it’s about an entirely new charge.
I should have slammed the door, but she was baiting me with the threat of incoming shrapnel. I’d rather take it in the face than wait for it to strike me in the back.
I need to know where your husband was last night.
Of all nights, why did she have to ask about that one? For any other date of our six-year marriage, I could have offered a truthful account.
I already knew from Jason’s lawyer that this wasn’t the stuff covered by spousal privilege. They could haul me in to a grand jury. They could use my failure to answer as proof that I was hiding something. And a detective was at my door with what seemed like a simple question: Where had my husband been the previous night?
He was here with me. It had been twelve years since a police officer last asked me a direct question, but my first instinct was still to lie.
Yes, our friend brought over enough food to last the whole day. It’s not exactly fun to be seen in public these days.
Colin Harris. He brought takeout from Gotham. You can call the restaurant if you need to.
Can anyone else vouch that your husband was here with you?
My son, Spencer. He called from camp around seven thirty and spoke to both of us. Words kept escaping my mouth, each phrase seemingly necessitated by the previous one. Pull up our phone records if you don’t believe me. Now, please, what’s this all about?
The words sounded funny together. Kerry Lynch is missing. This woman who had been batting us around was suddenly gone, like a sock that never makes it out of the dryer.
Of course it was about that woman. Our entire life had been about her for the last two weeks. My lips kept moving. I told the detective that we streamed La La Land before falling asleep, even though I had watched it alone. So many details, tumbling out.
I decided to go on the offense, making it clear I was outraged the police had come straight to our door when Kerry could be anywhere. I even suggested indignantly that the detective come inside and take a look around, but in reality, my thoughts were racing. I assured myself that Jason could answer questions about the film if asked. He had seen it on the plane the last time he flew home from London. But what if they asked Spencer about the phone call?
The detective was obviously unmoved by my exasperation. How well do you really know your husband, Angela?
You’re more than a bystander. You’re enabling him, which means I can’t help you. Don’t let Jason take you and your boy down with him.
I waited until the Impala had left to reach for my phone. Jason was in a client meeting, but took my call. I had told him the night before that I didn’t want to speak to him again until I had made some decisions.
With one stupid conversation, I had conformed to the stereotype. I was complicit now. I was all in.
Jason, Kerry Lynch is missing. Please tell me you didn’t do this because of me.
The first piece of trouble was a girl named Rachel. Sorry, not a girl. A woman named Rachel.
Even teenagers are called young women now, as if there is something horribly trivial about being a girl. I still have to correct myself. At whatever moment I transformed from a girl to a woman, when I might have cared about the difference, I had other things to worry about.
Jason told me about the Rachel incident the same day it happened. We were at Lupa, seated at our favorite table, a found pocket of quiet in the back corner of the crowded restaurant.
I only had two things to report from my day. The handyman fixed the hinge on the cabinet in the guest bathroom, but said the wood was warping and would eventually need to be replaced. And the head of the auction committee at Spencer’s school called to see if Jason would donate a dinner.
Didn’t we just do that? he asked, taking a large bite of the burrata we were sharing. You were going to cook for someone.
Spencer is in the seventh grade at Friends Seminary. Every year the school asks us to donate not only money on top of the extraordinary tuition we pay but also an item to be sold at the annual auction. Six weeks earlier, I opted for our usual contribution at this year’s event: I’d cater a dinner for eight in the highest bidder’s home. Only a few people in the city connected me now to the summer parties I once planned in the Hamptons, so Jason helped boost my ego by driving the price up. I convinced him to stop once my item had gone for a thousand dollars.
There’s a new chair of the committee for next year, I explained. She wants to get a head start. The woman has too much time on her hands.
Dealing with someone who fastidiously plans every last detail months in advance? I can’t imagine how awful that must be for you.
He looked at me with a satisfied smile. I was the planner in the family, the one with daily routines and a long list of what Jason and Spencer called Mom Rules, all designed to keep our lives routine and utterly predictable—good and boring, as I like to say.
