When Everything isn't Enough

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?"

She takes her last sip and calls the bartender over for seconds. She's loosening up. "It's just that, I don't know, maybe things are too perfect, perfect to the point of boring. Know what I mean?"

"I think I do. Midlife crisis?"

"Could be, I don't know. Look, don't get me wrong. The kids are great and Conrad's a good husband. A better stay-at-home dad the kids couldn't ask for." She downs the first sip of her second glass of Chardonnay.

"He doesn't work?" She tells Brayden about the chronic arthritis. "So how does he feel about you bringing home all the bacon? Some men would have a serious ego problem with that."

"He accepts it, grudgingly I think at times, but he has no choice. Besides, he does his part, chauffeuring the kids to their games, doing maintenance around the house, even cooking dinner sometimes."

He nods and chugs some brew. "But you're bored. Why?"

She takes another few sips, feels the buzz. "It's the communication. Or I should say lack thereof. I mean, we communicate but it's mostly limited to mundane matters. Conrad never went to college, and perhaps that's why his intellectual communication is limited. I read, he doesn't, and on the rare occasion that he does pick up a book, he looks at the pictures, skips the narrative." She's feeling bolder. "So what happened between you and Toni?'

He chuckles. "Quid pro quo, right? Okay, fair enough. Toni's also a doctor, an anesthesiologist, and she began an affair with a young intern at the hospital."

"Ohmygod, Brayden, you must have been devastated."

"Kind of, but it came as no surprise. We'd been having issues, issues with in-laws, issues involving Jonathon, issues with just about everything, it seems. Arguments became the norm, sex a rarity. So she sought solace in another man."

She shakes her head in empathy. "And you? Where do you find solace these days?"

"In my work. I've always loved what I do, but I'm more involved with it than ever. Then there's my outlets, my exercise and, like you, a good read when I can find the time. He orders another draft. "You know, Jenny, you're the first one outside of my immediate family that I've confided in. Thanks for listening."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. "Anytime." She pauses to consider what she just said. "Well, anytime we're together. Obviously, living in different states, it can't be that often."

He nods and swings his chair around to face her. "No, but you know what they say—quality over quantity. Of course, I wouldn't mind extending the quantity also." He takes her hand. Then, with his other hand, he brushes his fingers up her forearm, then raises it to touch her face, smooth and lightly tanned. "You're very pretty." He smiles watching her blush. "We both know that I'm not the first one to tell you that."

He's not but she appreciates it just the same. "Thanks. And you're the best looking orthopedist I've ever met. And I've met a few."

"Thanks. And we're both married, although I consider myself half-married at this point."

She picks up her glass and takes another sip. "Are you two trying to work things out or have you reached the point of no return?"

"We're kind of in limbo. She claims she broke it off with the intern and wants to return to the house. But, I'm not sure I could ever fully trust her again. Then, like I said, we've got some serious issues. Irreconcilable differences my lawyer called it."

She nods, sips her wine and ponders. Conrad wouldn't trust her either if she fell into an affair with this man and he found out. What is she thinking, anyway? She likes this guy, sure, but is it worth risking the destruction of her life as she now knows it just for an occasional fling? She's got more to lose than him, for she and Conrad, while not always in sync, remain together. Brayden, from what he says, appears headed for divorce court anyway. All this is assuming that he's thinking along the same lines, that he wants to go beyond these barroom chats. So far, he's given no indication. Perhaps he's waiting for her to make the first move. Would it hurt if she did, if she asked him to dinner? Technically, having dinner with another man wouldn't be cheating. It's what it could lead to that gives her pause. She trusts the good doctor; she's not sure if she can trust herself. Bedside manner could take on a whole new meaning.

"Jenny, you still with me?"

His pleasing tenor voice shakes her from her thoughts. "Huh? Yes, of course."

He pats the top of her hand. "You look kind of far away."

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"Oh, nothing much." She shakes her head and grabs another sip.

He brushes strands of her hair across her forehead. "Look, I know this is short notice, but if you're still in town, will you have dinner with me tomorrow night? There's a decent Asian restaurant just a few blocks away."

She hesitates, feels she's headed toward the precipice of a cliff, not there yet but inching forward nevertheless. "Well..."

"Hey, it's just dinner," he insists. "No pressure, no expectations. Not even a date. Just dinner."

She nods. "Okay. My presentation should be over by four. I'll be free after that."

"Good. Then I'll meet you at the hotel entrance at five-thirty and we'll walk over together."

