The Wife Between Us(23)

And in response she’d kissed Nick, who’d dated half the women at Gibson’s and who probably couldn’t remember her last name.

Why had she risked so much?

She wanted to marry Richard; this wasn’t cold feet.

But Nick had been unfinished business. In spite of his practiced charm, Nellie knew Nick had a tender side. She’d heard him at Gibson’s talking on the phone to his grandmother. He hadn’t known Nellie was rolling silverware into napkins just around the corner. He’d promised to bring his nana chocolate-chip cannoli and watch Wheel of Fortune with her the next night.

Nick was also the first man she’d slept with since leaving college. She’d stopped thinking about him even before she met Richard. But when Nick had leaned toward her on the dance floor, she’d relished that glorious moment of knowing how much he wanted her. Of feeling the power shift into her hands.

She wished it was as simple as blaming it on the shots. The truth wasn’t pretty.

For a brief, rebellious moment, she’d embraced spontaneity over steadiness. She’d wanted one last taste of the city before she settled into the suburbs.

“I’m so glad you came and got me,” she said, and at last she felt Richard’s arm wrap around her.

She drew in a deep breath.

She’d always regret certain decisions in her life, but choosing Richard would never be one of them.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning her head against his chest. She heard his steady heartbeat, the one that lulled her to sleep when nothing else could.

She’d had the sense for a while now that a deep pain was in his past, one he held so closely he hadn’t yet shared it with her. Perhaps it had to do with his ex, or maybe his heart had been broken even earlier.

“I won’t ever do anything to hurt you.” She knew that even on their wedding day, she’d never make a more sacred vow.





CHAPTER





EIGHT




I turn my head to see the silhouette of Aunt Charlotte, backlit by the hallway globe, as she stands in my doorway. I don’t know how long she has been there, or if she noticed I’ve been staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Feeling better?” She walks into the room and pulls open the blinds. Sunlight floods in, and I wince and cover my eyes.

I told her I had the flu. But Aunt Charlotte understands the intertwining of emotional and physical health—how the former can ensnare the latter, suffocating it like a thick vine. After all, she had taken care not only of me, but of my mother during her episodes.

“A little.” But I make no move to get up.

“Should I be worried?” Her tone navigates the edge between playfulness and sharpness. It is familiar; I remember it from when she’d help my mother out of bed and into the shower. “Just for a little while,” she’d cajole, her arm around my mom’s waist. “I need to change the sheets.”

She would’ve been a wonderful parent, Aunt Charlotte. But she never had children; I suspect all those years of nurturing my mother and me had something to do with why.

“No, I’m going to work.”

“I’ll be in my studio all day. I’ve got a commission for a private portrait. This woman wants a nude of herself to give to her husband to hang over her fireplace.”

“Seriously?” I try to inject energy into my tone as I sit up. Like a throbbing toothache, thoughts of Richard’s fiancée dominate every other aspect of my life.

“I know. I don’t even like the communal dressing area at the Y.”

I muster a smile as she starts to leave the room. But then she bangs her hip against the edge of the dresser by the doorway and releases a little cry.

I leap out of bed, and now it’s me with my arm around Aunt Charlotte’s waist, guiding her toward a chair.

Aunt Charlotte brushes off my arm and my concern. “I’m fine. Old people are clumsy.”

And suddenly, the realization pierces me: She is getting old.

I get her ice for her hip over her protests, then I make us some scrambled eggs, mixing in cheddar cheese and scallions. I wash the dishes and wipe down the counters. And I hug Aunt Charlotte tightly before I leave for work. The thought strikes me again: I have no one in the world but her.


I’m dreading seeing Lucille, but to my surprise, she greets me with concern: “I shouldn’t have encouraged you to come in yesterday.”

I notice Lucille’s eyes linger on my Valentino tote. Richard brought it home for me one night just before he left for a business trip to San Francisco. The leather is slightly worn around the clasp; the bag is four years old. Lucille is the type of woman to observe such details. I see her take it in, then look at my old Nikes and my bare ring finger. Her eyes sharpen. It’s as if she is really seeing me for the first time.

I’d called her after my breakdown on the subway. I can’t remember our entire conversation, but I do remember crying.

“Let me know if you need to leave a bit early,” she says now.

“Thank you.” I drop my head, feeling ashamed.

It is busy today, especially for a Sunday, but not busy enough. I thought coming in to work might distract me, but visions of her crowd my mind. I imagine her hands on her swollen belly. Richard’s hands on her swollen belly. Him reminding her to take vitamins, urging her to get enough sleep, holding her close at night. If she gets pregnant, he’ll probably assemble a crib and perch a teddy bear inside.