Two from the Heart(5)

I laughed. “I’m going to try not to take that as an insult. And thank you. I’ll… I’ll try these out. Really, I will.”

He got up again. “You hungry? I made spaghetti. Homemade sauce, noodles, everything.”

“Considering I’m barely past opening cans of SpaghettiOs, that sounds amazing.”

The dinner was even better than I expected: San Marzanos in a buttery sauce over hand-cut tagliatelle, and a kale Caesar so good it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I was helping myself to round two when Ben caught sight of the coral cameo, hanging on a thin gold chain around my neck.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked.

“It was Mom’s,” I said. “Isn’t it beautiful? Dad gave it to her.”

Ben held out his hand and I put the necklace into his big palm. He turned the cameo over and back.

“What?” I asked. “You have a funny look on your face.”

“Dad might have given it to her. But he didn’t buy it for her.”

I set my fork down. “What do you mean?”

“He bought it for Kathy Pasters. But Mom found it in his sock drawer, and she assumed it was for her,” Ben said.

“Excuse me?”

Ben looked at me in surprise. “You really didn’t know? Dad and Kit were a thing for a while.”

I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea what to say. “Mom and Dad, Kit and Joe—they all used to play euchre together,” I cried.

“Yeah, and Dad and Kit were playing footsie under the table.” He ripped a piece of garlic bread in two. “Everybody has secrets, Annie,” he said. “You were just probably too busy messing around with your camera to notice what Dad’s was.”

Suddenly I felt confused and sad. Was I really so blind? This new story of my parents’ marriage wasn’t the one I wanted to be true.

“But I think, in the end, they were happy,” Ben added, as if he could read my mind. “I really do.”

Okay, maybe, I thought—because I wanted him to be right. But how did their marriage survive an affair when mine went belly-up?

The world was full of mysteries.

I wondered if Patrick Quinn could help me solve that particular one. Had we made the right choice? Were we, in the end, happy—apart?

Ben hoisted steaming strands of spaghetti with a pair of silver tongs that also used to belong to our parents. “Thirds?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No thanks.” I wasn’t hungry anymore. I was busy calculating how long it would take to get to my ex-husband’s house.





Chapter 6


A BETTER person might have warned him—I know. But this wasn’t going to be an emotional ambush. As the saying goes, I came in peace.

I called Patrick from the historic main drag of Ellicott City, an affluent town just outside of Baltimore. “I’m across the street from a place called Renard—is that French for fox? Duck? I forget. Anyway, would you like to meet me there for dinner?” I asked.

“Anne? Wow—uh, hi,” Patrick stammered. He’d never been the world’s most articulate person. “Yes. I mean, of course. It’s… really good to hear your voice.”

“I’ll see you in twenty,” I said, exhibiting a firmness I never had in our marriage.

I ordered a bottle of sparkling wine while I waited at a window table, watching people pass by outside. A little girl stopped and waved to me, and I waved back, noting her darling smile and her obviously DIY haircut.

I wondered if her mother had committed that crime against her bangs or if that pixie had sneaked into the bathroom with a pair of scissors. Probably there was a funny story about it.

As a photographer, I’d spent so much time focusing (no pun intended) on people’s looks: on the way a bride squinted in direct sunlight or how a groom’s boutonnière complemented his bowtie.

But what if I started really paying attention to people’s words?

It had begun to seem like everybody had an incredible story—whether or not it was happy or if they ever even wanted to tell it.

And here I was, revisiting the plot of Patrick’s and mine.

What if I could collect those stories—into some kind of a book? It was a crazy idea. But then again, so was moving to an island I’d only been to once before. And that had worked out beautifully.

At least it had until two days ago.

I was busy contemplating this possible new project when Patrick breezed into the restaurant, wearing a slightly rumpled shirt and a pair of obviously expensive blue jeans. I felt the same flutter of nerves I had when I first met him near the 79th Street entrance to Central Park.

“You look beautiful,” he said as he sat down across from me. His eyes were as blue as ever.

“Flatterer,” I said. My smile was genuine. I really was happy to see him, despite everything. Honestly, this surprised me a little.

“What in the world brings you to E.C.?” he asked.

I poured some brut into Patrick’s glass. “You,” I said simply.

He looked slightly alarmed, and I couldn’t help laughing.

“I’m not here to ask for you back if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured him.

He ducked his head. “I wasn’t worried,” he said.