Trespassing(65)

And if he wasn’t really cat sitting, why was he there?

“I don’t mean to accuse.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened before I got here, so if you wouldn’t mind, level with me. You weren’t really there to take care of the cat.”

“I was actually. Every once in a while, I refill the feeder, clean up after the little guy . . . oh. I didn’t get to it that day. You came, and I left before . . . I’m sorry you walked into such a mess.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind changing the litter. I’m not worried about that.”

“I’m sure you’re capable, but to be honest with you, I’ve been busy, and I didn’t expect her to be gone this long.”

“Do you know the names of the boys—Tasha’s boys—who were living in that house?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you know any of the neighbors who might’ve?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know many people here. It’s a touristy city. People come and go. Some stay a week, maybe less. Lots of houses on this street are rented by different families week to week. Hard to keep up.”

“But Tasha asked you to watch her cat? You don’t know her children—”

“I met the little girl in the garden. Mimi-something-or-other. It was short for something. I never met any boys.”

Frustration builds inside me. How is it he can’t know anything about the woman who’d impose upon him to watch her cat? Indefinitely?

I pull my phone from its case, the strap of which is still looped around my wrist. “Maybe you can tell me . . .” I start swiping the screen, flipping through pictures until I land on a picture of Micah and our daughter. “Have you ever seen this guy?”

He takes the phone from me, licks his lips, and studies the screen. He glances up at me, but our eyes meet for only a moment before he redirects back to the picture. “This is your husband?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” His brow crinkles, and he’s about to look me in the eye, then averts his glance back to the screen.

A funny feeling swirls in my gut, as if my stomach is an empty gum-ball machine, slowly being filled, ball by ball ricocheting around my innards. And my cheeks are flaming hot.

“I’m sorry.” I take my phone back.

“Why are you sorry?”

“You know him. You’ve seen him. And you don’t know me, but here I am making you tell me . . . considering what you’ve been through—with your wife, I mean. I’m here forcing you to give me the worst possible news, and—”

I shut up but can’t stop shaking my head in disbelief. I open the picture of Natasha that Claudette sent. “Is this Tasha?”

He studies the picture for a second. “Looks like her.”

I dab at budding tears. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what’s up or down anymore.”

“Yeah, I’ve been in touch with that emotion.” Christian massages the back of his neck.

“Was he, you know . . . did he look like he was happy?”

“I don’t want to speculate as to someone else’s happiness. How would I know if someone—”

“No, I need to know.”

“You want to know if he was acting like a father with someone else’s kids.”

“Yes.”

Christian’s nodding. “Yeah, he did. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I breathe through fresh tears. I wish I could stop the tears from falling. Crying isn’t going to change anything.

Micah’s been physically gone now for fifteen days.

But I wonder when I truly lost him.

Tasha’s daughter is older than Elizabella.

Was Micah ever truly mine?

“You okay?”

“Come to think of it . . . yes. It’s the first definite answer I’ve gotten, and it helps.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“It means my life in Chicago was a lie, and I may as well start fresh, and since I don’t have anyplace else to go, I may as well start here. I have a house, and it needs a lot of work, and as soon as I figure out where to buy paint on this island, I’ll get right on it.”

He slides his hands back into his pockets. “This may be an island, but we’re not savages. We have Home Depot.”

I laugh and wipe away the tears I’m still holding at bay. “Obviously.”

“So maybe I can help you get there, if you can help me with something.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Thanksgiving. I have no idea how to cook a squash.”





Chapter 33

I’ve never had a Thanksgiving alone.

Micah and Natasha stepped in to celebrate with me the very first holiday season after my mother’s passing. Some years, we ate turkey sandwiches from the Second City Deli and canned cranberry sauce. The first year we opted to toss a bird in the oven . . . the memory resurfaces now: Some football game on television, all of us in flannel pajama pants and T-shirts, and taking turns basting. Micah: Christ, it’ll be midnight before we eat. Natasha: Golden Dragon delivers, you know. And so we ordered Chinese food.

Somehow, all the tumultuous holidays of the past, those I’d spent with my mother, seemed to melt into prehistory the moment Micah and I started our own traditions.