He feigned a shudder and took a sip of wine. Want to know what that crowd really needs for an auction? A week in the desert without water. A cot in a local homeless shelter. Or how about a decent lay? We’d raise millions.
I told him the committee had other plans. Apparently you’re a big enough deal now that people will open up their wallets for a chance to breathe the same air. They suggested dinner with three guests at a—quote—‘socially responsible’ restaurant of your choosing.
His mouth was full, but I could read the thoughts behind his eye roll. When I first met Jason, no one had heard of him other than his students, coworkers, and a couple of dozen academics who shared his intellectual passions. I never would have predicted that my cute little egghead would become a political and cultural icon.
Hey, look on the bright side. You’re officially a celebrity. Meanwhile, I can’t give myself away without getting rejected.
No, but they did make it clear that you were the member of the Powell family they want to see listed in next year’s brochure.
We finally settled on a lunch, not dinner, with two guests, not three, at a restaurant—period, no mention of its social consciousness. And I agreed to persuade one of the other moms to buy the item when the time came, using our money if necessary. Jason was willing to pay a lot to avoid a meal with strangers.
Once our terms were negotiated, he reminded me that he would be leaving the following afternoon to meet with a green energy company based in Philadelphia. He’d be gone for two nights.
Of course, I didn’t need the reminder. I had entered the dates in my calendar—aka the Family Bible—when he first mentioned it.
Would you like to come with me? Did he actually want me to join him, or had my expression given me away? We could get a sitter for Spencer. Or he could tag along.
The thought of ever returning to the state of Pennsylvania made my stomach turn. The chess tournament tomorrow, remember?
I could tell that he did not, in fact, remember. Spencer had little in the way of organized hobbies. He wasn’t a natural athlete and seemed to share Jason’s aversion to group activities. But so far, he was sticking with the chess club.
The subject of his intern, Rachel, did not arise until the waiter brought our pasta: an order of cacio e pepe split between two bowls.
Jason let it slip like it was nothing: Oh, something a little odd happened to me today at work.
In class? Jason still taught at NYU during the spring semester, but also had his own corporate consulting company and was a frequent talking head on cable television. In addition, he hosted a popular podcast. My husband had a lot of jobs.
No, at the office. I told you about the interns? With the university increasingly upset (jealous, Jason thought) about his outside activities, Jason had agreed to start an internship program, where he and his consulting firm would oversee a handful of students each semester. One of them apparently thinks I’m a sexist pig.
He was grinning as if it were funny, but we were different that way. Jason found conflict amusing, or at least curious. I avoided it at all costs. I immediately rested my fork against the edge of my bowl.
Please, he said, waving a flippant hand. It’s ridiculous, proof that interns create more work than they’re worth.
He smiled the entire time he described the incident. Rachel was in either the first or second year of her master’s study. He wasn’t sure. She was one of the weaker students. He suspected, but wasn’t certain, that Zack—the associate he’d tapped with the job of selecting candidates—had included her for purposes of gender diversity. She entered Jason’s office to deliver a memo she had written about a chain of grocery stores. She blurted out that her boyfriend had proposed over the weekend, and held up her left hand to show off a giant diamond.
What am I, Jason asked, her sorority sister?
Please tell me you didn’t say that.
Another eye roll, this time slightly less exaggerated. Of course not. I honestly don’t remember what I said.
She said this to whom? I was pretty sure the correct usage was whom. Why would she say that?
She went to Zack. These are the kinds of students we’re accepting these days—a graduate student who doesn’t understand the hierarchy at the firm where she works. She assumes Zack has some kind of power, because he was the one who hired her.
But why was she complaining? I noticed a woman at the next table looking in our direction and lowered my voice. What is she saying happened?
I don’t know. She started running on about getting engaged. She told Zack I said she was too young to get married. That she needed to live a little first.
Was there something wrong with that? I’d never had a job in a formal office setting. It sounded rude, but not offensive . I told Jason that there had to be more to it if she was complaining.
