In Your Dreams

Hadley seemed a little blue at Christmastime, so Jack surprised her with a trip to Manhattan, earning a lot of happy shrieks and kisses (and the wrath of his grandmother and Mrs. J.). They saw a show, stayed in a nice hotel (though not in a suite this time), went skating at Rockefeller Center, Hadley clutching his arm and giggling as she wobbled and skidded.

Though she paused meaningfully in front of Tiffany’s, Jack didn’t take the bait; he’d already bought her some very nice earrings in Manningsport and arranged this trip. He wasn’t about to break the budget just for a turquoise box. She didn’t seem to mind, and took his hand as they walked down Fifth Avenue.

When they got back home, she seemed happier. The bumps in the road seemed to have smoothed out.

Then, in February, Jack stopped by the post office, which was one of Hadley’s jobs. She had clearly defined ideas about what husbands should do and what wives should. It was a husband’s job to empty the trash and clean up Lazarus’s victims (and Princess Anastasia’s hairballs); it was a wife’s job to make the bed and pick movies. Husband shoveled the snow and scraped cars; wife went to the post office.

But Honor was expecting a package, and she asked him to swing by. He checked his own post office box while he was there.

Inside were three envelopes—one from MasterCard, two from Visa—addressed to John N. Holland IV.

Which was strange, since he only had one credit card, an American Express. He only used it when he had to, preferring to use cash whenever possible.

With a cold feeling in his stomach, he went out to his truck and opened the envelopes, his breath frosting the air.

One bill was for $6,008.01, one for $8,772.15, and one for $4,533.98.

Almost twenty thousand dollars. At 24 percent interest, no less.

The charges went back as far as October...well after he and Hadley had the talk about the red-soled shoes that cost so much. They were from stores that Jack knew only by reputation. Tiffany’s...he remembered how good a sport she was when they didn’t stop in at Christmastime. Guess she could afford to be, since she’d already bought herself a little something. Henri Bendel. Neiman Marcus. Chanel, Coach, Prada, Armani.

Almost twenty thousand dollars on clothes, shoes and handbags.

Jack found that he was sweating.

After the flights back and forth from Savannah...after spending five months’ salary on a Tiffany engagement ring and a diamond wedding band...after paying for the rehearsal dinner for seventy-five people...after the lavish honeymoon, the new couch, after Christmas in New York City, after all the crap she’d bought for the house...they simply couldn’t afford this. Jack had never wanted for money, but this...this was twenty grand he just didn’t have sitting around.

Worse than the money, though, was the lying.

She’d been lying to him for months.

Jaw locked hard, Jack drove home. She was there, sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, idly stirring sugar into her tea. “Oh, hey, baby!” she said when he came in. “What are you doing home so early?”

He put the bills on the table in front of her. “Explain,” he said tightly.

She was calm; he had to give her that. Stroked Princess Anastasia and said that, yes, she may have “overindulged,” she shouldn’t have kept that from him, but shopping had always been a hobby. She liked nice things; he knew that. She believed in buying quality. No need for him to have kittens.

He made her show him her purchases, and she sighed and complied. Some were right there in their closet, some in her jewelry box, some hidden in the attic.

Shoes galore. Seven new black dresses, each of which looked identical to the last. Four leather jackets. Five winter coats. More makeup than she could use in years. Special soaps and moisturizers and cleansers and creams. Belts and scarves and gloves. Perfume. An eight-ounce bottle of bubble bath that cost $179. “I thought Faith might like that for Christmas,” she said unconvincingly.

“It’s February.”

“So? I like to shop all through the year.”

“Hadley, we can’t afford this!” he barked, and she folded her arms and stared at him patiently.

“Jack, we can. I know you’re on the stingy side, but that wasn’t how I was raised. Where I come from, a man takes care of his woman.”

“By take care of you mean go into debt?”

“Fine. I did a little retail therapy.”

“Maybe you should try the regular kind.”

“That was uncalled for,” she said. “You have no idea how lonely it is for me! You’re at work all day long!”

“People who work for a living generally work all day long, Hadley.”

“Well, you misled me, then! I thought you were—” She stopped abruptly

“You thought I was what?”

Rich. That’s what she’d thought. And he’d always thought he was—he paid his bills, owned a home, bought a new truck every 125,000 miles, didn’t have debt (until now) and put a modest amount in the stock market and savings.

But he wasn’t rich. Not by Hadley’s standards, anyway.

She looked straight ahead. “I thought you’d value our time together more.”

“How do I not value our time together, Hadley?”

“You always put your family first. You spend more time with your father than you do with me.”

“I work with my father.”

“That Mrs. Johnson growls at me any time I even look at her, and your sisters are horrible!”

“My sisters aren’t horrible, Mrs. Johnson growls at everyone and they’re not the reason you spent twenty thousand dollars on clothes.”

“You’re overreacting. I’m sorry you don’t think I’m worth it, after all I do to try to make you happy.” There was a challenge in her eyes.

“This is practically hoarding, and it’s money we don’t have.” He picked up a pair of long white gloves, the kind a woman would wear to...well, hell, he didn’t know. “You forged my signature on three credit card applications, which is illegal, for one, and for two, means your own credit must be shot to hell. You’re hiding things around the house because you know you shouldn’t be spending so much. This is not how a responsible adult behaves.”

