On Second Thought(46)

“Do you have a beating heart, Jonathan? Come on! Please.”

His door opened, and Rachelle stuck her head in and looked at me apologetically. “Mr. Kent, Good Morning America is on the line.”

“I have to take this,” he said. “Excuse me.”





Chapter Twelve

Kate

My mother called seconds after Ainsley left. “How are you?” she asked. I could hear the clatter of something in the background. My mom was a multitasker; unless you hired her, she would never just sit in a chair and talk. “Things good?”

“Yeah, they’re, uh, fine. Fine.” As fine as things could be, considering my husband was dead. I didn’t mention that Ainsley was staying here. Mom would not approve.

Today was May 1. Our five-month anniversary. No one had mentioned that so far. I was probably the only person who knew. Nathan would’ve known. He would’ve bought flowers.

“It’s important when dealing with grief to continue self-care and your normal routine.” That was probably a line from one of her books.

“Yes. Well, I’m going to the studio today.”

“Good! Work is balm for the soul at a time like this.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll talk soon. I’m here if you need me.”

“Okay. Thanks for—” Nope, she’d already hung up.

My mother had never been warm and fuzzy.

I had a vague memory of Dad’s second wife, Michelle. She smiled a lot. Baked cookies on the weekends Sean and I came over. When Ainsley was born, Michelle let me give her a bottle, even though I was only seven at the time. But Sean and I didn’t go over a lot. Our father’s job as an umpire meant that he traveled from April through October, home infrequently for short visits. And Mom didn’t like us going to see Michelle if Dad wasn’t there.

And then, of course, Michelle died.

The divorce and Ainsley were never discussed at home; Sean and I were little, after all. Or little-ish. Mom had suffered the all-too-common indignity of being dumped for a younger, shinier woman, who’d been pregnant before the marriage, before Dad left. After the divorce, Mom had to work more hours, and dinnertimes were tense affairs with dry chicken and vegetables from a can.

It was before Mom’s books were published, before she’d invested in a face-lift and started coloring her hair white blond and taking karate. Back then, she was just used up, like an old paper bag.

And then Michelle was gone, and Dad came knocking, and Mom took him back. Him, and the progeny of the other woman.

I knew my mother loved Ainsley...in her way. It was just that her way wasn’t the most demonstrative, not even with her biological children. The fact that Ainsley looked so much like Michelle didn’t help.

I was glad Ainsley was here, even if she kept putting her foot in her mouth. She gave off a lot of energy, and while that often irritated me a little, I welcomed it now. Without her, the house was very quiet.

I fed Hector, who ate his flakes with gusto. Funny, that this fish pre-and postdated Nathan. A fish with a life span of what?—three years?—bore witness to the beginning, middle and end of my time with Nathan.

“That doesn’t seem right to me,” I told Hector. Considered flushing him down the toilet to balance the (fish) scales of justice. “I’m just kidding, buddy.”

On the shelf above Hector’s bowl was my everyday Nikon, the same one I’d been using the night Nathan died.

I hadn’t looked at the pictures yet, terrified of what I’d see. Once Nathan fell, my memory of that horrible night was sketchy. I hadn’t taken a picture of Nathan going down, had I? I mean, I did have professional instincts. What if there was a picture on there of my husband dying or...dead?

The clock ticked.

I actually had an appointment today. Jenny Tate, who owned the wedding dress boutique around the corner from me, needed some pictures for her website. I didn’t realize just what a big deal she was in the wedding dress world until I’d gone to her site. She’d made a dress for a member of the Liechtenstein royal family, and one for an Emmy-award-winning actress, and she’d been featured in all the big bridal magazines.

Time to start getting back to the land of the living.

I showered, not looking at Nathan’s toothbrush, and got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a peach-colored cardigan.

Outside, it was shockingly lovely. I’d almost forgotten it was spring; the past few days had been gray and rainy. But today, the air was soft and clean, and crab apple and pear trees were fluffy with blossoms. I got my bike out of the garage—what was I going to do with Nathan’s car?—and got on.

I rode past the tasteful homes and tidy lawns. Nice porch on that house. Pretty pansies there. Maybe I should do something like that. Then again, pansies wouldn’t look right at Nathan’s place. Something more stark and bold. A cactus, maybe. A statement tree, a phrase he’d used without irony when he first showed me the courtyard.

It seemed like such a long time ago.

Are you there? I asked. Are you watching me? Are you okay, Nathan?

There was no answer, no sign. I didn’t really expect there to be.

But I was out, and it was beautiful, and I had to keep going, keep moving, or be caught by the heavy, dark fog of grief.

I coasted up to the Blessed Bean with its green-and-white-striped awning and wonderful smells. It was past the morning rush, so I didn’t have to wait in line, just ordered a large coffee and a larger muffin. Seriously, the thing was the size of a human brain. I was suddenly starving.