Another dismissive wave. That’s how ridiculous these millennials are. It’s considered sexual harassment even to ask someone about their personal life. But if she barges in my office and starts telling me about her engagement, I can’t say anything without melting the special snowflake.
So is that what you said? That she was too young and should live a little, or did you call her a special snowflake? I knew Jason’s harshest opinions about his students.
Of course not. I don’t know. Honestly, I was annoyed by the whole conversation. I think I said something as a joke. Like, ‘Are you sure you’re ready to get locked down?’ Probably that.
It was a phrase I’d heard him use before, about not only marriage but anything that was so good that you wanted to hold on to it forever. Lock that down.
We put in an early offer on our house. It’s priced to sell. We need to lock that down.
A waiter telling us that there were only two more orders of branzino in the kitchen. We’re good for one. Lock that down.
I could picture him in his office, interrupted by an intern he’d prefer not to supervise. She’s babbling about her engagement. He couldn’t care less. You’re still in school. You sure you’re ready to lock that down? Jason had a habit of making teasing comments.
I asked him again if that was all that happened, if he was sure there wasn’t something else that could have been misconstrued.
You don’t know how sensitive these college students are. The words burned, even though he didn’t mean them to. I had never attended college. If Spencer turns out like these micro-aggression asshole whiners, I’ll ground him until he’s forty.
Seeing the expression on my face, he reached for my hand. Spencer actually is special, not a special snowflake. He’s not like these kids who were raised to think they’re extraordinary even though they’re extra-ordinary. Jason said he was kidding, and I knew he was. And I felt guilty because I realized I—like Rachel the girl intern—was being too sensitive, was feeling too special.
Jason shrugged, as if I’d asked what he’d like to donate to the auction. Zack will deal with it. Thank god the semester’s almost over. But screw her if she thinks she’s getting a recommendation.
As I poured a little more wine into my glass, I really thought that was the only thing at stake in Jason’s interaction with Rachel—whether a graduate student would get a recommendation.
It would be four days until I realized how naive I had been.
Occurrence Location: 1057 Avenue of the Americas
Victim states that suspect encouraged sexual contact during business appointment.
Victim walked into precinct at 17:32 and asked to file a complaint. She proceeded to report that a coworker, Jason Powell, encouraged sexual contact between them. Victim presented calmly and did not appear distraught. When I asked her what type of sexual contact, she said, He suggested that I should be sexual with him.
When I asked her to explain what she meant by encouraged and suggested, she did not respond. I asked if there had been any physical contact between them or if he had threatened her or forced her to do anything she did not want to do. She abruptly accused me of not believing her and left the station over my repeated requests that she continue her complaint.
Conclusion: Forward report to SVU for consideration of further action.
The woman who called about Jason donating a meal to next year’s auction was Jen Connington. I no longer use names when I tell Jason what is happening in the parts of our lives he doesn’t see, because I know he won’t remember them. Jen is mother to Madison and Austin, wife to Theo. A top-three competitor for queen bee of the Friends Seminary Moms and newly appointed chair of the auction committee.
When I picked up the phone, she said, Hey there, Angie.
My name isn’t Angie. To the extent I ever had a nickname, it was Gellie, and only my parents ever used it. I guess women who shorten Jennifer to Jen assume that Angelas are Angies. Thanks so much for your offer to cater another dinner!! Exclamation points added. But we thought you might want a break next year.
We . I immediately wondered which of the other moms was involved in whatever change was about to be decreed. Seriously, Jen, it’s the least we can do. My use of we felt smaller.
I immediately imagined her telling Theo over cocktails that night: How many times does she have to remind us that she used to cater to the rich and famous in the Hamptons? It was the only real job I ever had. At the time, I was pretty proud of myself, but women like Jen Connington would never stop seeing me as someone who had peaked as the help.
Well, call me a radical feminist, but we thought it was about time for some of the dads to do their equal share, so to speak. She laughed at her play on the title of Jason’s bestselling book, Equalonomics . Don’t you think we should convince Jason to come out of hiding?
I had told her I wished he were in hiding. I would see him more often.
