"We made a lot of mistakes," she interjects as he nods.

I feel a wave of nostalgia, remembering our dinner conversations growing up, how much the two used to interrupt each other, more when they were getting along and happy than when their relationship was stormy, marked by silent gridlocks and standoffs. "I was depressed and frustrated and hard to live with. And he," he," she says, pointing at my father and nearly smiling, "was a cheating son of a bitch." she says, pointing at my father and nearly smiling, "was a cheating son of a bitch."

My dad raises his brows and says, "Gee. Thanks, Barb."

"Well, you were," were," she says, releasing a high, nervous laugh. she says, releasing a high, nervous laugh.

"I know," he says. "And I'm sorry."

"Duly noted," she says - which is as close as she has ever ever come to forgiving him. come to forgiving him.

I look from one parent to the other, unsure if I feel better or worse, but thoroughly perplexed as to their overarching point. Are they implying that I somehow contributed to this mess? That Nick had an affair because he's not happy? That marriage is more about how you manage a catastrophe than commitment and trust? Or are they simply caught up in their own bizarre feel-good moment?

My father must sense my confusion because he says, "Look, Tess. Your mother and I are just trying to impart some of the wisdom we collected the hard way. We're just trying to tell you that sometimes it's not about the affair -"

"But you married married Diane," I say, avoiding eye contact with my mother. Diane," I say, avoiding eye contact with my mother.

He waves this off as if his current wife is utterly beside the point. "Only because your mom left me . . ."

Clearly liking this version of their history, she smiles - a warm, real real smile, allowing him to continue. smile, allowing him to continue.

"Sweetie, here's what we're trying to say," my father says. "Marriages are funny, complicated, mysterious things . . . and they go through cycles. Ups and downs, like anything else . . . And they shouldn't really be defined by one one act, albeit a terrible one." act, albeit a terrible one."

"Multiple acts, perhaps," my mother says, unable to resist the Softball. "But not one, one, singular mistake." singular mistake."

My father raises his palms in the air as if to say he has no defense, and then continues her train of thought. "That said, you don't have to be okay with his transgression. You don't have have to forgive Nick," my dad says. "Or trust him." to forgive Nick," my dad says. "Or trust him."

"They aren't the same thing," my mother says. "Forgiving and trusting."

Her message is clear - she might have forgiven my father the first time around, but she never never trusted him again, not even for a second. Hence her undercover work and her grim, but unsurprising, Diane discovery. trusted him again, not even for a second. Hence her undercover work and her grim, but unsurprising, Diane discovery.

"I know, Barbie," he says, nodding. "I'm just trying to say that Tess has a decision to make. And it is her her decision. Not Nick's-or her brother's, or mine, or yours." decision. Not Nick's-or her brother's, or mine, or yours."

"Agreed," my mom says.

"And no matter what, we're on your side," my father adds. "Just as we've always been."

"Yes," my mother says. "Absolutely. One hundred percent."

"Thank you," I say, realizing that this might be what hurts more than anything else-the fact that I always thought Nick Nick was that person who would always, no matter what, absolutely, one hundred percent, be on my side. And the fact that I was absolutely, one hundred percent wrong. was that person who would always, no matter what, absolutely, one hundred percent, be on my side. And the fact that I was absolutely, one hundred percent wrong.

And just like that, my anger dissipates, supplanted once again by a thick, murky grief.

A short time later, the three of us return home from lunch, and are standing together in the driveway, saying our extended good-byes before my father leaves for the airport. My parents both appear perfectly at ease, and to watch their casual body language, you'd think they were very old friends, not two people who were married for nearly twenty-five years before going through a bitter divorce.

"Thanks for coming to Boston, Dad," I say, ready to get out of the cold. "I really appreciate it."

My father gives me another hug-his third since we left the restaurant-yet makes no move toward his rental car, instead commenting that he could take a later flight.

I look at my mom, who shrugs and smiles her permission.

"Would you like to come in for a while?" I say. "The kids will be home soon. Carolyn's picking Ruby up from school now."

My father quickly agrees, and minutes later, we have moved inside, congregating in the kitchen, discussing my dad's recent trip to Vietnam and Thailand. It is the sort of exotic travel my mother craves but doesn't undertake-either because she's too busy or doesn't want to do so alone. Yet she doesn't appear to begrudge my dad the experience, asking friendly, open questions. My father answers them, avoiding any plural pronouns or mention of Diane, although I know that she was with him-and I'm sure my mom does, too.

