If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(75)

When I reached the counter, I faked a smile as big as the frown I’d been sporting a moment ago. Yet my head buzzed from the fever pitch of my disillusionment. “Hey, Hannah. I’m hoping you might be interested in doing a small community favor.”

“A community favor?” She motioned with her hands. “Go ahead. Hit me.”

“The preschool where I work is having a little fair and bake sale tomorrow to raise money for new books and things. While I like to cook, I don’t make anything as delicious as what you sell. Would you be willing to donate some cookies and muffins to the cause? I’d advertise your shop and hand out business cards at the fair.” I flashed my best hard-up-teacher smile.

Hannah nodded, flicking her wrist. “Sure, dear. I’ve got grandkids. You can never have too many crayons and books in those classrooms. Is three dozen enough?”

“More than enough. Thank you so much. You’ve really helped me out of a bind today.” And then I overcame my insecurities long enough to do something I had never done before: put her on the spot. If I were being honest, this was the real reason I’d come. “You know, it surprised me the other week when you mentioned that Lyle stops in often.”

“Really? He’ll pick up goodies for the office. Other times he’ll stop in with clients to kill time between showings.” She tied up the second box she’d filled.

“Hm.” For weeks I’d been swallowing my feelings, ashamed and hiding. But something snapped now, making me glad that no one had come in behind me. Lowering my voice didn’t prevent it from emerging with a bitter edge. “I’m guessing one of those ‘clients’ was a young, buxom blonde.”

She gave me a look, as if my intimation confirmed something she’d suspected. When she handed me the bagful of free baked goods and some business cards, she pointed at my stomach. “Now you go on and take care of what you’re cooking in there. Nothing matters more than that. Kids are where our true happiness lives.” She patted the spot over her heart.

My face must’ve been cherry red, so I appreciated that she neither pitied me nor gossiped about whatever she’d seen Lyle do. “Thank you for the treats. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

The sting of grateful tears pricked my eyes, so I threw a ten-dollar tip on the counter before turning to dash out of the store. Although I regretted putting her in that position, numbness spread through me like mildew.

When I arrived at the house I was soon to lose, I stood in the middle of my kitchen, blinking into the emptiness. This home no longer felt like mine. Neither did my life. I couldn’t stomach being there, surrounded by reminders of my marriage.

I climbed the stairs, determined to scrub Lyle from the house. One by one, I folded and stacked his winter sweaters and slacks, the various brown and black leather shoes and loafers he’d worn, silk ties, dress and casual shirts, and cuff links, and then loaded them into clear plastic garbage bags. The task revealed what was missing from his wardrobe: bathing suits and sandals, the Tommy Bahama shorts and shirts we’d bought in Naples last year, both pairs of his Maui Jim sunglasses. More clues that, had I been paying attention when he’d packed, might’ve tipped me off about his “business” trip.

Instead, I’d sweetly kissed him goodbye, wished him luck, and waved as the Uber pulled away for the airport, having had no idea that it would be the last time I’d ever smile at him, kiss his lips, and feel whole and happy.

I growled and then strode to our bathroom to empty his vanity of soaps and colognes and every other personal item that reminded me of him, tossing each one in the trash.

When I’d finished, I sat on the edge of our bed, trying that yoga breathing Erin preached about, but it didn’t bring peace—just noisy breath. Getting rid of Lyle’s personal things hadn’t helped, either. The bed, the linens, the paint on the wall—everything we’d picked and purchased still threw him and all my failed dreams in my face.

I rubbed at my sore throat, choked by loneliness and sorrow. None of the pretty things—the marble counters and high-end fixtures, the reclaimed hardwood, the huge windows—muted the pain. Sharing a roof with my mom and sister might be a little awkward now, but it would beat being alone, surrounded by Lyle’s memory. Even my old twin bed, the 1990s decor, and a messy roommate would be heaven compared with this cold palace.

I returned to our closet to pack two bags for myself.

While sorting through my own things, I remembered Mr. Foster—a man who deserved to know that he’d be a grandfather.

Sitting on the tufted bench in our closet, I scrolled through my phone history, my thumb hovering over Mr. Foster’s number. Mom would warn me not to involve a stranger, but I had to do the right thing—for Mr. Foster’s sake and for Willa’s. Little girls needed a father’s love, and without hers or mine around to fill that role, I couldn’t deny my daughter her only living grandfather. The artery in my neck throbbed, but I pressed “Call.”

He picked up on the second ring. “Hell-o.”

The cheerful greeting made me picture a man happily watching ESPN with a beer or a burger.

“Mr. Foster, it’s Amanda. Lyle’s wife.”

“Oh, I didn’t expect to hear from you again.” The matter-of-fact delivery gave no hint of his feelings about me.

“Well, I have more information for you . . .” I stalled, uncertain about where to begin.