Jason’s trademark thing was how companies could maximize profits by making corporate decisions based on principles of equality. It was perfect fodder for liberal Manhattanites—keep your one-percenter perks and be a good, moral person, all at the same time. His book spent nearly a year on the New York Times nonfiction bestseller list before it was released in paperback to enjoy another forty-week run. In the time that passed, the media appearances to promote the book evolved into stints as a talking head, which led to the podcast. And at the suggestion of his best friend, Colin, he started an independent consulting company. I was happy for him—happy for us—but neither of us had adjusted to his newfound celebrity.
My catering prize would no longer suffice for our auction give. Jen tried to soften the rejection by returning to her theme of letting Jason do his fair share of the work: Every year, the moms bust their butts for this auction. Next year, we’ll let Dad do the work.
It was the second time she had referred to Jason as Spencer’s dad. I didn’t correct her. There was no reason to.
When Jason and I, to my surprise, started to become serious the summer we met, I could tell how hard he tried to include Spencer. He taught him how to duck-dive waves at Atlantic Beach, played tennis with him at the courts in Amagansett, and climbed to the top of the lighthouse at the end of Montauk, a summer adventure intended for onetime tourists, but which Spencer never tired of.
When autumn arrived, Jason asked us to move with him to the city. God, how I wanted to say yes. I was only twenty-four years old, and had only lived in two places: my parents’ house and a house in Pennsylvania I would have never gone back to, even if the city hadn’t torn it down. I had never really had a relationship with a man who had met me as an adult. I dated a couple of guys on and off who I knew from childhood, but nothing that would have ever led to marriage. The last thing I wanted was to be another generation of East Enders, barely scraping by in life, especially when I wasn’t in love.
And Jason wasn’t just a good man who loved me. He was educated, intellectual, and refined. He had a good job, an apartment in Manhattan, and apparently enough money left over for a Hamptons rental in the summer. He wanted to take care of me. I could finally move out of my mother’s house. I could work year-round in the city instead of having to work my ass off every day all summer trying to squirrel away enough cash for us to make it through the off-season.
But I couldn’t. I wasn’t the main character in a fairy tale, ready to be saved by Prince Charming. I was a mother to a six-year-old who didn’t speak until he was three. Whom the doctors said might be autistic, merely because of his silence and a tendency to avoid eye contact. Who required supplementary tutoring during kindergarten to prepare him for what I wasn’t supposed to call the normal classroom, rather than the special one his kindergarten teacher was suggesting. He was now about to start first grade at a school where he had friends, in the only stable home he had ever known. I couldn’t uproot him into the city for a man I’d known for three months. When I told Jason I couldn’t move, I was prepared to say good-bye, both to him and to our whirlwind romance. I tried to tell myself that other girls my age would have had a summer fling by now.
Again, Jason surprised me. He rode the train out from the city every other weekend, staying in the cheapest room at Gurney’s, with a view of the parking lot. He helped Spencer with his homework. He even managed to endear himself to my mother, who doesn’t like anyone. In December, I accepted his invitation to bring Spencer into the city to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. We went ice-skating. It felt like a movie. For the first time since Spencer and I came home to live with my parents, my son spent the night under a different roof.
Jason showed up unexpectedly the weekend before Memorial Day. The season would officially kick off in a week. I was already booked for twenty-seven parties. I was in the kitchen making hundreds of bacon-wrapped dates that I could freeze for future use when I heard the doorbell. He dropped to one knee on my mother’s front porch, opened the ring box, and asked me to marry him. I screamed so loudly that a passing bicyclist almost swerved into traffic.
He had every detail planned out. We’d move into his rental for the summer. I’d hire extra helpers to work the catering jobs I had already booked, and would stop accepting others. We’d return with him to the city in the fall. He’d ask friends to pull strings to get Spencer into a good school. He wanted to get married at Gurney’s this summer, if it wasn’t too soon. Last October, he’d put down a deposit to hold a date in July.
You’re insane, I told him. I know what that place costs. You paid a fortune, all on a bet.
