Brava, Valentine

Bret comes out of the kitchen and is happy to see us. “You’re here!”

“I only come to Jersey for corn…and for you.” Gabriel gives him a pat on the back.

Mackenzie hands Piper off to Bret. “Make yourselves at home,” she says as she goes into the living room to corral the kids.

We’ve had an awkward past, Mackenzie and I. I wasn’t invited to their wedding, but after they had been married for a year, Bret invited me out to di

Bret is the kind of man who has to have everyone in his life get along. He can’t abide acrimony. He wouldn’t even break up with me until I promised that I wouldn’t hate him forever. Of course, he couldn’t rest until he knew I was happy for him and approved of his choice of wife. The truth is, I think Mackenzie is the best woman for Bret.

Piper reaches for me, and I take her in my arms. She puts her arms around my neck. The tension in my body goes as she holds me close. Her skin has the scent of apricots. She rubs her cheeks on mine. Babies are a balm.

“Where’s the bar?” Gabe asks.

“In the den at the back of the house.” Gabe disappears through the door. “My folks are dying to see you,” Bret says to me. “They’re in the kitchen.” He points.

The kitchen is filled from counter to table with Fitzpatricks. When they’re home in Queens, they gather in the kitchen, and evidently, when they go anywhere else, they gather in the kitchen as well. I have many memories of their family di

“Valentine!” Bret’s mother throws her arms around me. Mrs. Fitz looks like Mrs. Santa Claus. She has smooth pink skin, not a wrinkle on it, and thick, white hair. She’s always been warm and dear, and since the day I met her, she’s been on a diet. Her husband is tall and lanky, like Bret, and he’s nuts about her. “Look, Bob, it’s Val.”

“So great to see you.” I kiss her on the cheek. “And you look great, both of you.” I kiss Mr. Fitz.

“Look at him,” Mrs. Fitz mock complains as she turns to her husband. “He eats the same amount of fudge I do, and he’s a beanpole.”

“You know men. They got us coming and going, especially when it comes to metabolism.”

“You look wonderful.” Mrs. Fitz nods in approval. “Slim.” Mrs. Fitz and I have a brand of banter that’s all about our figures and what we eat and how we look. I wonder what she and Mackenzie talk about. “Are you seeing anyone?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Kind of.”

“Is it serious?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, good for you.” Mrs. Fitz squeezes my hand. In one grip, I fill in what she’s thinking: sorry it didn’t work out with Bret, but life goes on, so go for it.

“Hey, everybody. The Pirate is here,” Mackenzie a

The kitchen drains of Fitzpatricks, followed by Gabriel, until Mrs. Fitz, Mackenzie, and I are left alone.

“It’s a great party,” I assure the hostess. “The invitation was beautiful.”

“Mackenzie made them herself,” Mrs. Fitz says proudly.

“Thanks. My old career in advertising comes in handy.” She smiles. “It’s my way of staying creative. You know, making necklaces out of Cheerios is only so fulfilling.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. It all goes by like a shot-and you’ll remember these days and wonder where they went.” Mrs. Fitz takes a cookie from the Lazy Susan.

An awkward silence sets in.

This is why I don’t come to the suburbs. Mothers have a lot to talk about with one another, but what can I converse about with them? Making shoes? How can I relate to their daily lives? Wives and mothers already know the answers to the big questions that loom before a woman when she’s unattached and focused on her career: Will love find me? (It did.) Will that love make a family? (It does.) Their world seems complete, renovated, redecorated, and fully loaded. Everything is done.

A stay-at-home mother in the suburbs can plan her life for the next fifteen years. The markers are determined by the children themselves, and the calendar follows: the school year, summer vacation, birthday parties, camp, holiday breaks, and piano lessons. A stay-at-home mother knows weeks, months, and years in advance what life has in store for her. There’s an order to family life. In contrast, I have no idea what lies ahead. I don’t even know what the next six months will bring, much less the coming year. When it comes to a long-range view for my life, I’m still figuring out which pattern to cut.

“Bret is really optimistic about your company. I haven’t seen him this jazzed about a business plan in a long time,” Mackenzie says.

“It’s an exciting time for us. And it’s exhausting. I mean, not as exhausting as children…”

“Oh, it’s a different thing entirely,” she says. “I used to put in twelve-hour days in the office, and still have enough energy to meet Bret for di

But is she kidding? I can’t tell. “I’m sorry about the late meetings at the shop.” I realize that the statement sounds suspicious, so much so Mrs. Fitz raises an eyebrow. I cover quickly, throwing my brother into the mix to make everything seem i

Even Mrs. Fitz seems relieved that I dug myself out of that one.

“I should make you a pair of shoes to thank you,” I tell Mackenzie.

“Size eight,” Mackenzie says. “Someday, I’ll need them. You know, when I’m back on Madison Avenue trying to impress clients, instead of hiring a pirate for birthday parties.”

Pirate Billy Bones stands before the mantel in the living room. He’s the handsome actor, David Engel on dry land, dressed up like Captain Hook without the hook. He has a blacked-out tooth and wears striped MC Hammer pants and a pile of gold chains around his neck. A wide-brimmed hat with a plume matches the stuffed parrot on his shoulder. At his feet rests a large plastic treasure chest. The children gather closely around him, while the adults form a semicircle just behind their offspring.

Gabriel sips his drink, takes in the pirate’s opening joke, grimaces, and pivots back to the kitchen. Gabriel may not like children, but he enjoys children’s theater even less.

Bret puts his arms around Mackenzie as they laugh at the pirate shtick. But Mackenzie tenses and, after an awkward pause, removes his hands from her shoulders. Bret continues to watch the show and places his hands in his pockets instead.

I wonder if she has any idea that Bret was being pursued by his sexy assistant last year. I think not. Mackenzie is appropriate, and the truth of that is dramatized in every nook and cra

Is there a perfect life waiting for any of us? I always believed it until, of course, I took the trip to out there. Here in Chatham, sadness has a different hue. Mackenzie doesn’t struggle with survival, as I do in the city. She struggles with her unmet potential, or the nagging question, Is this what my life was supposed to be? I imagine she doesn’t have an answer. If she did, she would embrace her husband, and she certainly wouldn’t complain about making necklaces out of cereal. But something is going on out here, and it’s not the dark suburbia written about in my mother’s magazines. This is about personal fulfillment and the best and highest use of an intelligent woman’s time.