On Second Thought(95)

Not only did I get into work on time, I also refrained from shopping online. I realized my bar wasn’t terribly high, but I’d been hoping it would make a difference to Jonathan. If it did, he hid it well.

On another front, I unfriended and unfollowed Eric on all his social media platforms. When he texted me a question about his bad reaction to latex (he had no bad reaction to latex, for the record; he’d had a mosquito bite), I blocked his phone number.

Eric had broken up with me. He’d brought another woman back to our house. He was in Alaska now.

We were done.

His mother and I hadn’t talked in two weeks. Of course, the Fishers had to side with their son. I understood that. I’d never spend Hanukkah with them again, or go see Phantom with Judy, or watch a Sunday afternoon football game on the couch with Aaron, cheering vaguely when he did as Eric smiled and read.

Those days seemed like a dream now.

On Friday afternoon at 4:45, my email chimed.

Please be ready to leave for the tool museum in ten minutes. Thank you.

Jonathan Kent, Publisher

Hudson Lifestyle

Tool museum? Was that a metaphor? I checked my calendar. AITM. A quick Google search reminded me what the initials stood for. Antique Ice Tool Museum.

Super exciting.

I texted Kate to let her know I had a work thing. She was making dinner for some of the people from her grief group, which was nice. I’d been planning to lay low anyway and read. I asked her to feed Ollie, since I might be late; previous work excursions had shown that Jonathan was the type of person who read every plaque in every museum. And since the museum would be taking out a full-page ad to coincide with the story, we’d have to schmooze the director, which was something I could do in half an hour, and something that Jonathan could do only by memorizing every fact about the place.

Antique ice tool museum. Who thought of these things?

“We can take my car,” Jonathan said as we went to the parking lot.

“Sure.” I got in; his car was ridiculously clean and neat. Two booster seats were in the back. “How are your daughters?” I asked.

“They’re fine.”

“And your dad?”

“Also fine.”

That was it. Was this the guy who’d forced me to dance with him? “I am also fine, Jonathan.”

“Yes.”

I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. The rest of the ride passed in silence.

The Antique Ice Tool Museum was about an hour north of Cambry-on-Hudson, and surprisingly charming—an old stone barn overlooking the river, filled with fearsome-looking saws and old photos and ads. As predicted, Jonathan studied every word of every bit of print in every place while I chatted up the director, a sixtyish man (my specialty) whose name was Chip.

“Do people call you Ice Chip?” I asked, and he laughed, making Jonathan startle a little. “Chip off the old ice block?”

“They will now,” he said, proud of his new nickname.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but I’d think the Hudson wouldn’t freeze this far downstream with the tidal patterns being what they are.”

“Most people think that!” Chip exclaimed, delighted with my mistake. “But back in the 1800s, you could skate right into New York Harbor!”

“Really!” I said. His enthusiasm was infectious.

“It’s all about the salinity of the water,” he continued, his eyes glazing over with love of his subject.

By the time we left, the sky was growing dark with a summer thunderstorm, black clouds piling up across the river, the wind fluttering my dress. Chip and I hugged goodbye, as we were now close personal friends, and I promised to come back in the winter to see the ice-carving demonstration.

“Thank you so much for your time,” Jonathan said, shaking Chip’s hand.

“That’s a great girl you’ve got there,” Chip said. Same thing Eric’s bosses used to say.

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Have an enjoyable weekend.”

Captain Flatline struck again, I thought as he got into the car. I texted Kate to see how dinner was going as he backed out of the parking lot.

Really well. Thx for checking! Be careful, okay? The weather map shows red.

“Bad weather’s coming,” I said to my driver. “Big boomers.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thunderstorms, Jonathan.”

He turned on the radio, and sure enough, the meteorologists were practically peeing themselves with joy. “Wind gusts up to fifty miles per hour, heavy rains, some local flooding. Stay inside, folks!”

Jonathan sighed.

“Do you have to pick up your girls?” I asked.

“No, not till tomorrow.” He drove with both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. “You did well with the director,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re good with people.”

“I like people.”

His mouth curled up in a flash smile, then returned to its normal straight line.

A gust of wind rocked the car, and rain abruptly slapped the windshield. Jonathan switched the wipers to high.

The farther south we drove, the worse the weather. The lightning was getting intense, and twigs littered the road. Thunder rolled overhead, sometimes so loud that the car vibrated with it.