Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

My house was also only ten years older than Remy’s, and the lush, mature landscaping and trees reflected those sixty years between when they were planted and now.

The pool was large, kidney-shaped, and Remy’d had it resurfaced so that the water was a deep, Mediterranean blue, not chlorinated aqua.

The space back there was open, with lots of grass, lavish greenery around the edges to help buffer the sound from Central, which was a busy city street only a block away. It also made the backyard seem like an oasis.

The entire time we were together, regardless of his hectic schedule as budding then successful architect, husband and dad, he tended our outside space himself, including the pool. He didn’t let anyone touch it, exempting Sabre and Yves when they got old enough to help, not exempting me and Manon.

Another thing he’d inherited from his father, who did not do a day of manual work in his life, but he did have firm ideas about gender roles.

This meant the yard and cars were Remy’s (and his sons’) domain, so was the garbage and recycling, neither mine nor Manon’s hands touched any of it.

Ever.

This segued into him feeling the house and the work to be done in it (unless it was maintenance or repair) was mine.

And I was not in agreement with this idea.

I would far rather garden or skim the pool than do laundry or grocery shop. I loathed both.

We fought about this after I went back to work, and I didn’t have time to keep house without help. And some of those fights got intense because I wanted to step over Remy’s firmly established boundaries, and I wanted him to do the same.

In the end, we made enough to hire cleaning people, the kids got old enough to do their own laundry and have specific chores, and then Remy and I both had PAs who could do other tasks, like running errands and doing the shopping.

However, being honest with myself, I never quite let go of how irritating I thought it was he couldn’t see I no longer had time to do tasks that were much more frequent, like cooking every night (and having the food in the house to do it), not to mention the never-ending laundry.

Now, I wished I’d let it go because really, it didn’t mean anything.

And Remy always took excellent care of the yard and pool in a way it wasn’t like he spent a half hour mowing the lawn and then done. He spent hours every week on both.

And when he left, I had to find someone to do it. I’d hired a pool service and they’d cleaned the pool, and I’d watched them then cried for an hour.

A solid hour.

Outside our boys, once it was resurfaced, no one’s hand had touched that pool. Even to do repairs on the equipment.

Just Remy.

It was like someone touching it defiled our marriage.

It was lunacy.

But that was how I felt.

I totally ignored the gardeners when they showed, and I’d struggled with using and even lying beside that pool (both of which I enjoyed doing) ever since.

I sighed, letting this go, deciding to take a swim in the morning and wash those thoughts away, then realized it was September and the pool was probably freezing before I turned my mind to assessing which handbag I was currently using.

I noted I needed a change to match my outfit and headed out to the kitchen to get it so I could take it back to the closet to do that.

I was in the hall when I realized my son was home from rugby practice (the league didn’t start until January, but they kept conditioned all year long, and by the by, his father was his coach).

That “by the by” was important, since I could hear Yves with company in the kitchen.

And hearing the voices, I knew that company was Remy.

Therefore, I walked into my glorious kitchen with its acres of marble countertops, cream cabinets and unambiguously French country flair, and saw father and son casually leaning against that luscious marble, enjoying a post workout beer.

Father.

And son.

With that father no longer being married to me nor an inhabitant of this house.

And that son being seventeen.

Both pairs of eyes came right to me, but only the older pair did a head-to-toe sweep and back again, this ending in a smirk.

Yes, you better believe I dressed for Cock and Snacktails that would take place around an island in my friend’s kitchen.

Thus, I was now wearing dark-wash, high-waist jeans, a green blouse with big white flowers on it and interesting exaggerated cuffs that went over my red fingertips, with high-heeled, fawn suede booties on my feet.

“Did I miss something in my morning scan of the Arizona Republic? Has the state decreased the legal drinking age to seventeen?” I asked the room at large.

The smirk became a smile.

“Mom, I’m at home,” Yves replied.

I raised my brows at my boy.

“He needs to learn to hold his liquor,” Remy stated.

My attention returned to him because we’d already had this argument about Sabre.

I had, incidentally, lost.

But I was okay to try again.

“You know my feelings about this, Remy,” I told him.

“I do. And you know I don’t agree with you,” he replied.

“And you know I don’t care if you don’t,” I shot back.

“Wyn, do you want him to be a sloppy, teenage-boy drunk?” Remy inquired.

“No,” I replied. “I know my son is intelligent, so he will understand when it’s explained to him that alcohol affects your mood, thinking, coordination, inhibitions, and copious consumption over time can significantly affect your health. And as he’ll understand this, when it’s legal for him to drink, because he’s remarkably intelligent, he’ll do it in moderation.”