Broken Resolutions

Chapter One

 

It is a great house for parties.

It is the kind of house that Scarlett O’Hara would build today if she made her money writing romance novels instead of selling cotton and lumber. A stunning two-story brick with three fireplaces, a two-story living room, and four bedrooms, it is situated on fifty acres, and nestled at the end of a long and winding tree-lined drive. It is the sort of place they dreamed of as a young couple. They had imagined the perfect piece of land with woods and a pond, and they had found and bought it. They had imagined a perfect house, this house, and they had built it. Every wall, every window, was carefully selected and positioned. A part of them was in every decision. And when the foundation had been poured, they had each put their handprints into the wet cement. Two adults and one child – laughing as the cement dried upon their hands and their dreams began to take form.

 It is an impressive house, although it was not built to impress. It was built to be their home. A haven, a shelter from the storms and cold. A secure nest in the shaking bough of the rest of the world. A place to chart their daughter’s growth on the inside of a closet door. A place to bake cookies in a sun-filled kitchen. To soak in a hot candle-lit bath on a cold and rainy afternoon. To sit by the fire in a deep chair with a good book while snow pelts the windows. A place where, if you want, you can wear your pajamas all day long. A place of welcoming smiles, whispers in the dark, and sweet satisfied sighs.

Into this home they have welcomed their friends to celebrate New Year’s Eve for the last ten years. Before that, the group met for fifteen years in various apartments, and rented houses, but the party has always been held at “Craig and Hannah’s.” In keeping with that tradition, tonight they will all gather to exchange presents, count down the demise of one year, and welcome another. In that respect, tonight will be no different. But in every other way, it will be completely different. For they have a secret. They are getting a divorce.

Tonight they will be Craig and Hannah Hartman, the “perfect couple” one last time. There will be time enough for the truth, shattered illusions, and the end of so many dreams. But not tonight. Tonight they will pretend to be happy and in love, and no one will question it, because it is what their friends expect. In fact, the strength of their relationship is the one reality that has never changed. Until now.

They prepare for this party, their last together in the house, on separate sides of the huge master bath. They each stand at a vanity and mirror, on opposite sides of the room. On a third wall, the pointed end of a heart-shaped whirlpool tub points accusingly at the empty space separating them.

“I can’t find my tie clip,” he says.

“Imagine that.” She is closer to fifty than forty, but could pass for thirty-five. She is lean and fit, and although she doesn’t know it, beautiful. Wearing black nylons and a full black slip, she leans forward to look into the mirror. She avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror and applies her makeup in agitated manner, preoccupied with creating an image.

“Do you know where it’s at?”

“That’s not my job anymore. Call Shelia. She does know what a tie clip is, doesn’t she?”

“Funny. Really funny.” He too, is close to fifty and fit. But tonight he looks tired, and dark circles are under his eyes. He stands near his vanity and watches her, his shoulders drooped and weary.

She goes back to applying her lipstick. His favorite shade.

“I don’t know why the hell I have to wear a suit anyway,” he says. He is fully dressed (with the exception of the tie clip), in a black suit, white shirt, and dark red tie.