Fly Away Home Read online

  Fly Away Home

  ALSO BY JENNIFER WEINER

  Good in Bed

  In Her Shoes

  Little Earthquakes

  Goodnight Nobody

  The Guy Not Taken

  Certain Girls

  Best Friends Forever

  Fly Away Home

  A NOVEL

  JENNIFER

  WEINER

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Weiner, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Books hardcover edition July 2010

  ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for the excerpt from “Mascara Tears” on page 139: Words and music by Richard Thompson. © 1994 BEESWING MUSIC (BMI)/Administered by BUG MUSIC. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weiner, Jennifer.

  Fly away home : a novel / by Jennifer Weiner.—1st Atria Books hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Politicians—United States—Fiction. 2. Sex scandals—Fiction. 3. Politicians’ spouses—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.E3935F59 2010

  813'.54—dc22 2010014689

  ISBN 978-0-7432-9427-0

  ISBN 978-1-4391-8396-0 (ebook)

  For Joanna Pulcini and Greer Hendricks

  Fly Away Home

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Part One: Something About Love

  Sylvie

  Diana

  Lizzie

  Sylvie

  Diana

  Lizzie

  Sylvie

  Diana

  Sylvie

  Part Two: Not Waving but Drowning

  Sylvie

  Lizzie

  Diana

  Lizzie

  Sylvie

  Diana

  Sylvie

  Part Three: Fly Away Home

  Lizzie

  Diana

  Lizzie

  Diana

  Sylvie

  Diana

  Lizzie

  Sylvie

  Lizzie

  Sylvie

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  Something About Love

  SYLVIE

  Breakfast in five-star hotels was always the same. This was what Sylvie Serfer Woodruff thought as the elevator descended from the sixth floor and opened onto the gleaming expanse of the lobby of the Four Seasons in Philadelphia. After thirty-two years of marriage, fourteen of them as the wife of the senior senator from New York, after visits to six continents and some of the major cities of the world, perhaps she should have been able to come up with something more profound about human nature and common ground and the ties that bind us all, but there it was—her very own insight. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing. If pressed, Sylvie also had some very profound and trenchant observations to make about executive airport lounges.

  She took a deep breath, uncomfortably aware of the way the waistband of her skirt dug into her midriff. Then she slipped her hand into her husband’s and walked beside him, past the reception desk toward the restaurant, thinking that it was a good thing, a reassuring thing, that no matter where you were, London or Los Angeles or Dubai, if you were in a good hotel, a Four Seasons or a Ritz-Carlton—and, these days, when she and Richard traveled they were almost always in a Four Seasons or a Ritz-Carlton—your breakfast would never surprise you.

  There would be menus, offered today by a girl in a trim black suit who stood behind a podium in the plushly carpeted entryway, beaming at the patrons as if their arrival represented the very pinnacle of her day and possibly of her lifetime. Richard would wave the menus away. “We’ll do the buffet,” he’d announce, without asking whether there was one. There always was. “Of course, sir,” their waiter or the maitre d’ or today’s black-suited girl would murmur in approval. They’d be led through a richly appointed room, past the heavy silk drapes, elaborately tassled and tied, past mahogany sideboards and expensively dressed diners murmuring over their coffee. Richard would deposit his briefcase and his newspapers at their table, and then they’d proceed to the buffet.

  There’d be an assortment of fresh fruit, slices of melon, peeled segments of grapefruit and orange and sliced kiwis, arranged like jewels on white china platters. There were always croissants, chocolate and plain, always muffins, bran and blueberry and corn, always bagels (yes, even in Dubai), always shot glasses layered with yogurt and muesli, always slices of bread and English muffins, arrayed next to a toaster, and chafing dishes of scrambled eggs and bacon and sausage and breakfast potatoes, and there was always a chef in a toque and a white jacket, making omelets. Richard would ask for an omelet (spinach, as a nod to health, and mushrooms and Cheddar cheese—he liked onions, but couldn’t risk a day of bad breath). Once the order was placed, he’d hand off his plate to Sylvie and return to their table, to his New York Times and his Wall Street Journal and the eternal consolation of his BlackBerry, and Sylvie would wait for his food.

  The first time her mother, the Honorable Selma Serfer, had seen Sylvie perform this maneuver, she’d stared at her daughter with her mouth open and a dot of Crimson Kiss lipstick staining her incisor. “Seriously?” she’d asked, in her grating Brooklyn accent. Sylvie had tried to shush her. Selma, as always, had refused to be shushed. “Seriously, Sylvie? This is what you do? You fetch his eggs?”

  “He’s busy,” Sylvie murmured, shifting the plate to her right hand and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with her left. “I don’t mind.” She knew what her mother was thinking without the Honorable Selma, first in her class (and one of seven women) at Yale Law, former chief judge of the state of New York, having to say a word. Sylvie should mind, and Sylvie should be busy, too. Like her mother, Sylvie had gone to Barnard and Yale. Sylvie was meant to have followed in Selma’s footsteps straight up to the Supreme Court, or at the very least practiced law for more than two years. Selma and David Serfer’s only child had been intended for better things than marriage, motherhood, committee work for various charities, and collecting her husband’s breakfast.

