The Robbins household looks perfect from the outside: no dust, no stains, no wrinkles. Yet a glimpse into its heart reveals no laughter, no closeness, no joy. Olivia thinks that if she keeps everything tidy and serves delicious meals on time, family life is bound to get better. But when her husband, Nick, misses their anniversary, she realizes no amount of domestic success will compensate for failure in their marriage, or for her own failure to develop her identity—always busy as a mother, wife, and neighbor, she has forgotten how to be a unique and vibrant individual. Determined to make a change, Olivia joins a local book club, where she nurtures new friendships and explores new ideas. But her growing confidence falters when Nick declares his independence— and while her new friends lovingly encircle her with support, only Olivia can reach into the depths of her fledgling self to find the faith, hope, and love her troubled family needs.

He wasn’t coming home.

The grandfather clock I’d inherited when my mom died chimed eleven times, each marking the late hour and seeming to mock me for waiting as long as I had. The candles on the dining room table had burned to stubs, white wax dripping off the collars of the candlesticks and onto the table.

I stared at the wax, pooled and dried to the shiny oak surface, and couldn’t even muster the ability to care that it was likely leaving a waxy ring that would never come out of the wood without stripping, sanding, and restaining. It was all work I’d do on my own. He’d be mad, and he’d comment on how it showed my lack of . . . whatever it was I should have. And then he’d fume silently for a while longer before moving on to something else that actually interested him, something that wasn’t me, something that wasn’t our anniversary dinner sitting cold around the two flames bobbing above their almost-spent candles.

Nick hadn’t even called.

Hours had gone into preparing the dinner. Hours of my life I’d never get back. Creamed peas, asparagus with that maple-mustard sauce he loved, grilled lemon garlic halibut, and fresh homemade rolls. I scraped my chair back and blew out the flames, my breath sweeping more wax down onto the table.

I flipped on the light switch and pressed my palms into my temples as I paced around the table. When did we come to this? How did we get to uneaten anniversary dinners? We used to be a fun couple. We used to be the couple everyone envied—the one everyone wanted to be like. He used to be the one surprising me with flowers and kissing me loudly in front of our small children just to hear them say, “Ew! Gross!”

The pendulum of the clock ticked off every moment he wasn’t home as though it were personally keeping track. What should I do?

With a sigh, it occurred to me that the only thing to do at the moment was clear the table and throw out the food since it had been sitting out for more than four hours. I’d picked at it after the first hour, taking nibbles from the sides where it wouldn’t disrupt the visual effect—as if it had mattered. At least the only dishes I’d have to wash were the serving dishes and the cooking pans. There. That’s better. Find something positive. Breathe deeply, and look for something to be glad about.

It sounded Pollyanna but was a habit I’d picked up as a child when my mom had snuggled under a lap blanket with me and watched old classics, Pollyanna among them, while thunder pounded the sky and wind howled through the rafters of my childhood home. Those had been good days in years filled with good days; I’d been held in the safety of my mother’s arms, warm and loved and needed. The glad things in my life seemed endless at the time, and counting them all had sounded like fun.

Mom had encouraged me to be like Pollyanna. And later she told me my personality quirk had gotten her through some rough times in her own life. She’d once called me her life preserver. What would she say if she could see me now, clearing an uneaten meal from my dining table in a home too large to feel cozy and too cold to feel homey? A forty-one-year-old woman with four kids and a husband who didn’t remember the plans of a special anniversary dinner? A woman who hid the gray sneaking into her brown hair with bottles of blonde dye? A woman who could find precious little in her cold, silent house to feel glad about?

The china plate I’d been holding slammed into the wall and shattered into an explosion of porcelain, startling me enough that I jumped.

But what startled me more than the fact that I’d thrown a grossly expensive plate into my decorator wall, leaving a dent of chipped blue paint and white drywall, was the fact that the action offered real relief.

I felt better having thrown the plate.

So I threw the other one.

And smiled.

Then frowned.

“You’re an idiot, Livvy,” I told myself. “Who do you think is going to clean that up?”

Talking to myself was a habit I’d picked up after my mom died four years ago. My dad had died before her. I had no siblings. Mom’s passing left me vacant. She’d had a blood clot that had found its way to her brain when she’d been out watering her red hibiscus. The hose was still running, pointed up at a crazy angle, caught between her arm and body, when I’d found her. The mulch had floated on top of the little pond of water, and the drenched flowers had drooped with the water weight as though they were bowing their heads in respect for the woman who would no longer care for them.

I bowed my own head now. She was no longer caring for me either.

Even at forty-one, I needed my mommy. I blinked back the sting in my eyes for the want of her arms around my shoulders.

I went to the kitchen and came back with the dust pan and a little sweeper. “The same person who made the mess is the one who’s going to be cleaning it, that’s who.” It’s one thing to talk to yourself, but I’d started answering myself two years ago when I’d realized no one else ever did.