"You really should go, Barb. You'd love it," my dad says, eyeing a corked bottle of red on the counter and suggesting that we have one more glass. Against my better judgment, I shrug and say sure, watching as he pours three generous glasses, handing one to me, the other to my mother. She takes it and matter-of-factly clinks her glass against his, then mine. She offers no toast, just a wink and smile, as if acknowledging how bizarre, yet somehow pleasant, the afternoon has been. I take a long sip just as Ruby and Frank burst through the front door, Carolyn trailing behind.

"Nana and Pappy!" they shout in unison, seemingly unfazed by seeing their grandparents together.

In a surreal, bittersweet moment, I watch the four of them embrace, as I turn to handle more quotidian matters-paying Carolyn, retrieving Nick's predictably small gift from the front porch, wiping down the table, still covered with crumbs from Frank's lunch. Then, while my father does magic tricks for the kids and my mother adds her color commentary, I quietly excuse myself, relieved when no one objects or even seems to notice.

Once alone in my room, I down my wine and curl up on my made bed. After a few minutes of staring into space, I close my eyes and listen to the faint sound of my parents and children laughing downstairs, mulling over the strangeness of the afternoon-how surprising and sad and soothing it has been all at once.

As I hover near sleep, I find myself thinking about Dex's words on Christmas Eve-how he'd never cheat on Rachel-and only cheated with with her because he was in love. Then I think of my father's comments about Diane at lunch today, his implication that she was utterly beside the point, not the catalyst for my parents' split, but merely a symptom of their problems. Then, against my will, I think of her because he was in love. Then I think of my father's comments about Diane at lunch today, his implication that she was utterly beside the point, not the catalyst for my parents' split, but merely a symptom of their problems. Then, against my will, I think of her. her. Valerie. I wonder which category she falls in and whether she and Nick could possibly end up together if I opt out of the equation for good. I imagine my children with her, stepsiblings to her son. Then I drift off, imagining the new blended family, riding in a pedicab in Hanoi while I remain home, sweeping crumbs under the kitchen table, bitter and alone. Valerie. I wonder which category she falls in and whether she and Nick could possibly end up together if I opt out of the equation for good. I imagine my children with her, stepsiblings to her son. Then I drift off, imagining the new blended family, riding in a pedicab in Hanoi while I remain home, sweeping crumbs under the kitchen table, bitter and alone.

I awaken to find my mother sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me.

"What time is it?" I murmur as my eyes flutter open. "A little after six. The kids have eaten-and your dad gave them a bath. They're in the playroom now."

Startled, I sit up, realizing that I've been asleep for over two hours. "Is he still here?"

"No. He left a while ago. He didn't want to wake you. He said to say good-bye-and tell you he loves you."

I rub my eyes, remembering my full dream about Nick and Valerie, more graphic and disturbing than my vision of them in a pedicab.

"Mom," I say, overwhelmed by the sudden, startling conviction of what I need in order to move on, one way or the other. "I have to know."

She nods, as if she understands exactly what I'm thinking, what I'm trying to say.

"I need need to know," I say, unable to shut down the images from my sleep. Nick making her laugh in the kitchen while they cook Thanksgiving dinner. Nick reading bedtime stories to her son. Nick soaping her back and kissing her in a beautiful claw-foot tub. to know," I say, unable to shut down the images from my sleep. Nick making her laugh in the kitchen while they cook Thanksgiving dinner. Nick reading bedtime stories to her son. Nick soaping her back and kissing her in a beautiful claw-foot tub.

My mom nods again and puts her arms around me as the haunting reel continues. I try to pause it, or at least rewind it, wondering how it all began. Was it love at first sight? Was it a friendship that slowly became physical? Was it an epiphany one night? Did it come from something wrong in our marriage or the truest, deepest feelings or mere empathy for a hurt child and his mother? I need to know exactly what happened in the middle, and how and why it ended. I need to know what she looks like, what she's she's like. I need to hear her voice, see the way she moves, look into her eyes. I need to know like. I need to hear her voice, see the way she moves, look into her eyes. I need to know everything. everything. I need to know the whole, painful truth. I need to know the whole, painful truth.

So before I can change my mind, I pick up my phone and dial the number I memorized on Thanksgiving. I am gripped by fear, but undaunted, as I close my eyes, take my mother's hand, and wait for my discovery to begin.

