Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

I was eavesdropping on a conversation the other day. I wasn't deliberately listening in, it was just one of those situations where the people were sitting so close to me that I really couldn't avoid hearing their every word.

Two men were talking about football, one of them vividly reliving his high school days. I was expecting to hear some of his trophy stories, but instead, his stories were about other guys who'd made the winning touchdowns. He was on the team, but he never got to play, not even once.

It was very obvious from listening to him, that even though he was always ridin' the pines, he felt like a winner and a crucial part of the team. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't imagine feeling that way. I just don’t think I’d have it in me to keep coming back week after week.

I was dying to ask him why he stayed on the team; or rather how could he stay on the team? Because as I listened to him tell the stories, I pictured myself in his situation and I wasn’t feeling like a winner. How could he be so enthusiastic, even years later, about an experience that I would have labeled as a personal failure?

This man’s outlook was intriguing. I admired him. Most likely he didn't earn any MVP awards, but somehow along the way, he learned one of life’s most valuable lessons, and today he shared it with me.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

* Congratulations to the winners of "Rootless" by Guest Author Krystle Zara Appiah: Karylee M., Karen G., Deanna S., Janice A. and Sherri G.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. Congratulations to the winners of last week's book giveaway: Carol R., Jan G., Julie L., Marilyn M., Nancy M., Chris Y., LisaMarie R., Vickie S., Kathy K., Nadine S. You could be a winner, too, but you have to enter for your chance!

(continued from Wednesday)

"Thank you very much for your thoughts and consideration, Gerry. I'm going to channel that energy and your good vibes. They might help me better raise our children single-handedly."

"You don't have to raise them single-handedly."

"And what is my other option?"

"Let me help."

It sounded so simple now, coming from him. He had never made this offer before. Ciara had always taken the lead; she did up the house after they were married, decorated, planned the pregnancies, found them friends, looked after the children's best interests, made sure they were well respected in the village.

"You've had four years to offer your help. Four years of standing around doing nothing, while I put my career on hold."

She waited for him to say it: He never asked her to give up her job. She 'wanted' him to say it. This was bait for him to admit he didn't think much of her social-media career.

He said nothing.

When they first met, Gerry was handsome, and he was even more so at thirty-five. She admired his ability to look after himself. Everything about him was clean. Rich. There was no dirt under his fingernails; the inside of his car was immaculate and smelled nice; he replaced his toothbrush every eight weeks; he had a cleaning lady even as a bachelor, to keep his home looking as polished as he presented himself to the world. And he always had a neat haircut. That was the other thing: He spent time styling his hair every morning. It was the first thing he did, right after he took a piss. He cared about his appearance, about looking after his possessions. Just as she did. And together they were going to make it look effortless. That was the plan.

She looked away when she recalled what her father's hands used to look like. She'd described them to Mishti years ago. The only person she'd painted a picture of her father to: His hands were thick, chunky. Dangerously tanned. The skin around his nails torn and dug up, much like the land lying barren behind the house.

Like with everything else, Mishti hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone.

When Ciara met Gerry, it seemed like she had finally met a man who wanted the same things as she did. To have the perfect family, to leave an impression on the world. Now the only time they were on the same side was when Ciara planned a photo shoot for one of her Instagram posts. He submitted silently to her carefully orchestrated positioning, to testing the light and decluttering the background. He smiled emptily in those photographs, but only she saw through it, because she used to know him once.

"I'll take the kids to Mam's tonight, give you a chance to have some time to yourself. It's Mam's birthday, so I'm sure she'll be happy to spend the evening with them."

"Is this some kind of dig at me for forgetting your mother's birthday?"

"I just want to give you some time off."

Ciara rolled her eyes. "About fuckin' time, Gerry."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ciara, like I haven't contributed to our children's lives. Or to yours."

She shrugged. "I don't know what you think you're achieving here. Do you expect me to thank you for taking the kids tonight? Don't even answer that, it's going to sound stupid."

She thought she saw his eyelid twitch. That's all it was. The twitch of an eyelid, then silence. If he wanted to make a difference in her life, he would join her in smashing their porcelain mugs. He'd tear down the curtains with her. He'd laugh while she scream-cried. Maybe they'd do it outside, in the front yard for everyone to see.