  Ah, well, she thought, as the chef swirled melted butter in a pan. She was happy with her life, even if it didn’t please her mother. She loved her husband, she respected what he’d accomplished, she felt good about the part that she’d played in his career. Besides, she knew it could be worse. In cities all over the world, women went hungry, were beaten or abused; women watched their children suffer. Sylvie
had seen them, had touched their hands and bounced their babies on her lap. It seemed churlish to complain about the occasional small indignity, about the hours she’d spent campaigning, face smoothed into a pleasant expression, mouth set in a smile, hair straightened into an inoffensive shoulder-length bob, wearing hose that squeezed her middle and pumps that pinched her toes, standing behind her husband, saying nothing.

  Normally, it didn’t bother her, but every so often, discontent rose up inside her, spurred by some unpleasant reminder of her unrealized potential. A few months ago, the forms for her thirty-fifth reunion at Barnard had arrived in her in-box. There’d been a survey, a series of questions about life after college. One of them was Tell us how you spend your time. If you’re working, please describe your job. Before she could stop herself, Sylvie had typed My job is to stay on a diet so that I can fit into size-six St. John knit suits and none of the bloggers can say that my behind’s getting big. She’d erased the words immediately, replacing them with a paragraph about her volunteer work, the funds she raised for the homeless and the ballet, breast cancer research and the library and the Museum of Modern Art. She’d added a sentence about her daughters: Diana, who was an emergency-room doctor right here in Philadelphia, and Lizzie, vexing Lizzie who’d given them such heartache, now several months sober (she didn’t mention that), with her hair restored to its original blond and all those horrible piercings practically closed. She’d added a final beat about how for the last fourteen years she had been lucky enough to travel the world in the company of her husband, Senator Richard Woodruff, D-NY. But sometimes, late at night, she thought that the truth was the first thing she’d written. Whatever ambition she’d possessed, whatever the dreams she’d once had, Sylvie Serfer Woodruff had grown up to be a fifty-seven-year-old professional dieter, a woman whose only real job now that her daughters were gone was staying twenty pounds thinner than she’d been in law school.

  So she’d lost herself a little bit, she thought, as the chef sprinkled cheese into the pan. So life hadn’t been perfect; bad things had happened, mistakes had been made. But hadn’t they built something together, she and Richard, and Lizzie and Diana, and wasn’t that more important, more meaningful, than anything Sylvie could have done on her own? What kind of career would she have had, anyhow? She wasn’t as good a lawyer as her mother. She might have been quick, and smart and well-read, but her mind wasn’t built to spring and snap shut like a trap the way her mother’s was. She could admit, if only to herself, that she was bright but not terribly ambitious; that she lacked a certain something, aggression or tenacity or even just desire, that magical quality that would have lifted her from good to great. But she’d found a place for herself in the world. She’d raised her girls and been a help to her husband, a sounding board and a concierge, a scheduler and a speechwriter, a traveling companion and a co-campaigner. So what if every once in a while late at night she felt like all she had to show for her years on the planet were miles logged on a treadmill that took her nowhere and a number on the scale that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain? So what if …

  “Ma’am?” The chef was staring at her, spatula raised. The omelet sat in a perfectly browned half-circle in the center of the pan.

  “Sorry,” she said, and held out the empty plate toward him like an orphan in a Dickens novel, an orphan asking for more.

  He slid the omelet onto the plate. Sylvie collected the slices of whole-wheat bread she’d popped into the toaster. She added a pat of butter, a pot of marmalade, the wedges of cantaloupe that Richard would ignore, and a single slice of bacon, well-done, the way he preferred it (he’d want more than one slice, but there was his heart to consider). Richard was reading the Op-Ed page and talking on his phone, with a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow, so busy multitasking that he barely looked up. She set his food in front of him and tapped his shoulder. “Eat,” she said, and Richard smiled, put his arm around her waist, and gave her a quick squeeze.

  “Thank you, dear,” he said, and she said, “You’re welcome,” then went back to gather her own joyless meal: fat-free yogurt, a single stewed prune, a mini-box of Special K, a glass of skim milk, and, as her reward, a scoop of the oatmeal she could never resist, deliciously creamy, the way it never got at home. She’d add a little butter, a swirl of brown sugar, a splash of cream, turning it into something that was more like pudding than breakfast.

