The Friends We Keep(102)

“You’re right about everything,” Evvie said. “I can leave. If you want me to leave, I can go upstairs and pack right now.” Even as she said it, she felt a mild panic. England may have once been her home, but without this house as her refuge, where was she supposed to go?

“I don’t know what I want,” said Maggie. “But I think you should leave. I can’t have you here. Not now.”

Evvie stood up, turning to go upstairs and pack.

“And there’s one more thing,” Maggie said. “I want to meet your son. Ben’s son. Properly. I want to talk to him.”

Upstairs, Evvie started to shake uncontrollably. Without warning, a sob escaped, until her entire body was racked with heaving sobs. She opened her mouth in a howl of pain, but no sound came out, and it was a long time until she could do anything other than lie on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking back and forth in a silent scream of pain.





forty-eight


- 2019 -



Maggie had been feeling numb for the past two hours, as if she were trapped in a surreal movie, a nightmare that she wanted to wake up from, but there was no escaping it. Topher came down and tried to comfort her, but right now, she didn’t want to talk to anyone, other than this version of Ben, the Ben she fell in love with all those years ago.

Topher left with Evvie, piling her suitcases into the car. She caught sight of his face, and he looked ineffably sad as he and Evvie loaded the car, Evvie’s face puffy from crying. Maggie watched dispassionately. Good. She was glad there was a consequence for her betrayal.

The doorbell rang, and Maggie opened the door, her breath taken away yet again by this young man’s face, the image of her late husband before she fell out of love with him, when she still thought that life held every possibility, that they would create a perfect family.

Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off him as she led him in, not knowing what she wanted to say to him, only that she needed to get to know him.

“Where did you go?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze away, marveling at his face, his hairline, that widow’s peak she never thought she’d see again. She drank him in as he crouched down, stroking Scout.

Jack looked up at her question. “To a pub in the village. I needed a stiff drink.”

Alarm bells went off immediately. “Is . . . I hope you don’t think this presumptuous to ask, but are you a drinker? I mean, is alcohol your thing?”

Jack laughed. “Sadly, no. I’m known as the guy you don’t want at your party. I’d like to be able to drink but it doesn’t agree with me. I had a beer at the pub, which was pretty awful. It was warm.”

“Ah yes.” She laughed with relief. “That’s how we drink them here.

“You must be in shock,” she said. “The last thing you must have expected when you arrived was such a dramatic reaction.”

“I don’t think I’m in as much shock as you are,” he said, offering a small smile.

“Indeed. Are you hungry, Jack? Can I make you something to eat?”

“Yes, I’m starving. Thank you. I was going to order food at the pub, but then my mom called and told me to come over to talk to you.”

Maggie got up and looked in the fridge. “I was about to do a big shop. We don’t have too much but do you like eggs? Can I make you an omelet with fresh eggs from the chickens? Spinach? Feta? Onions? I have a homemade cake for after.”

“That sounds amazing. All of it.”

Maggie proceeded to do what she did best, the thing that comforted her, grounded her: feeding people, nurturing them. Her bones, her muscles, her nerves relaxed as she moved around the kitchen gathering ingredients.

She sautéed the onions, added the spinach and then feta, cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisked them, and seasoned and poured them into a sizzling pan, producing a pale golden omelet, slick with butter, that rolled around the other ingredients.

She toasted her homemade sourdough and slathered it thickly with butter, placing slices on either side of the omelet before sliding the plate in front of Jack. She made herself tea, then sat opposite him at the table as he devoured the food, unable to take her eyes off him, fascinated by everything he did.

He held his knife and fork in the same way that Ben did. She shook her head at the memory. How could that possibly be genetic, and yet, watching him eat was exactly like watching Ben.

“This may be the greatest omelet I’ve ever eaten in my life.” Jack’s mouth was full as he spoke, as Maggie remembered how much Ben loved her cooking, how, the very first night he had come back to her flat, she had made him an omelet, too, and he had wolfed it down, only pausing to tell her how delicious it was. She hadn’t cooked for him for years by the time he died. It was her silent protestation at his drinking. If he didn’t love her enough to stay sober, he didn’t deserve her food.

A pang of guilt hit her. What if she had continued cooking for Ben, showing him she loved him through food? Would things have ended differently? Could she have saved him?

“Are you okay?” Jack peered at her.

“I’m fine,” she said, brusquely pushing the thoughts away as she slid her chair back to bring over a huge wedge of cake.

He forked some into his mouth and briefly closed his eyes, swooning. “What is this? This is the best cake I think I have ever eaten.”