I stayed on my tiptoes to keep from crunching the glass into the hardwood floor as I swept around and under me, running the hand broom along the edge of the open cardboard boxes and into the dust pan before I dared to actually look inside the two boxes—donations to the library book drive in one box and my son’s fourth grade volcano project in the other. Books and volcano both had a new coating of porcelain chunks and splinters.

Perfect.

“Just perfect!”

I stood up and dumped the contents of the dust pan into the trash then pulled out the vacuum and the hose attachments so I could suck the little shards out of the boxes without cutting myself. A lot of the sand used to make Tyler’s volcano look more realistic and a couple of the plastic palm trees I’d picked up at the Newport Birthday Party Supply House went the way of vacuum bags. By the time I was done, I’d scratched up a couple of the books with the end of the hose and made the volcano scene look like the remnants of a long-dead planet. I hoped the books weren’t first editions.

“What’s all the noise in here?” Amanda stood in the doorway of the dining room, her arms folded across the pink tank top she slept in, which completely clashed with the green flannel bottoms covered in smiling skulls. She’d been studying at her friend’s house and had planned on spending the night. Her brown hair strayed from the sloppy ponytail.

“Why are you home? I thought you were staying at Cassi’s.” It was just as well she’d come home. It wasn’t like the big anniversary plans had panned out anyway. When Amanda said she’d be at her friend’s and my oldest child, Chad, had said he’d be doing a game night at a buddy’s house, I’d called the in-laws to see if they’d take Tyler and Marie. I didn’t ask for those kinds of favors very often from my in-laws—even if they did live only a half hour away. The in-laws were complicated in ways that made me tired.

“Cassi’s brother is a creep. He and his friends ate all the good food and then wouldn’t turn off their stupid games. I finished the project and just want sleep now. What are you doing?” She stepped farther into the dining room.

“I dropped a plate. I needed to clean it up.”

“You could do that in the morning. You’re going to wake up Dad. It’s like . . . midnight.”

“Dad’s not home yet.” I didn’t bother correcting her about the time. It was only just past eleven.

Her eyes swept quickly over the table, the candles, the dinner, and the dent in the wall. In less than a glance, understanding dawned on her face. “Dropped the plate, huh?”

I swallowed and looked down, feeling stupid for having been caught throwing the kind of tantrum she was famous for in our family.

She laughed. “Looks like you dropped it real hard against the wall.” She wandered over to me and traced her fingers over the new dents. “Looks like you dropped it real hard against the wall twice.”

Nothing could be said to dignify my actions. Not denial or admission. So I stayed quiet, feeling the heat crawl up my neck and into my face.

“Did he at least call?” she asked, the humor gone from her voice.

I shook my head and coiled the vacuum hose.

She took a sharp intake of breath, as if she’d been about to shout something but then had changed her mind. She nodded and gave me a gentle hug. “I’m going to bed. You should too.” Her whisper was barely audible. She turned and left, her feet treading softly on the stairs like she still worried she might wake up her father who wasn’t home.

By the time I’d cleaned up the dinner and the tantrum, my soul felt scoured. I checked the boxes again to make certain there weren’t any stray bits of plate still hanging around and inspected the top book in the library box—Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible.

The dust jacket had been scratched pretty badly from my raking the hose nozzle over it. Donating something so damaged seemed uncharitable in every way. And they’d already asked us not to use the donations as a chance to discard worn and unwanted items but instead to try our best to donate quality merchandise. It had been quality merchandise when it had been donated by one of the neighbors.

I ran a finger along the new scars of the book. Reading had once been a favorite pastime. What had happened to time that actually belonged to me?

I hefted the book out of the box, liking the weight of it in my hands. It felt like something of substance, something more than the emptiness the evening had brought me. I opened the book and began to read.

Imagine a ruin so strange it must have never happened.

I read a few pages in, right up to the sentence:

I had washed up there on the riptide of my husband’s confidence and the undertow of my children’s needs.

I snapped the book closed, looking at my surroundings anew with those words echoing through me. I wasn’t in Africa, wasn’t in any jungle more ferocious than the 405 freeway, and yet, sitting there on the floor between boxes of charity and childhood, my hands dried out from antibacterial dish soap, I felt I had been washed up on the riptide of my husband’s confidence and the undertow of my children’s needs.

The house was in perfect shape, no dust—not even on the blades of the ceiling fans—nothing out of place or amiss in the Robbins household. Nicholas didn’t yell or throw tantrums. He certainly never threw dishes at a wall. But over the years, he’d become silent. The silence felt like disapproval in so many ways. I kept thinking if I did things better, worked harder, he would start talking to me again.

He’d been married before, but it had ended badly . . . with him catching her and his best friend together having breakfast in bed—his bed. We had dated for almost two months before he’d confessed to having an ex-wife. Along with that information came the confession that he also had two small children.

He’d expected me to walk away. Looking back, sometimes it felt that he’d told me about his past and his two children with the intention of me walking away. But when I was excited to meet his kids and take on this new challenge, he finally opened up.