  She’d eaten only a few bites when Richard dropped his crumpled napkin over the remains of his eggs. He’d ignored the fruit, as she predicted, and the bacon was gone, the way she knew it would be. “All set?” he asked. She wasn’t. But she nodded, rising as he stood, gripping the starchy elbows of his suit jacket as he kissed her, lightly, on the lips. Her schedule was in a manila folder, tucked into her purse, and had been beamed to her iPhone as a backup, along with her speech. Richard would be attending a fund-raising coffee for a state senator, a rising star in the party who was being groomed for bigger things. This would be followed by a lunch at the convention center with CEOs of some of the nation’s largest hospitals, bigwigs looking for breaks on the import taxes they’d pay to have their MRI machines assembled in Japan. Meanwhile, Sylvie, who hated public speaking, would be locking her shaking knees, hiding her sweating palms, and delivering an address to the Colonial Dames, a Philadelphia variation of the Junior League, about how, if each of them gave just what she spent each month on highlights and lattes to the Free Library, they could buy hundreds of books and expose thousands of children to the joys of stories. It was a speech she’d given dozens of times and would doubtless give dozens of times more before her husband’s third term ended in four years. And after that? “Sky’s the limit,” Richard used to say, when they were young and dreaming, lying on the flimsy mattress in their apartment on Court Street in Brooklyn, where the floors tilted so severely that if you put anything round down against one wall it would roll to the other side of the room.

  They’d lived in Brooklyn back when telling people your address made them treat you with the solicitous courtesy they’d extend to pioneers who’d just set off west in a covered wagon. Back then, Richard owned two suits, one navy blue and one brown, both purchased at an end-of-season clearance sale at Bloomingdale’s and paid for, in part, with a gift certificate that Sylvie’s parents had given her for Chanukah to buy her own working-girl wardrobe. He would rotate his suits Monday through Friday—blue, brown, blue, brown, blue—and on Saturdays, he’d drop them off at the cleaner’s. Every morning they’d walk to the subway together, and Sylvie would follow him down the stairs, thinking how lucky she was to have found this man, her Richard—slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, his light-brown hair thick and unruly, no matter how carefully he combed it, the hair of a little boy who’d just rolled out of bed, with his briefcase swinging jauntily in one hand. That’s my husband, she would think. She’d want to shout it to the sky, or at least to the other women she’d catch looking him over, their eyes making the drop from his face to his ring finger. My husband. Mine.

  “Husband,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes (Richard was nine inches taller than she was, a solid six foot three, a presidential height, she sometimes thought) and letting her lips graze his ear. Almost imperceptibly, he shuddered. “Wife,” he whispered back. Richard had always been ticklish. In bed, she’d drag the tip of her tongue along the edge of his ear, nipping at the lobe with her teeth, and he’d tremble, muttering her name. At least, he used to. Sylvie frowned, or attempted a frown—the Botox she’d gotten the week before was making it hard to furrow her brow—and tried to remember how long it had been. Over the past months—maybe even the past years—things had slowed down, not in an alarming fashion, but in a manner that Sylvie had come to believe was normal for long-married couples. They made love once or twice a week, sometimes with dry spells of a week or two (or three, or four) when Congress was in session and Richard spent the weeknights in the rented townhouse in Georgetown. She missed it sometimes, but she thought that the kind of sex they�
�d had at the beginning—every night, sometimes twice a night, once in the thankfully empty sauna at a resort where they’d gone for a law school classmate’s wedding—that was the sex you had in the early days, and then things settled down, they had to, or else how would anyone get any work done, or raise children?

  Richard gave her a squeeze and planted another kiss in the center of her paralyzed, poisonous brow (perfectly safe, the dermatologist had assured her when he’d come to the apartment with his doctor’s bag full of needles and his mouth full of reassurance). “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. Sylvie watched him walk out of the restaurant, BlackBerry in one hand, briefcase in the other, through the lobby and then out to the curb, where a car would be waiting, the way, these days, a car always was. My husband, she thought, and her heart swelled, the way it had when she was a young bride watching Richard descend into the depths of the subway station, ready to rule the world.

  She was in the backseat of her own Town Car by four o’clock, an issue of The Economist open in her lap, reading the latest news from the Middle East as the car crawled through a five-mile backup on the New Jersey Turnpike. The region was clenched in a typical August heat wave, the air a humid steambath that left everyone sticky and ill-tempered after even the briefest venture outside. She was planning her movements, how she’d exit the car and enter her apartment building with the least time possible spent in the humidity—she had a cocktail party to attend, and she didn’t want to have to redo her hair—when her cell phone rang. Or, rather, her cell phone belched. Lizzie, her youngest, had set it up so it would burp instead of ring, and Sylvie hadn’t been able to figure out how to make it stop. The phone burped again, and her best friend Ceil’s face flashed on the screen. In the picture, which Sylvie had taken outside the Buttercup Bakery, Ceil was devouring a red velvet cupcake, and had a dab of frosting on her nose. Sylvie had snapped it and had threatened to post it on Facebook. Not that she completely understood how Facebook worked, or had any idea of how to post things there. The threat alone had been enough to make Ceil laugh. As she hit the button to answer the call, Sylvie noticed two missed calls, both from Richard. She’d call him back after she was through with Ceil, she decided, and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi!”