The Bewildered Wife. Vivian Leiber
chastised herself.
It wasn’t hers, could never be hers, and it was very selfish to want it.
But it wasn’t the Radcliffe mansion, the fortyacre grounds, the luxury cars or the Radcliffe collection of late-nineteenth-century American painters she longed for. She didn’t pine for the jewels locked away in a safe behind a panel in the upstairs library. She wouldn’t even want the heavy Queen Anne furniture, the soft Aubusson rugs or the ornate silver flatware that lay dusty and tarnished in the beveled-glass cabinets of the butler’s pantry.
No, she wasn’t wishing for any of the expensive and elegant things that made the Radcliffe family one of the wealthiest in the country.
It was other things she wished for, intangible things that couldn’t be measured by an accountant or valued on a bank statement
Things that she hesitated to name, even in silence, even before her birthday cake, which glittered more brightly than gold on the dining room table.
It was out of the question that her wishes would be granted, presumptuous even to blow out the candles with these thoughts on her mind.
Out of reach for a nanny who was paid well above minimum wage but still not enough to afford even a single fork on the table before her. Out of reach for a woman who, at twenty-seven, had no husband or child or even a home to call her own.
Still, Susan took a deep breath.
There was nothing wrong with a wish, right?
She wished to call her own the three little faces glowing with pride—pride at a cake they had frosted themselves, although Susan had been the one to make the iced flowers.
To claim Chelsea, at seven, already starting to take over some of Susan’s sewing work on designing clothes for her multitude of Barbie dolls.
And Henry, at six already a gentleman. Or a knight. Or a superhero. Or just a boy with a cowlick that couldn’t be tamed and hands that looked dirty bare seconds after a scrubbing.
And, of course, Baby Edward, who was two and a half and not really a baby anymore. But Henry and Chelsea kept raising the age limit on the word baby, like a reverse limbo bar. He’d be Baby Edward when he was fifteen.
Baby Edward stared at the cake and Susan knew exactly what he’d wish for.
Toys.
She reached out to touch his soft cheek and her attention was caught by the wedding band on her left hand. All that she had left of her own family, it looked like—but wasn’t—a symbol of marital status. Instead, it was a reminder of her mother, left to her when she was just a child.
The ring brought to her mind the final, most secret, most selfish, most impossible wish that skittered across her mind as a wild mosaic of images: a vision of white, of tulle, of roses and real wedding rings, and passionate kisses on a bed covered with silk. It was what her parents had had, and their parents before them. It was what Susan wanted for herself.
She shook her head at her own silliness in wishing for…him. Wishing for him to hers.
And so, Susan having grown up to be realistic, maybe even a little too pragmatic, decided to wish only this: that this private moment at one end of the Radcliffe dining room table would last just a little longer.
“What are you going to wish for?” Chelsea asked.
“She won’t get it if she tells,” Henry said knowingly.
“Toys?” Baby Edward asked.
Susan smiled and kissed him on his forehead, inhaling his sweet baby smell. She touched the macaroni necklace that she wore—Chelsea’s present. Henry and Baby Edward had drawn pictures that she had already folded carefully into her wallet for safekeeping.
Stretching out her moment…
“I won’t tell you what I wish for,” Susan said. “But, Baby Edward, you’ll always have toys.”
She took a deep breath, holding it long enough for the kids to take theirs. And then she blew. And they blew. Very hard, but still the candles fluttered as delicately as the wings of doves.
The dining room was thrown into complete black for a brief moment until Henry switched on the chandelier to its blazing glory.
It was amazing how quickly you forgot that the dining room was the size of a basketball court, Susan thought as she looked around the Louis-the-Fifteenth-inspired room.
“You’ll get your wish!” Chelsea exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You got all the candles. You’ll definitely get your wish.”
“I already have,” Susan replied.
Baby Edward reached out to steal a taste of icing, but Susan firmly pushed his hand away.
“Now how about we let Baby Edward have the piece with the red icing flower?” she asked.
She had placed the three flowers on the cake with extreme care, knowing that the pieces must be cut with precision. Baby Edward liked red things—fire trucks, valentines and red icing flowers. Chelsea liked yellow—the sun, lemonade and the yellow flowers. And Henry liked purple, the color of royalty, and Susan carefully cut the cake so each child got their favorite colored flower.
The cake had turned out pretty good on such short notice. Their father, Dean Radcliffe, had said only this morning he was coming home for the small family party to celebrate Susan’s birthday.
Chelsea had invited him as the children sat planning Susan’s party at the breakfast table.
“I’ll be here with a cake and a special present for the birthday girl,” he had promised.
“In time for dinner?” Henry had challenged.
Susan had felt a red, hot blush sweep over her, but luckily Dean Radcliffe didn’t choose this moment to actually notice her.
He merely smiled at Henry.
“In time for dinner,” he repeated.
Susan had made hot dogs and chips—but had put a steak in the refrigerator to thaw in case he did live up to his promise. She also made him a baked potato and salad, fixed a martini extradry, and got out the Harry Connick, Jr. CDs he liked. For an hour, Connick’s soft and sultry jazz and the smell of home cooking had filled the house.
Then, around six, she had admitted to herself that he might, just might, not come home early. If she were truly honest with herself, she would know it was a billion to one shot that he would even remember his nanny’s birthday.
Much less return from work with the promised cake, present, and on time.
She had started baking the cake while the children ate their dinner—feeding them their hot dogs was a hard concession to reality. But she knew she felt the disappointment in his not coming more acutely than the children. They scarcely missed the successive nights he didn’t come home until they were already in bed.
Dean Radcliffe shouldn’t be expected to come home early for his nanny’s birthday. Susan sat back in her chair and shook her head at her own naive and heartfelt anticipation.
She had even worn her best blouse to top her usual sturdy jeans. She had hand-washed the blouse and mended the wrist where the seam was frayed. She had sewn the blouse years earlier from a piece of fine gold brocade she had found on sale at a junk store. She had thought at the time the color would set off her pale blond hair nicely.
But now Susan didn’t think even a gold blouse could make her hair look all that good. It was damp with sweat from the oven’s heat, held back by a scrunchie and dotted with icing. Even the prized blouse had some speckles of purple, yellow and red food dye.
She didn’t feel like eating. Pushing her plate away, she took a couple of dog biscuits from her jeans pocket.
“I didn’t forget you, Wiley,” she said, holding them out to the eighty-pound German shepherd, who had awakened at the telltale sound of