The Art of Adapting (novel excerpt)

The Art of Adapting (novel excerpt) part 1

Being single meant Lana got to be in charge all the time, do things the way she’d always wanted them done. She no longer had to wait until Graham was done watching TV before starting the noisy dishwasher. She didn’t have to budget for the fancy-label wine he preferred. She could wait an extra thousand miles before getting her oil changed. But it also meant she had to be in charge even when she didn’t want to be. That she’d had to be the one to fire the gardener she could no longer afford. That she’d given up her beloved winter fires because Graham told her she needed to get the chimney cleaned first and she had no idea who to call for such a thing. Or how much it would cost.

Mai finished massaging Lana’s hands with lotion. Before starting to paint her nails, she gestured to Lana’s left hand.

“You want to put your ring back on before I paint?”

Lana had no ring to put on, of course, but Mai didn’t know that. It had been months since she’d worn her wedding ring. Maybe months since she’d had a manicure.

“No,” Lana whispered. Stupid Valentine’s Day. She smiled but felt her eyes moisten. Mai ducked her glossy head of beautiful black hair and got to work. With Lana’s hands busy lying flat on the table between them, she had no way to wipe her eyes. She caught a lone, errant tear on the shoulder of her sweatshirt.

With lovely pink nails, an armload of valentines, and renewed resolve boosting her spirit, Lana headed home to wait for her kids to return from their overnight visit at Graham’s. She expected to find Matt in the kitchen, eating a generously buttered English muffin, drinking milk from his favorite blue cup, but the kitchen was empty and the house was quiet.

Lana set out three piles of Valentine’s Day gifts on the kitchen table and signed the cards. She still had a couple of hours before Graham brought the kids home. She weighed her options. Heading back to bed was too depressing. Exercising held no appeal. Eating was a dangerous way to pass the time. She texted her kids.

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love, love, love you! Mom

Abby wrote back immediately:

Can we come home now?

The proper answer was no, because it was Graham’s time with them, but it wasn’t like they had an official visitation schedule set up. Graham saw them when he wanted to see them, brought them home when he was done. Matt emerged as Lana was trying to formulate a response.

“What’s that?” he asked, gesturing in the general direction of the piles of stuff on the kitchen table.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Lana said.

“Oh,” Matt said. He set about making his breakfast. He showed no interest in the pile of gifts before his seat at the table or the envelope bearing his name.

If it’s okay with your dad, Lana wrote. That seemed fair enough. Defer to him, but give the kids permission to influence him.

He says fine, Abby wrote back.

Lana sent a text that she was on her way and fetched her keys. “I’m going to go pick up the kids at Graham’s. Want to come along?”

Matt looked at his uneaten breakfast.

“You can bring it,” Lana said. Matt picked up his food and headed for the garage.

Lana’s mood was instantly lifted the moment she pulled onto the sunny street and turned toward the ocean, headed for Graham’s place in Del Mar. Once her children were home it’d be a happy holiday. Valentine’s Day wasn’t meant to be spent alone. Of course, fetching the kids early meant Graham would be spending it alone. The thought made Lana smile. But the smile made her feel guilty. She flipped on the radio to a soft-rock station she normally hated, but knew would be playing the sappy brand of love song appropriate for the day, maybe something to remind her of happier times. What she found was even better. Adele’s “Someone Like You.” The perfect anti-love song.

Lana was singing along when she noticed the colored lights flashing behind her. A police car, on her quiet little suburban street. It was so unlikely that she kept driving for a moment, sure it wasn’t meant for her.

“Oh, no,” Matt said, peering in the side-view mirror. “What happened? What did you do?”

“It’s fine,” Lana said, pulling over. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe I have a brake light out?”

Matt ducked down in his seat, curled himself into a ball, fetus-style. His plate of breakfast fell to the floor mat.

“Please stay calm, okay? It’s fine,” she said. But as the buff cop climbed out of his car, adjusted his belt, and strutted toward her window, she got that horrible clenched-stomach feeling of being in trouble.

Excerpted from The Art of Adapting by Cassandra Dunn. Copyright 2014 © Cassandra Dunn. Published with permission from Touchstone, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.