She has everything she ever wanted: the three-thousand-plus square foot Cotswold style home in classy Broadcreek outside Cleveland, the two kids (a boy and girl, just as she "planned"), the doting stay-at-home handyman of a husband and the upper management position with a major medical conglomerate.
She's pretty, too, the "perfect" forty-year old as some call her. You know the type. You see them in every supermarket, bookstore, drugstore, et al in all those upscale suburban burgs across the land. Slim. Fit. Sleek. Chic. Tastefully attired. Hair worn pulled back or up when she's working or shopping; worn down for the fun times. She's the gen-Xer who's made it in this post-feminist era when women no longer have to prove themselves, when it's commonplace to find women in high places, many, like her, with husbands who either stay home or work jobs that don't pay half of what she earns.
Meet Jenny Yeager, wife of Conrad, mom to eleven-year old "little" Conrad and thirteen-year old Olivia. Smart. Blond. Pretty. College educated. She met Conrad through a grapevine of friends. Sometimes they showed up at the same parties. At one of those parties something clicked. They began dating, got serious and married two years later when Jenny was twenty-five and Conrad twenty-nine. He had his own cleaning business, did well until he neared forty and his arthritis got so bad he was forced to quit. Then he became a stay at home dad—good with the kids, good at fixing things. Meanwhile, Jenny began to climb the corporate ladder.
She's still climbing. Once she was one of many foot soldiers who reported to a "lieutenant." Now she's a lieutenant herself, with over twenty-five employees reporting to her. She makes in the six figures and works long hours. Her salary paid for the Cotswold and the nice appointments in it. Sometimes she doesn't get home until eight at night. Somehow she squeezes in her exercise—spin classes, jogging and weight machines. She looks damn good, model good if your model is a slim, blond, five-foot seven middle-ager who can pass for five years younger.
So life is good for Jenny Yeager. And yet she can't ignore that rumbling of discontent stirring beneath the patina of her "perfect" life. She tries to ignore it, goes about her business, but it's always there, annoying her like some pesky fly she can't swat. She loves her job, her kids and her husband. Her husband—forty-four year old Conrad, still handsome despite his infirmity, standing an inch over her, his hair still black and full, his face still ruddy, his body tipping the scales barely over what it did when they met, despite the paunch and flab from lack of vigorous exercise. Sure, the excitement, the fireworks that was there in the early stages of their dating life no longer is. But then what can one expect after fifteen years of marriage, two kids and a mortgage? They still communicate, mostly about the kids and mundane matters such as when their pool should be drained. Conrad isn't a "deep thinker," never had a philosophical bent. She knew that when they dated, wasn't entirely okay with it. However, given other qualities she admired, she overlooked it. She overlooked his lack of a college education as well, knew he was smart in a "practical" way: street smart, common sense smart, mechanical-good-with-his-hands smart.
Jenny knows married women who stray; in fact, she works with some of them. She asks why and they give her various reasons. He's no longer interested in sex, says one. He's abusive, says another. He lacks the emotional support I need, says still another. Jenny's never cheated on Conrad, never even thought about it. Okay, she has thought about it but not seriously. One, it would complicate her life beyond imagining. Two, it goes against her moral grain. And three, she's never become involved enough with another man to even take the first step. Not that the opportunity isn't there. It is when she goes away on business—and she goes away a few times each month. She stays in company paid, luxury hotels, hotels with restaurants and bars, bars with attractive men sitting at them dressed in expensive suits, alone with their drinks and thoughts. Frequenting the nation's capital on many of these business trips, she stays at Hyatt House, a glass palace of a hotel in Washington's Southwest Potomac Wharf district. While there, between corporate meetings, she dines alone and drinks alone, sitting at the bar, her long fingers gripped around her glass of Chardonnay or Blue Moon brew, one of the few women among this guy dominated place.
