The Accomplice(95)

“What do you think is inside it?” Luna asked.

“Nothing,” Owen said.

“I can’t tell you how disappointing I find that,” Luna said.

“Why? What do you want inside it?” Owen asked, grinning.

“Candy,” Luna said.

“Like a pi?ata?”

“Yes. Then I’d give a chain saw to a child and let them slice open the tin. Actually, I’d probably put a sardine lid on it—you know, the kind that you roll back with a key. It would take at least four kids to muscle off the tin—”

“Why do you keep bringing kids into this scenario?” Owen asked.

“I thought they’d be the most keen on the pi?ata angle,” Luna said.

Irene laughed. Owen and the woman looked over at her. Irene blushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Irene said. “I’m a chronic eavesdropper.”

“Who isn’t?” Luna said with an open, friendly smile.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Owen.

Irene stifled a laugh. “I’m Irene Boucher,” she said, extending her hand.

“Hi. Owen Mann, and this is my friend Luna Grey.”

He wouldn’t call her a friend if they were more than that, right?

“A pleasure,” Irene said, shaking Owen’s hand, then Luna’s.

There were so many things that Irene wanted to say. None of them felt quite right.

“I need a drink. What can I get you?” Luna said to Irene.

“That’s very kind of you,” Irene said.

“It’s free,” Luna whispered.

Irene laughed again. “Red, please,” she said.

Luna left them alone. Irene thought it was on purpose. Owen was smiling at Irene. Flirting, she thought. He must recognize her. She was waiting for him to say something.

“So, what would you stick inside our tin pi?ata?” Owen asked.

“Dynamite, perhaps,” Irene said. “Or anything explosive.”

Owen smiled broadly. They were of like mind, he thought. “Not a Whitman fan?” he said.

“Not in the slightest,” she said.

“Beautiful and wise,” he said.

Okay, Irene thought. The game is up. Let’s get to this.

“You look familiar,” Irene said. “Have we met before?”

It felt like an inside joke. Or maybe a game of chicken, where they both waited for the other one to admit it. Owen smiled and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m sure I’d remember that.”



* * *



—

Owen asked Irene out the night they met for the second time. Irene thought she’d tell him on the first date, but she couldn’t find the right moment. On the second date, it was going so well that she didn’t want to break the spell. After that, it just felt wrong. Irene liked what she and Owen had in the present. If she reminded him of that night, he’d be reminded of other things that happened, things she’d told him. Their relationship wouldn’t fully exist in the present, which was virtually flawless, but also in the past, which was not. By the time she was in love, Irene had decided that Owen didn’t have to know. Ever.

It was Owen who’d wanted the wedding. Irene, after the hassle of disentangling herself from her first husband, figured she wouldn’t do it again. She wanted a modern coupling, based on the shared understanding that they’d last as long as they weren’t making each other miserable.

Six months after they’d moved in together, Owen said, “If you wanted to get married, I’d be cool signing anything.”

Irene had no idea what he was talking about. Owen meant he’d sign a prenuptial agreement. He’d assumed that Irene hadn’t broached the subject because she had more money and, by extension, more to lose.

After a year passed and Irene had not once mentioned marriage, Owen wondered if she wanted out. It was this uncertainty that provoked Owen’s sudden openness to the idea.

“Do you want to get married or break up?” Owen said one night, after a few too many drinks.

“If that was a proposal, it stunk,” Irene said.

“Well, what would you say if I did propose?”

Irene then enlightened Owen on the parameters of a proposal she would accept. She insisted on sobriety, an element of risk (no asking ahead what the answer would be), and a ring at the ready—no blood diamond, no diamond, you’re an artist, make the damn ring.

Owen forged a white-gold band and proposed, on bended knee, on a weekend hike to Stony Kill Falls. He assumed that Irene’s desire for a traditional proposal meant she also wanted a traditional wedding. As they began to plan the day, it became abundantly clear they were not on the same page. Irene had notions of courthouse nuptials or a tiny backyard affair officiated by a friend. But when Owen began to draft his guest list and brainstorm wedding venues, Irene realized that he wanted a ceremony, a celebration. Since it was Owen’s first wedding—hopefully, his last—she wouldn’t deny him that.



* * *



—

Irene and Owen’s June wedding day was a disaster. It began ominously enough, with a record-breaking storm. They’d rented a house with a converted barn for the ceremony and party. The unseasonably heavy rain caused a small leak in the roof, which required a reconfiguration of the seating arrangements. Irene watched from a dressing area in the adjacent house as her guests trudged across an open field under an awning of umbrellas and took cover in the barn. She stressed about lightning strikes and waited for a call from her matron of honor, an old college friend who, Irene would soon learn, had been sidelined by food poisoning and was unable to manage the two-hour drive to the venue.