She grew stony and wounded. She said she’d pay off the credit cards by taking on a few clients if money was all he cared about. Apparently, she’d misread him.

Jack loved his wife. He did.

Or you did before you got to know her so well, said a voice in his head, sounding a lot like Honor.

No. He did love her. But it was clear that she wasn’t as straightforward as he’d thought when they first met. And it was also clear that she thought he was a wealthy vintner and not a guy who had to work for a living. Maybe this wasn’t the life she thought she’d signed on for.

“Hadley, if you’re not happy here,” he began as gently as he could.

She jerked as if he’d hit her. “If I’m not happy, what?” she said, and suddenly her voice was shaking.

“Maybe we rushed into this. If you’re not getting what you want—”

“Jack, no! Are you...do you want a divorce? Oh, my God!” She burst into tears, her hands over her face. “Please, Jack! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’ll return everything I can, but please don’t leave me, Jack!”

He got up and put his arms around her. “Hadley, honey, it just seems like you expected something different,” he said.

“Please give me another chance!” The sobs were tearing out of her.

He hadn’t expected that.

He got a washcloth and wiped her face, held her tight, feeling like an absolute prick...and wondering how exactly that had happened. Poured her a hefty glass of wine, and another for himself, and assured her he didn’t want a divorce.

And he didn’t. He just wanted a better marriage.

The next day, Hadley wasn’t home when he got back from Blue Heron. She came through the door a half an hour later, her face bright. “Guess who just got a job!” she said.

She was sorry about the credit cards. She would pay them off. He was right, she’d gone a little crazy, but now she had a job and all would be put right as rain.

Her job was clerking in the gift shop of Dandelion Hill, another winery on Keuka, run by Oliver Linton, a transplanted Wall Streeter who’d retired at the age of forty and bought a vineyard. Nice guy, as Jack knew from the wine association meetings and various events all the vineyards participated in. Oliver even took them out for dinner, and they reciprocated by inviting him up to the house one night, and it seemed that, finally, things were on the right track.

Jack was stunned at the relief he felt. Hadley had a job, a place to go every day, and it seemed like exactly what she needed. She laughed more and had more to say, funny little stories about the people she met or Dandelion Hill’s grouchy shop manager. Things became more down to earth, more normal...happier.

It was almost liberating, her feet of clay. When they’d first met, she’d been perfect. Now she was real. Yes, yes, she spent too much money and played the victim when she felt defensive. But no one was perfect. She was happier now. She even started talking about kids.

“Jack, I have the best news!” Hadley said one night, bursting into the house, and his heart leaped. She was pregnant. It had to be. “Oliver wants me to redecorate! At last!”

Ah. Well, that was nice, too.

“What?” she said.

“I thought you might be pregnant.”

Something flickered across her face. “Oh. No. Not yet. But it’s still good news! Oliver wants me to redo the tasting room!”

Hadley threw herself into the job. Spent huge amounts of time on her laptop, talked about fabric choices and stool styles and glasses, all the stuff that Jack pretty much ignored at Blue Heron, as it fell under Honor’s reign.

Oliver took to calling her in the evenings, and she’d apologize to Jack and then skip upstairs to the room she’d made into her office. She took even more care with her appearance, and when he teased her about it, she slapped his arm and said, “Jack! I’m not just a clerk anymore. I’m a decorator, baby. I have to look the part.” Finally, she started making female friends, a couple of women who also worked at Dandelion Hill. Hadley joined their weekly book club, though they never seemed to read anything.

Jack hadn’t seen her this happy since the wedding.

The only fly in the ointment was, oddly enough, sex. They just weren’t doing it as much these days. “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted,” she explained. “And don’t ask me why, because when there’s news, mister, you’ll be the first to hear it. I’m not one of those women who tells the whole wide world ten minutes after she conceives.”

A baby. No, it was smart to be sure first, but Jack felt something huge move in his chest.

“Stop looking at me with that goofy face, Jack Holland,” she said teasingly. “What did I just tell you?” Her phone rang, even though it was after nine. “Oh, dang it, it’s Oliver, I swear that man cannot find his car keys without a flashlight and a blue heeler hound dog. Hello? Oliver, honest to goodness! I have no idea!” She smiled at Jack and left the room, still gabbing.

About two weeks after she hinted about the pregnancy, Jack decided to leave work early. He and Dad had been checking the tanks and doing some projections for the spring planting with Pru, but it was a quiet time of year. He stopped at the horrifyingly expensive gourmet market that had just opened, bought some filet mignon and cheese and asparagus. Allison and Charles Whitaker were there, too; they lived near Pru and came to Blue Heron all the time. “Making dinner for your bride?” Allison asked.

“I sure am,” Jack said.

“Why don’t you ever make me dinner?” she asked Charles, giving him a sharp elbow in the side. Her husband gave Jack a dark look and muttered something, and Jack left them, bickering in front of the beautiful, organic, locally-grown-and-prayed-over-by-the-monks-of-Saint-Benedict’s vegetables.