Brayden Walberg is one of those guys. Jenny knows him. Well, more like knows of him. Weeks ago, during one of her trips, she sat next to him in the Hyatt's bar and said hello. Brayden, an orthopedic surgeon based in Charleston, South Carolina, was staying there for a medical conference, one of several he attends every year in DC. He wore a wedding ring and so did she. She figured it was "safe." They talked mostly about their jobs, just scratching the surface of their personal lives. Jenny had volunteered that she stayed at the Hyatt every few weeks. Brayden said that he did too and hoped to see her again.
Brayden rests in the back of Jenny's mind, coming to the fore only when something triggers it—like her husband whining about his arthritis, for example. She doubts they'll ever meet again as she steps onto the hardwood flooring of the Hyatt's chic bar for a glass of Chardonnay wearing a skirt and blouse and high heels, her hair up in business fashion. Then she spots him in profile, sitting at the bar, sipping a draft of sudsy brew and wearing a blue blazer, khakis and a blue button down shirt sans tie. Conrad's dark looks always appealed to her, but so does Brayden with his wavy, dirty blond hair and fair complexion. He's taller than Conrad, much taller at over six feet, and his hard, athletic build is one indication that this orthopedist practices what he preaches about the benefits of exercise.
"Hello again, doctor Walberg," she says, taking the chair next to him. Chairs, not stools line the white-topped bar, and a few feet behind them sit small square tables with chairs in front and one long sofa, blue and upholstered and topped with blue cushions in back.
He turns, looks genuinely pleased to see her. "Jenny Yeager. How's the knee?" She had told him about the tendonitis in her right knee.
"You remembered."
"Of course. It's my job to remember. You're back for more corporate meetings, I gather."
She nods. "That and a big Power Point presentation tomorrow in front of fifty people." She holds out her slightly shaking hand. "I'm kind of nervous about it."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine."
"Thanks, I hope so." She orders her Chardonnay from the bartender. "So how've you been?"
"Busy. Spring and summer are always busy seasons for us orthopods."
"You mean because of all the action on those soccer, lacrosse and baseball fields."
"Right. Last week, I treated three meniscus tears, two ACL tears and two broken legs. So, getting back to your knee." He looks down at her legs, her right leg crossed over the left.
She takes her first sip. "It still bothers me after a run." Turning to the side, she extends her slim, shapely leg a couple times. "Spin classes don't affect it at all. Guess I should cut the running, huh, doc?" She looks up at him, her mouth, cute and small, spread into a shy smile.
He swallows some brew. "Not necessarily. It depends on your pain level and how much running means to you. You might want to ice it down afterward, though." He pats her shoulder. "By the way, any medical advice I give you here is free of charge."
She chuckles and takes another sip. Curious as she is about his home life, she sticks to less personal matters such as his own exercise regimen, not much different from hers except that he rides a mountain bike in lieu of spin classes, even in cold weather. She pictures how ruggedly hot he'd look in winter cycling gear, riding the trails. She'd guess that he's around her age, perhaps a little younger. Maybe he's not quite as good looking as a young Robert Redford, but he's close. He fits the Redford image, surfer-boy cute yet refined, intelligent. She can picture him in widely different venues, on a Western cattle ranch as well as in the operating room. The more they talk, the more curious she becomes about his personal life and asks if his wife joins him on bike rides.
"Toni used to," he reveals, "when we were together. We've been separated for a few months." She wonders why but there's no way she's about to ask. "Oh, I'm sorry. That can't be easy."
He nods. "No, it isn't, especially on our son Jonathan. Even though he's just nine, he has a sense of why his parents now live apart. We share joint temporary custody." He glances at her wedding ring. "I hope you and your husband are doing better than us."
"We're still married, doing okay, I guess," she says, in a subtle way trying to convey to him that all is not perfect in Pleasantville. She sips her wine, watching his reaction, noticing the faint crow's feet around his eyes as they crinkle up. Holding her glass in both hands, she extends her arms across the bar, draws her small mouth into a pout. "I mean, we're doing okay. My kids are well behaved and healthy. My job brings in enough income to keep our finances solid. So, no major problems. It's just..." She takes a double sip, hoping he'll begin to probe.
He stares at her for a few moments. "Should I ask what your JUST is?"
