Synopsis

Artist Vivian Lewis turns twenty-one at the start of a life-changing August in London. Fleeing abroad to escape a devastating family secret, she embarks on a brief, passionate love affair that ignites her creativity and for the first time gives her a sense of belonging. But after four weeks her lover, Josh Barnes, is gone.

Ten years later, she’s married with a young child, still struggling to find her place in the world. She’s married the wrong man and given up her artistic dreams. Still, through her aimless days as a Los Angeles housewife, she’s haunted by memories of that long-ago summer.

Then she discovers Josh has become a bestselling author and will be in town the following week. The consequences of their reunion soon reverberate through Vivian's life. With her marriage, her daughter’s future, and her identity itself at stake, Vivian must decide whether to stay where she is or to explore the unrealized potential she left behind in London, no matter the risk.

Excerpt

Friday March 14 was our four-year anniversary, and I was in a panic of indecision over what card to buy for George. That morning, I stood in the card aisle at the Larchmont Rite-Aid for what felt like hours. I read every single card; none of them was right. “My Dream Come True.” “I’ll Love You Forever.” “Our Love is Meant To Be.” Ridiculous pictures of penguins, or ribbons, or silhouetted couples walking hand-in-hand in the sand. Our love isn’t like that at all! I thought, frustrated. It just felt wrong, buying one of those over-the-top cards, even though I knew George would do so for me. Just like the first things he always did were to hug Lucy and kiss me when he got home from teaching after 7 pm, after a long drive on the clogged freeway. And because today was our anniversary, I knew he’d come home with a spray of flowers, and one of those mushy cards, and a little gift of lingerie, or another piece of jewelry I’d never wear. Something you could tell he’d hurried into downtown Pasadena to buy during his lunch break, as if checking off a list of what people were supposed to buy each other for their anniversary. So old-fashioned and careful, the way he loved me. Versus me, who loved him in this submissive puppy-like way, like: Thank you for letting me be your wife, so I don’t have to think, or worry, anymore.

“Oh, the hell with it!” I muttered, grabbing the first card I saw—a large heart-shaped confection with imprinted lace edges. “To My One and Only Love,” it read in foil cursive. There was a lengthy poem in front, which appeared to continue inside, though I couldn’t bring myself to read the entire thing without gagging. How we would walk hand in hand through life, always by each other’s side, with a love that never died. Well, that was about right anyhow, I reflected, digging through my purse for change, laboriously counting out pennies to make the transaction come out exactly even. George would never let me leave his side. So there we’d be, stuck together like the magnetic princess-and-frog salt and pepper shakers Aunt Dorothea had given us as a wedding present. Lips forever touching, barely, magnetically. Sometimes I just wanted to fling those garishly colored things at the wall.

I crossed the street to Larchmont Village Wine & Cheese and purchased an appropriately festive gift—a bottle of port. I couldn’t stand the stuff myself, too sweet with an undertone of wet socks, but George loved to pour himself a glass of port after dinner, swirling it thoughtfully as he propped his stocking feet up on the ottoman in the living room. All he needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket, I’d think, and he’d fit right in to the nineteenth century. My lord and master.

A sparkly bag to put the booze in and presto—our fourth anniversary. Our sixth year together.

The funny thing was, marrying George was my surrender to conformity. By marrying him, I agreed to enter the world of grown-ups with responsibilities, children, and roots. No more mucking about in low-paying jobs, barely surviving paycheck to paycheck, following some half-assed dream of artistic fame I could never carry through.

But marrying me—barely employed, almost half his age—that was the one crazy, wild, out-of-character thing George had ever done. That March afternoon four years ago, I’d walked down the makeshift aisle in Madame’s backyard, my heels sinking into the damp grass. His mother hadn’t warmed to me, but I was confident she would. She’d once been a high-school French teacher in the LA city schools, and even though she’d been born and bred in Los Angeles, she affected a French accent and called herself Madame Anglin. I did, too, out of politeness at first, and then—because she never stopped me and said, “Oh, please, call me Mom!”—Madame it still was.

Sparse rows of guests with polite, vague smiles; Madame staring stonily straight ahead, as if at a funeral. Marty in a too-small suit handed down from Alex; his bony wrists stuck out the cuffs. He sat next to the aisle, and as I passed him, he mimed a hanging motion, crossing his eyes and lolling his head back, hand pulling on an imaginary rope. I kicked him furtively as I walked by. Alex was sitting with his fiancée, Sheila, several rows distant from Mom and Marty. I hardly recognized him, with slicked-back hair and a suit that looked more expensive than my wedding dress. Mom was crying, but she cried so easily. And I barely touched Dad’s arm as we walked together down the aisle, slipping a little in the mud. Thinking, So there you go. This is how it ends, after all.

Synopsis

Excerpt

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