"Excuse me while I go be a decent host to our guests. In the meantime, you should return to work. Do the only thing you're good at. Make some money."

SEPTEMBER 30

"Daddy, no!" The children's voices rose as They thrashed in bed with their father, breathless with joy. Lauren observed this from her side of the bed, her insides rocking from the jumping. She had come very close to losing this, to losing this man who was a better father to their children than her own had ever been. He was a better father than most. Today, she lay in bed a few extra moments, admiring the happy scene. This had come so close to slipping through her fingers.

Last night, finally, they had made up after their big fight. In the light of the morning, she knew it was the right decision. He promised things were going to be different now, and she believed him. She was going to make a few changes too.

Lauren hadn't been sleeping much. She hadn't got much sleep in the six years since Freya, her oldest, was born. She was convinced that sleep deprivation had something to do with the way things had played out recently. Having three children so close in age made their world very small, where nothing existed outside the bubble. Her relationship with Sean had lasted nearly a decade. Now, more than ever, Lauren was determined to make it work. Their troubles weren't in the past yet, but soon they would be. Once they left this place.

"I'm going to make pancakes for these rug rats; you should have a lie-in. I'll check on Willow," Sean said. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before he got out of bed. Then he grabbed the kids and tucked one under each arm. They left the bedroom like this, flailing and joyous, their red heads bobbing up and down.

Lauren shut her eyes again, but she knew it wouldn't last. Willow would be awake soon, and she'd bring the house down if Lauren didn't immediately stick her boob in her mouth.

Intoxicated with reassurance and gratitude, she couldn't fall back to sleep. Everything had worked out, just like it always did. No matter what came between them, Sean and Lauren always found their way back to each other.

When they weren't speaking, she felt she was alone, that it was finally over, the stationary turbulence of their relationship. It was strangely peaceful once she had accepted he was gone. But when he came to her last night, practically begging her to take him back, she was relieved.

She had spent almost her whole life loving him.

When they first met, he knew everything, and she hadn't a clue. He was fourteen years her senior, handsome in a scruffy way. He had an easy charm and grace, in ragged leather jackets and no deodorant. He ran a bookshop, and he got all the girls and the women. He would have got the men too, if he was interested.

When she first met him, he had everything, and she, nothing. Lauren couldn't believe her luck when he hired her as an assistant. She'd moved to the city with big dreams, and finally one of them was coming true. Nobody knew her there, and she had an actual job.

The bookshop was a small space, and it could have been claustrophobic. They were always literally stepping on each other's shoes. It felt like a kind of primal mating dance. She overheard all his phone conversations, and she was self-conscious when she used the matchbox toilet at the back. Hyperaware of the crumpling sound of pages from old books they used as toilet paper. He, on the other hand, barely seemed to register her presence.

Sean's friends were poets who were interviewed by radio stations. The artsy types naturally gravitated to him, perhaps because his home was always open to them. Musicians jammed in his kitchen on mornings after big raves, a full Irish cooking in the oven. There was always someone sleeping on the couch, someone rolling joints on the balcony, leaving teacup rings on the scratched hardwood floors. Lauren wasn't like any of them—she wasn't even much of a reader. It could only have been destiny that had brought them together. He had no other reason for hiring her, when he could have hired any of his friends. Or maybe he just needed someone to keep showing up and on time.

"How many pancakes do you want?" Sean yelled from the kitchen today.

"Four, I don't know, a handful," she shouted back.

She was doubtful he even heard her over the voices of their children. She didn't care about the pancakes anyway; she wasn't hungry. She just wanted to sink into bed and think about all the ways she was luckier than Ciara Dunphy.

Willow woke up soon after, and Lauren finally had to get up. She went into Willow's bedroom and lifted her out of the crib, breathing in her sleepy scent. She wasn't so small anymore. Nearly two, growing up fast, and Lauren knew she was her last baby. She fed Willow, changed her, then carried her to the kitchen.

Harry and Freya were sitting around the table, making a mess of the maple syrup and blueberries.

"There she is." Sean pulled Willow into his arms, kissing the top of her head and flipping pancakes simultaneously.

"I'm going to meet with Padder today," he said. He was shouting to make himself heard over the children.

(continued on Friday)

Love this book? Share your review with the Publisher