The View From Alameda Island. Robyn Carr

mother says I’m a peacekeeper. She didn’t consider it a compliment.”

      “Shame on her,” Lauren said. “We could use a little more compromise and cooperation in this world!”

      “Spoken like a true peacekeeper,” he said. “As military ordnance, a Peacekeeper is a land-based ICBM. A nuclear missile. Maybe all those people who take us for granted should look out.”

      “Indeed,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.

      Then they both burst into laughter.

      “How long have you been friends with Sylvie Emerson?” Beau asked.

      “I’m not so sure we’re really friends,” she said. “We know each other because of our husbands. I’m sure we like each other. We run into each other at fund-raisers and social events. We’re friendly, that’s all. My husband served on the foundation board of directors for a few years and got cozy with a lot of Andy’s friends. It’s not that he’s passionate about the cause. He’s passionate about being connected and about Andy’s billions and influence, though what he hopes to do with either is beyond me. That’s why I run into Sylvie a lot—Brad hangs close. He would deny that, by the way. I’ll be surprised if she calls me for that lunch date—she’s very busy. But let me tell you something. What I know of the Emersons is they’re both sincerely good, generous people. Sylvie has mentioned that of all the work their foundation is able to do, she’s partial to the scholarship fund. She and her husband might not have identical priorities, I’m not well acquainted with Andy, but Sylvie has told me more than once—we have to feed and educate the next generation, that’s the only way we leave the world better than we found it.”

      “I wonder if they even realize how great a gift that is—giving an education. I don’t know about you, but my family wasn’t exactly fixed to send me to college.”

      “Nor was mine,” she said. “I grew up poor.”

      “What’s poor?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

      “I have a younger sister, Beth. Three years younger. When she was a baby our father went out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never came home. My mom worked two jobs the whole time we were growing up. My grandparents were alive and lived nearby, thank God. They helped. They watched us so she could work and probably chipped in when rent was late or the car broke down.”

      He smiled. “I have a large extended family. The six of us—my mom, dad, brother, two sisters and I lived in an old garage my parents converted into a small house. My mom still lives in that house, but I don’t know how long that’s going to last—she’s getting a little feeble. My dad was a janitor, my mom served lunch at the junior high and cleaned houses. We got jobs as soon as we were old enough. But my folks, under-educated themselves, pushed us to get decent grades even though they couldn’t help us with homework. We did our best. We might’ve been competing with the cousins a little bit.”

      “Nothing like a little healthy competition,” she said. “Did you know you were poor?”

      “Sure, to some extent. But we had a big family on that land. A couple of aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins. Sometimes it got crowded. But if the heat went out in winter there were plenty of people to keep warm with. Heat in summer—no relief.” He drank a little of his coffee. “We didn’t have any extras, but it wasn’t a bad way to grow up. Thing about it was we might’ve been poor but we were never poor alone.”

      “Can I ask you a personal question?”

      “You can always ask, Lauren...”

      “How do you think your life’s going to change, getting divorced? Does this begin a whole new adventure of some kind?”

      “Adventure?” he asked. “God no. My life doesn’t have to change. I love my life today. I have work that makes people happy, good friends, amazing family. I have enough predictability every day so that it’s not very often that something throws me off balance. I sleep well. My blood pressure is good. I don’t know if I could have a better life. I just don’t want it to change back.”

      She was quiet for a long moment. Finally she said, “Life must have been difficult... Before...”

      “That’s a hard question,” he said. “Difficult? There were days I thought it was hard. Unbearable, really. But those days passed. What didn’t pass was irritation. Unbalance. Never knowing what would be coming at you today. But ask anyone—you’re not allowed to bail out because your wife has mood swings. Or because she yelled and now and then threw a glass at me. Hey, she missed, and cleaned up the shattered glass. But she wasn’t a drunk, she never came at me with a knife, didn’t sleep around...not counting those separations, when the excuse was that we were separated. According to the rule book, if you’re able to work it out...” He shrugged. “So I stopped asking myself if I could live like this because I could, but that was the problem. I started asking myself if I wanted to live my life like that. And the answer was no. Fortunately for me, Pamela needed a little time to think again, to determine what she wanted from life. She needed another separation. Our fourth in a thirteen-year relationship. It was the perfect time for me to say, me, too.” He chuckled. “Her separation was very short after hearing that. Mine was not. I decided I was happier on my own. I think I could be a happy old bachelor.” He grinned. “I wouldn’t have a boring or lonely day in my life. I think the boys might look in on me sometimes, make sure I haven’t broken a hip.”

      “How old are you?” she asked.

      “Forty-five,” he said.

      She snorted. “I don’t think you have to worry about that broken hip for a while yet.”

      “I’m just saying, my life right now is fine. More fine than it was wondering which Pamela was coming home to dinner. But being sick of living with a volatile, angry, unpredictable person is not moral grounds for divorce. For better or worse, right?”

      Lauren identified with so much of what he said but her first thought was, it’s so much easier for men. They’re not expected to have to put up with moody, angry women but women are supposed to put up with difficult men. She really wanted to let loose and complain about what it was like to live with a controlling, angry man. A man who could keep an argument going for days. A man who cut the line of people waiting to purchase movie tickets, loudly accused maître d’s of losing the reservation he never made, shortchanged maintenance workers on their bills because he assumed they wouldn’t dare come after him because they were undocumented or spoke poor English. Once while they were vacationing in Turks and Caicos he found some lounge chairs by the pool that were desirable, but they had towels on them—someone had already claimed them. There were a couple of pool toys as well, indicating they belonged to children. He threw the towels and toys on the ground beside the chairs, claimed the chairs for himself and his family and when a young man with two small children appeared five minutes later, he briskly told him, “You can’t save chairs with towels. You have to be using them.”

      Brad was a bully who thought he was better than everyone else.

      But Lauren didn’t say anything to Beau. Unless people really knew Brad, they would never understand. So she changed the subject and asked Beau to tell her about rooftop gardens.

      “My specialty,” he said happily.

      After an hour of pleasant conversation she decided she’d better leave. He asked if he’d be seeing her the following Tuesday and she said, “Very doubtful. This isn’t a good idea.”

      He chuckled softly. “Oh. I wouldn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position,” he said. “You didn’t say it but I already know. You’re in the same spot as me. Maybe not identical, but close enough. I sympathize. And if you want someone to talk to you know how to find me.”

      She nodded sadly. Of course he didn’t know how to find her. And she didn’t tell him.

      * * *

      Beth Shaughnessy was spending her Sunday cleaning up the remnants of