I don’t bet. When you’re an economist, it’s called researching and playing the market.
When you’re a normal human, it’s called being a dork.
If it helps, they gave me a discount when I told them what it was for. They love you there. Almost as much as I love you. Marry me, Angela.
I asked him why it was such a rush.
Because I don’t want to see you every ten days. I want you with me every night. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed my hair. Besides, I don’t want some other summer guy laying his eyes on you at a friend’s party and stealing you away from me.
"I want him to have a father. I want to be his father. Jason, Angela, and Spencer Powell. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?"
At that point, Spencer had my last name—Mullen. There had never been any consideration of another option. Now that Jason was talking about marriage, I saw the benefits of becoming Angela and Spencer Powell, in a big, crowded city. He would still see his grandparents. He had adjusted to kindergarten and then to first grade. He’d be able to transition to a new school. The benefits would be worth it.
I still remember Jason telling me how much his parents would have loved me the night after I said yes.
We got married at Gurney’s on the date Jason had held, but at my request, there was no ceremony, just a dinner party for twelve. No puffy gown, no veil, no announcement in the Sunday Styles section. A nondenominational minister I found on the Internet showed up for cocktails to make it official. Jason’s lawyer and best friend, Colin, filed the paperwork to change Spencer’s name the following Monday. Legal adoption would take longer, but Spencer and I were officially Powells.
Two years later, over a table at Eleven Madison Park, I asked Jason if Colin was still working on making it official. His face immediately fell, as if I’d interrupted dinner to ask him to take out the garbage. Is this really what you want to talk about on our anniversary?
Of course not. It’s just the date—it’s a reminder. I wasn’t a lawyer, but it didn’t seem possible it could take this long. There was no other father in the picture. Did Colin tell you what the holdup was? I can get police reports if he needs them. I’m sure Detective Hendricks could explain—
Jason rested his fork on the plate next to his half-eaten duck breast and held up a hand. Please, he whispered, looking around as if anyone had been listening. You’re always the one saying you don’t like thinking about that. That the past doesn’t matter. So can we please not talk about it on our anniversary?
Fine. It was a reasonable request. He was right. I’d seen a counselor a few times when I first came home, but nothing that anyone would call real therapy. It was almost like I started life over again at the age of nineteen. I didn’t need counseling. The only thing I ever needed was for people to understand that I was fine. I am fine. The couple of times Jason suggested that I talk to someone, I shut down the possibility, and not gently. For me to raise the subject in passing over the dinner table was unfair.
But I couldn’t ignore my suspicion that something had changed. What sounded like a pile of annoying paperwork a couple of years ago felt like an actual hurdle now, a line Jason no longer wanted to cross. Maybe it had seemed easier to imagine being a permanent father to Spencer two years ago, when we both assumed we’d have another child, a little brother or sister for our son, together.
I got pregnant the second month after our marriage. Two months after that, I wasn’t. I had never seen Jason cry before. That night in bed, we said we’d try again. I was still so young. It only took four months to get another plus sign on the stick. Then after two months: gone. Two miscarriages in a year.
The third time lasted almost to the first trimester mark. I was starting to look forward to sharing the news. But then we lost him . . . or maybe her. The doctors remained optimistic, telling me that my chances for a successful pregnancy were still over 50 percent. But I felt like I had already flipped that coin too many times, and it was going to keep coming up on the wrong side. I, of all people, needed predictability. I needed to know what was going to happen, and because I knew that about myself, I really only had one choice—to give up. I asked for the insertion of an IUD so I could have control over my body again.
Jason did his best not to seem disappointed. He said that no matter what happened, we still had Spencer, and he was enough. But I could tell that he was trying to convince himself more than anything. And I noticed that I was the one holding him. I was the one doing the consoling. Because we both knew that in some ways, the loss was more his than mine, because Spencer would always be more mine than his. Jason didn’t have a child of his own.
And now Spencer still wasn’t adopted.
I thought maybe we’d gotten an update, I said softly.
He reached across the table and held my hand. When he
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