I felt like I’d passed a test. He knew my devotion was total. If an ex and two kids didn’t make me waver, nothing would.

It had worked out well enough . . . in the beginning. His kids became my kids. And then we started having our kids—four of our own to add to his two. We should have been a happy family of eight. But somewhere along the way, Nick had compartmentalized his life from before and his life with me, no matter how hard I tried to mesh us all into one family unit. He distanced himself from things that weren’t perfect. His previous marriage had been imperfect, and he distanced himself from that life—even the kids from that life.

But I was also imperfect. Is that why he distanced himself from me? My body had filled out over the years, going from a toned size six to a softened size twelve. And I did throw dishes at the wall—not that he’d ever know about that because I’d never admit to it and Mandy would never rat me out. I’d pull out the spackle and paint tomorrow and fix it myself. Calling someone to fix it would require paying a bill I’d have to explain later. I stared at the newly bruised wall and hoped a repair job was possible.

But so what if it wasn’t?

What if my patch-up job looked worse? Who was around to care? My undertow children were all nestled away in beds somewhere, and my riptide husband had yet to make an appearance. I scrambled to my feet—my body not reacting to my brain’s commands as swiftly or as easily as it once had—dropped The Poisonwood Bible on the table—I’d been right about the wax leaving its mark on the table—and headed to the front door.

I needed some air.

Walking at night was not a habit of mine. I lived in an upscale area, but it was still California, and smart women didn’t go walking around on their own at midnight without at least a bottle of pepper spray and a cell phone. But anger fueled the walk. Any punk kid who might try messing with me would find himself turned upside down in a dumpster.

My anger flowed from one source.

Nick.

He would excuse himself tomorrow with, “I had to work late.” And that would be the last of it.
But it wouldn’t be the last of it. He’d do it again. And again. And again.

What killed me was the wondering. Was it work? He was a CFO at Soft Tekk. Could that work be exciting enough to keep him hours away from his home? Was it a woman—a secretary, a coworker, a barmaid he’d met in some dark, smoke-filled place where he could watch a Lakers game without the kids running through the house making noise? Or was it worse? Was it simply the fact that he’d rather do anything than be with me?

He escaped our marriage every day through the convenient excuse called work. And yet his life spun a web around me that held me cocooned in place while he came back on occasion to feed on my energy.

His house. His children. His community. My responsibility.

Riptide.

I turned toward the shops. Too bad it was the middle of the night. No comfort shopping for me. I passed a nail spa in a strip mall. No comfort manicures either—not that I ever really indulged in things like that. It was an expensive habit, and the kids were always needing something that competed for the financial attention. A few doors down from the nail spa, a blue flyer taped to the door flitted in the night breeze. In a brief moment of need, I imagined it was waving to me—asking me to stop and read whatever message it had for me and me alone.

Looking for serious readers to join the Newport Ladies Book Club.
Women only! Eating and good conversation!
Space limited. Call Ruby Crenshaw asap.

I looked up to see the sign above the shop. Grey’s Used & Rare Books. A book club. How long had it been since I’d held a novel in my hands for the sheer pleasure of losing myself in its pages? How long had it been since I’d held any book without needing to stuff it in a box for charity or a backpack for a child or a shelf to put it away for when the riptide wanted it?

No. That wasn’t fair. Calling Nick a riptide every four seconds would get me nowhere. Find something glad.

But there wasn’t anything glad I could associate with Nick at that moment. Even the fact that I lived in a beautiful home and had beautiful children just made me tired—not glad at all. It reminded me of schedules and soccer games and visits to the dry cleaners and grocery shopping and school functions and Junior League meetings and volunteer work and cleaning a house that never felt like home anymore. Tired.

The breeze picked up, and the little flyer waved at me again. I pulled the blue paper from the door, feeling guilty for removing it and hoping the bookstore owner had a spare to put up. Even if I didn’t have to face my minister every Sunday, I hated taking anything that wasn’t mine.

Depression replaced anger for the walk home. I blinked away the sting in my eyes again, imagining him cuddling up with some flirty female who wasn’t me.

But the accusation in that image wasn’t fair either. Nick had once been the victim of infidelity. Cheating was something he abhorred, something that made him physically ill. Nick was the last man on the planet who would be the cheater. He didn’t even cheat at Monopoly back when he’d stayed home long enough to play a game with us. And there had been no evidence of infidelity—aside from his absence.

But what did absence prove, if not infidelity? It proved he didn’t care enough to be with me. Another woman or not, I’d been rejected. He didn’t need or want me.

I looked down at the paper in my hand and considered it. The woman’s name was Ruby. I needed something with the ability to shine in my life. A ruby was as good as anything. And for the first time since setting the table for dinner, I found something to be truly glad about. Because I was going to, for once, do the selfish thing. I was going to join a book group, read, eat, and have good conversation.