The Marriage Lie(51)

I shake my head. Ever since Will’s ring, I haven’t given Nick or any of the other callers a second thought.

“You might want to make him a priority, punkin’. I’d imagine he has some financial and logistical issues to discuss, things you won’t want to wait too long to tackle. I know it’s unpleasant, but you’ve got a mortgage to pay, and you’re going to have to figure out how to do it on one salary.”

“Come.” Mom slips her hand into my elbow and leads me down the hall. “You call this Nick person, and I’ll fix us some tea. Oh, and I have brownies, too, if the boys didn’t eat them all.”

I look around for Dave and James. “Where are they?”

“They ran to the post office—Dave said something about a yearbook he needed to mail?—and then to meet up with an old friend of James’s from med school. Apparently, he sold his practice for the jackpot and now owns a gourmet burger place on Peachtree Street. Seventeen dollars for a hamburger, can you imagine? Anyway, is Earl Grey okay?”

“Perfect, thanks.” But Mom doesn’t go for the tea bags. She just stands there, watching me. “What?”

“Well, I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to a funeral. One that’s maybe a little more...personal than the memorial service Liberty Air put on. That one was perfectly fine, but it didn’t really feel like Will, you know? It could have been for anyone.”

I nod, because she’s right. Despite the pretty setting, the memorial had zero personality. The songs were cheesy, the speakers were unimaginative, and the only time they mentioned my husband by name was during a monotonous reading of the passenger list. Will deserves better than a generic memorial service in a park filled with strangers.

“Want me to come up with some options?” Mom offers. “Take a look at some venues? I wouldn’t book anything, of course, not until you approve it.”

I smile, a fierce wave of love for my mother warming my insides. “Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

“Good. It’s settled, then. Now, you go call this Nick fellow back. His number’s on a sticky by the coffee machine.”

While Mom bangs away in the kitchen, I fetch the sticky note, punch the numbers into my cell phone and push Send.

Nick picks up on the second ring. “Nick Brackman.”

“Hi, Nick. It’s Iris Griffith. Sorry for not calling back earlier, but things have been a little crazy.”

“I’ll bet. How are you holding up?”

It’s the same question strangers recited to me at the memorial, the one I see every time I look into my parents’ eyes, word for word the one Corban said to me earlier today. How are you holding up? I know they mean well, but does Nick really want to hear that I still sleep in Will’s bathrobe even though it smells more like me now, or that I call Will’s voice mail twenty times a day, just so I can hear his voice? That my tears wake me most nights, which are only marginally better than the ones where fury makes me scream into my pillow? That the platitudes everybody keeps feeding me, things like everything happens for a reason and Will would want you to be happy make me want to punch something? That sometimes I feel Will so strongly the air catches in my throat and the hairs soldier up the back of my neck, but when I turn, the only thing I find is the hole where he used to be?

I sigh, collapse onto the couch and tell Nick what he wants to hear. “I’m okay.”

The only thing worse than Nick’s question, I suppose, will be the day people stop asking it.

“Glad to hear it. If there’s anything I can do...”

Another platitude, and I bite down on a scream. “Thanks.”

“Jessica’s boxed up his personal things from the office. It wasn’t much. A couple of books, some mugs, a few framed pictures. I think she was planning to swing by with it this weekend.”

Surely this isn’t what he called to tell me—meaningless clichés and organizational logistics. I give him a curt hum of thanks, a not-so-gentle prompt for his next words.

Either Nick gets tired of stalling, or he takes my bait. “Listen, I have something I need to talk to you about, and I’d really rather not do it over the phone. Do you think we could meet? You name the time and place, and I’ll make it work.”

“Well, I just got home, and—”

“You live in Inman Park, right?” I don’t answer. Nick knows I live in Inman Park. Our address is on the salary stubs he signs every month. “How about Inman Perk in an hour? Best coffee in town, my treat.”

After my morning with Corban, I can’t contemplate another coffee shop, and after the past few days cooped up either in a hotel room, a car or on a plane, I can’t contemplate another second indoors.

“I’ll meet you at Inman Perk, but do you mind if we walk the BeltLine? I could use a little fresh air.”

“Done. Thanks, Iris. See you in an hour.”

*

As I head out the door to meet Nick, I punch in the number Dad gave me for Leslie Thomas. She picks up on the second ring.

“Before you say a word,” she says by way of greeting, “I want to apologize for lying to you the first time I called. I was under an unbelievable amount of pressure to come back with a story. I’ve only been here a few months, and this was my first chance to prove myself, and I took it too far.”