42.

Valerie She is browsing the shelves at Wellesley Booksmith, while Charlie is at his piano lesson, when she hears her phone vibrate in her bag. Her heart jumps with the dim, unrealistic hope that it could be him, as she balances three novels under her arm and reaches inside her bag to check the caller ID. An unfamiliar local number lights up her screen, and although it could be just about anyone, she has the cold gut feeling that it is her. Tessa. Tessa.

Everything in her signals a flight instinct, warns her not to answer, and yet she does, whispering a hushed hello into her phone.

She hears a woman's low, nervous voice say hello back to her, and now she is certain. She takes a gulp of air, desperate for more oxygen, as one of her books tumbles to the floor, landing spine up, pages bent and splayed. A teenaged girl standing near her stoops to pick it up, handing it to Valerie with a smile.

The voice on the other line asks, "Is this Valerie Anderson?"

"Yes," Valerie replies, filled with fear and guilt. She glances around for a chair, and upon seeing none, sits cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, bracing herself for whatever is to come, knowing she deserves the worst.

"We've never met. . . My name is Tessa," the woman continues. "Tessa Russo. I'm Nick Russo's wife."

Valerie replays the word wife, wife, over and over, squeezing her eyes shut, seeing a kaleidoscope of color as she concentrates on breathing. over and over, squeezing her eyes shut, seeing a kaleidoscope of color as she concentrates on breathing.

"I ... I was wondering . . . if we could meet?" she asks without menace or malice, only a trace of melancholy, which makes Valerie feel that much worse.

She swallows and with great reluctance replies, "Okay. Sure. When?"

"Could you do it now?" Tessa asks.

Valerie hesitates, feeling sure she should prepare for this meeting the way she prepares for trials, with intense, careful attention to detail. Yet she knows the anticipation would be excruciating-for both of them-so she simply says yes.

"Thank you," Tessa says. And then, "Where?"

"I'm at Wellesley Booksmith . . . Would you like to come meet me here?" she says, wishing she had worn a nicer outfit, and bothered to run a brush through her hair, then realizing this is probably a good thing.

Valerie listens to a silence so thick that she wonders if Tessa hung up or muted the phone until she hears, "Okay. Yes. I'll be right over."

And now she waits. She waits in the front of the store, next to the shelves of greeting cards and wrapping paper, staring past a window display onto Central Street, a hundred, disjointed thoughts spinning in her head. She waits for fifteen, then twenty, then thirty minutes as a dozen or more women walk through the door. She remains convinced that none is Tessa until this this second when second when this this woman walks in. A woman who, very clearly, has not come to shop for books. woman walks in. A woman who, very clearly, has not come to shop for books.

Valerie studies her hungrily, memorizing the way she unbuttons her long camel coat, exposing an elegant yet understated ensemble of slim black pants, an ivory crewneck sweater, and matte gold flats. She admires her thick, honey-colored hair that falls to her shoulders in soft waves, and features that are vivid and strong, unlike so many of the generic beauties populating Wellesley. If she is wearing makeup at all, Valerie decides, it's the subtlest of applications, although her full lips are shiny with peach gloss.

The woman glances furtively around the store, somehow missing Valerie upon first scan despite how close they are standing. Then, suddenly, their eyes lock. Valerie's heart stops, and she considers running out the door. Instead, she takes a step forward, no longer protected by the buffer of greeting cards.

"Tessa?" Valerie says, a chill running up her spine.

The woman nods, then extends her arm, offering her hand. Valerie takes it, her heart aching as she feels her smooth, warm skin and catches a whiff of a citrus fragrance.

As their hands fall to their sides again, Tessa swallows and says, "Can we go find a place to sit down?"

Valerie nods, having already scoped out a table in the back children's section, saving it with her puffy parka and stash of books. She turns and walks toward it now, and seconds later, the two women are seated across from one another.

"So," Tessa says. "Hello."

"Hello," Valerie echoes, her throat dry and palms wet.

Tessa starts to speak, then stops, then begins again. "How's Charlie?" she asks, with such genuine concern that for one hopeful second Valerie thinks that she has it all wrong-and that Tessa is only here to check on her husband's patient.

But as Valerie replies that Charlie is doing much better, thank you for asking, she sees Tessa's lower lip quiver tellingly. And Valerie knows that she knows.

"Good. Good," Tessa manages. "I'm glad to hear it."

