Life and Other Inconveniences(63)

“You gettin’ married?” he asked.

“Nope. But Jason is,” I said, sitting down across from him.

He filled in an answer. “Good,” he said, not looking at me. “You deserve a lot better than that idiot.”

I swallowed, the first tears of the night finally gathering in my throat.

“You gonna cry?”

“Nope.”

“That’s my girl.” He flicked a glance at me, patted my hand. “I need a six-letter word for a work-shy person.”

“Skiver,” I answered.

“Smarty-pants,” he muttered, filling it in. “Riley’s staying with us, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Yep.”

“Go to bed, sweetheart,” he said. “Sleep tight. You’re better off, you know.”

“I know. Thanks, Pop.”

I went upstairs, regretting the twenty dollars I’d spent on those shoes, and feeling very, very old.

Because I was a mother and always had to do what was right for my child, I told myself I’d be friends with Jason, good friends. I’d never give him reason to step further away from Riley. I wouldn’t bad-mouth him to her, I wouldn’t talk about money in front of her, and I’d be cordial and friendly and decent and let Riley love her dad.

But for that one night, I would let myself cry a little bit, because even though I’d known for a long time that my little house with the blue couch and the yellow tulips was just a fantasy, it had been so precious just the same.





CHAPTER 18


    Genevieve


On Friday afternoon three weeks after Emma and Riley had arrived, I was in my yoga studio, trying to hold warrior one without wobbling as my rather handsome trainer instructed me to extend my breath.

I’d designed the studio myself on the ground floor of Sheerwater some decades ago. Home gym was such an unpleasant term, and besides, I still walked a mile each day (most days) and lifted small hand weights to maintain my bone density. The studio had an open glass wall to the patio. The floors were bamboo, and there was a rice-paper screen that hid the mats, blocks and other accessories. A large bamboo tree sat in the corner. I even had a small statue of the Buddha surrounded by candles and usually played traditional Indian music to honor the art.

“Warrior two,” John said, and I obeyed. “Deepen your stance.”

I tried. My knee flared with pain, and I had to adjust. Additionally, I could hear Emma yammering away with her clients, as her office was across the hall from the yoga studio, and we both had the windows open. Idiotic phrases floated to me on the breeze—“Let’s unpack what you just said” and “What do you think it means?”

It was hard not to roll my eyes. “Let’s call it a day, John,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll meditate without you.”

“Anything you want, Mrs. London. This is your time.”

I’m well aware, I wanted to say, but he was a nice young man, and a veteran.

I had just gone into child’s pose when I heard a sharp rap on the French doors and looked up.

Ugh. It was that wretched Paul in all his scowling misery. I pushed back into downward-facing dog, then halfway lift, then tree, stretching my arms upward until my cartilage creaked, just to make him wait.

He rapped again, then opened the door.

“What, Paul?” I snapped. No namaste for him.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. His eyes scanned me critically, and really, the man had no manners. I wore a very tasteful outfit—wide-legged, loose-fitting pale gray pants with a tangerine-colored long-sleeved cotton shirt over a white tank top. Fashion was for every moment of life, after all, and Lululemon was so common.

I took my water bottle and walked barefoot out of the studio. I had no desire to overhear Emma’s “calls” or have her overhear her grandfather lecturing me, as he was no doubt preparing to do. The grass was delicious and thick under my feet, which had been sore lately. I should’ve had that bunion surgery ten years ago, but there was no point now.

Without addressing my interrupter, I walked to the beautiful linden tree, which was more than a hundred years old. Under its generous spread of branches were a teak table and two chairs. A pair of chickadees were singing, and the sunshine was warm after a rather chilly week. I breathed in the salt air and tried to regain my peace of mind.

Paul sat without being invited. He was dressed like the handyman he was, work boots and jeans and a denim shirt over a Cubs T-shirt.

The buzzing started in my brain.

The Cubs . . . not the bear type, but something else. Something I used to know and didn’t anymore. There were the Cubs, and there was another group, and they had something to do with . . . with that city. The one on the lake. I felt the cold, fast rise of anxiety. What were the Cubs? Why was Paul wearing a shirt with that word on it? The knowledge lingered at the edge of my brain, but the strange buzzing sound kept interfering with my ability to grasp what it was.

It didn’t matter, it wasn’t important, I should let it go, Dr. Pinco said. Think of something familiar. My birthday, which was April 5.

Running? There was something about running and cubs. Not the grizzly bear kind. The noise in my head was deafening.

Baseball. Got you, damn it, I thought viciously. Baseball. The Cubs were a baseball team, and the White Sox were the other.