*****

How does a woman dress for a non-date, "just dinner" date with a good looking doctor who she suspects has more on his mind that just dinner? Conservatively would be the right answer and that would work if she didn't have more on her mind as well. But she does, and that requires something in between, something between slutty and corporate, a wide chasm that requires a delicate balancing act to bridge. Her wardrobe is limited (she packs light for business trips), but that blue and white dress hemmed at the knees, barely showing cleavage and worn with low heels feels right. The attire complements her assets without screaming for attention. She lets her hair down, lets the ends fall around her shoulders. 'Tousled chic' her hair stylist once called it.

"You look great," Conrad says, meeting her at the entrance. "How'd the presentation go?"

"No sweat," she says. "Well, I did sweat before but things went smoothly once I got up there." She gives him the once over. "And you look great yourself." He does, too, in his tan jeans, green short-sleeve polo shirt and Sperry dock shoes. "Too busy to shave, I see," she adds, noting his one-day stubble.

He rubs his jaw. "Normally I do shave every day, but because—"

"No, I like it. Makes you look, I don't know, a little raunchy."

"Well, I guess a little raunch doesn't hurt," he says, laughing.

They walk toward the restaurant through the Wharf district's streets, crowded with after work foot traffic. The nation's capital claims its share of depressed neighborhoods, but not here, with its shiny, glass-walled high-rises, high-end businesses and trendy eateries. The Asian place is on the garish side—red-painted walls, big chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling, big windows and gold-painted wooden statues. She thinks the food, as Brayden said, is decent, not great, and overpriced for what you get. It's the company that makes her meal, listening to Brayden regale her with stories about his work, then watch him listen attentively while she talks about hers. Even if he wasn't so witty and good looking, she'd be impressed with the way he listens, unlike so many who hog conversations. When the waiter comes with their check, he beats her for the grab. "Hey, I asked you out," he says. "But you can pay the tip."

They both agree that a stroll along the scenic wood promenade is a must. They join hundreds of others enjoying the balmy, early evening, watching the boats anchored nearby. It feels weird when he slips his hand into hers, but natural at the same time. She's strolling hand in hand with a man who's not her husband, not adultery, exactly, but not something that Conrad would take kindly. In a tone light and teasing, she says, "You know, this is beginning to feel suspiciously like a date. What happened to just dinner?"

He knows she's just teasing, knows she wouldn't be holding his hand if she didn't want to. "It still is. This is just an adjunct."

She laughs. "An adjunct...hmm...well, is there an adjunct to the adjunct?"

"Don't know. I mean, first dates, if that's what this is, can be awkward. Truth be told, though, I don't feel awkward. Do you?" While she's thinking, he suggests they take a bench by the water.

They sit for a few moments before she answers. "Truth be told, Brayden, I feel quite comfortable with you, just awkward about the situation. You get it, I'm sure."

He rubs her knee and then holds her hand. "Of course I get it. I also know there's something happening here that I don't think either of us anticipated when we first met."

She takes a deep breath and looks out at the Potomac River, its surface rippling in the light breeze. "I can't cheat on Conrad, Brayden, I just can't."

He rubs her shoulder. "I didn't ask you to. I know how it feels to be cheated on, so I couldn't very well condone you do that."

"So now what? Goodnight and see you next time?"

"We need to at least kiss. Even awkward first dates deserve a goodnight kiss. Our adjunct to the adjunct, if you will."

She'd love to kiss him, had wanted to for the past hour. It's what it might lead to that scares her. She'd be crossing that imaginary line drawn in the sand of her moral conscience. Yet desire can be a strong thing, overpowering at times, and this is one of those times. Closing her eyes, she says, "Okay then, kiss me, doctor." She didn't expect to embrace him, to wrap her arms around him, but then she does because he's embracing her, holding her in what's supposed to be a goodnight kiss, short and sweet. Sweet it is, but short it isn't, as the seconds tick by and he shows no sign of letting up and she feels no reason to stop him, save for the moral question that gets swept further and further away in the undertow of her passion. She hasn't felt like this since her teen years, in her era of raging hormones, making out with boys on sofas and in cars. This is the way she and Conrad once kissed, long and passionate, except for one thing: she had no qualms about where it would lead.

When he finally lets up, she says, "That was some adjunct to the adjunct." She's slightly breathless and a little dizzy and also less afraid of what might come next—almost afraid that nothing will come next, that this will be it for the night.