Then, when Valerie can't take the suspense another second, Tessa draws a deep breath and says, "Well. Look. I think we both know why I'm here . . . Why I wanted to meet you."

Valerie nods, her throat becoming tighter and drier by the second, her cheeks blazing.

"I'm here because I know," Tessa says so matter-of-factly that for a second Valerie is confused.

"You know?" she says, instantly regretting the question. She has no right to be cagey. She has no right on her side at all.

"Yes. I know," Tessa replies, her eyes flashing. "I know everything" everything"

43.

Tessa There is no denying that she is pretty, is no denying that she is pretty, very very pretty, her eyes a disturbingly deep blue. But there is nothing pretty, her eyes a disturbingly deep blue. But there is nothing sexy sexy about her. With a petite, narrow frame, and almost no hips or chest, she is more boyish than bombshell. Her face is pale against her stick-straight ebony hair, which is pulled into an uninspired low ponytail. In short, as I say her name and watch her nod back at me, I feel a strange sense of relief that this is the woman, that she is the one. I am relieved by her frail handshake, her thin voice, and the frightened way her eyes dart about while I stare directly at her. about her. With a petite, narrow frame, and almost no hips or chest, she is more boyish than bombshell. Her face is pale against her stick-straight ebony hair, which is pulled into an uninspired low ponytail. In short, as I say her name and watch her nod back at me, I feel a strange sense of relief that this is the woman, that she is the one. I am relieved by her frail handshake, her thin voice, and the frightened way her eyes dart about while I stare directly at her.

"Can we go find a place to sit down?" I say, determined to be in charge of this encounter, keep the upper hand.

She nods, and as I follow her to the back of the bookshop, I am speaking to Nick. This is who you picked? This woman? This woman I This is who you picked? This woman? This woman I would pass on the street without a second glance? This woman I'd overlook at a dinner party? would pass on the street without a second glance? This woman I'd overlook at a dinner party?

And yet. He did did pick her. Or at least he let her pick him. He had sex with this person, now seated across from me at the table she apparently reserved for our conversation. pick her. Or at least he let her pick him. He had sex with this person, now seated across from me at the table she apparently reserved for our conversation.

We exchange awkward hellos, and I force myself to ask about her son. Several long seconds pass and when it becomes clear she is waiting for me to speak, I clear my throat and say, "Well. Look. I think we both know why I'm here . . . Why I wanted to meet you."

I tell her this, even though I am not completely sure of my mission-whether it is one of discovery or about preserving my pride or finding closure of some kind or another. But no matter what, I am relieved to get this inevitable moment over with, ready for anything she might tell me, bracing myself for the worst.

She looks at me and waits.

"I'm here . . . because I know," know," I tell her, which seems to cover all the above. I lean across the table, holding her gaze so that there is absolutely no mistaking my message and no possible escape for her. I tell her, which seems to cover all the above. I lean across the table, holding her gaze so that there is absolutely no mistaking my message and no possible escape for her.

"You know?" she says. She gives me a puzzled look that infuriates me, and I resist the sudden, intense urge to reach across the table and strike her. Instead I continue calmly, determined to maintain my dignity and composure.

"Yes. I know ... I know everything" everything" I say-which of course is not entirely true. I know a few facts-but none of the details. But I continue the lie, hoping that it will prevent her from doing the same. "Nick told me I say-which of course is not entirely true. I know a few facts-but none of the details. But I continue the lie, hoping that it will prevent her from doing the same. "Nick told me everything" everything" I say. I say.

She starts to speak, then stops, her eyes filled with unmistakable hurt and surprise that brings me a measure of comfort. Until this moment, she likely believed, or at least hoped, that I was here only on a hunch, or as a result of some solid spy work. It is clear by the look on her face that she did not know that Nick confessed. As I stare at the sharp lines of her chin, memorizing the facets of her diamond-shaped face, I suddenly realize that I couldn't have called her, and certainly couldn't be here facing her, had I learned the truth any other way. It's almost as if the facts about my discovery level the playing field between us. She slept with my my husband, but he told me husband, but he told me their their secret. So in the end, he betrayed her, too. secret. So in the end, he betrayed her, too.

"It was just once," she finally says, her voice so soft that I can barely make out the words.

"Oh. Just once," I say. "All right then."

I watch her cheeks turn a deeper scarlet as my sarcasm registers, further shaming her. "I know. I know . . . It was one time too many . . . But-"