Unmissing(33)

Nanny? She has a nanny?

She has one kid and no job . . .

“Of course.” I fold my napkin and drape it across my plate.

We gather our things and head out to her olive-green SUV with its space-age headlights. Climbing into the warm, buttery leather seats, I inhale the scent of new car and paper shopping bags and try to imagine what kind of life she’d lead if all this went away.

I imagine Merritt with two tantrummy children in a two-bedroom apartment on the square. A pile of bills rests on the kitchen counter next to spilled Cheerios and a store-brand apple juice box. Their furniture—much of it left over from their seaside estate—a jarring contrast against the gray plaster walls, grimy carpet, and almond-colored appliances.

“This might come across as strange,” Merritt says when she pulls up to The Blessed Alchemist a few minutes later. “But how would you feel about spending more time with us? As a family?”

Unbuckling, I stifle a scoff and turn to her. “What are you proposing?”

Does she honestly think we could be one big, happy modern family?

“I think if we all spent a little more time together, got to know each other better, things might feel less . . . surreal?” She shrugs. “And maybe we’d each get the closure we need?”

I don’t need closure—I need my life back. The one I was always meant to have.

“I’m not sure what you mean by we’d each get closure,” I say. “Do you need closure?”

She hesitates, tripping over her words. “I’m not trying to make this about me . . . I’m just thinking of Luca. And you, of course. There’s no guidebook on this kind of thing, you know? But we could figure this out together. One day at a time.”

I offer a dramatic pause, leaning against the headrest and staring straight ahead as if I’m contemplating my answer—like I don’t already know damn well what I’m going to say.

“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” I finally respond.

She exhales, like she’d been holding her breath that whole time. “Wonderful. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waiting.” I grab my bags from the back seat and head into Delphine’s shop. Fortunately she’s with a customer, too preoccupied to notice the giant shit-eating grin covering my face.

Merritt’s IQ has to be akin to the department store lipstick she keeps in her designer satchel . . . because this is almost too easy.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


MERRITT

“Rough day?” I ask when Luca pours himself two fingers of Scotch after work.

I can’t remember the last time I saw him drink at home. He’s never been a fan of alcohol, typically ordering a cocktail or beer at dinners out mostly for show. The minibar we installed during the remodel was predominantly for me. When not with child, I enjoy a nice glass of cabernet with dinner or the occasional top-shelf cocktail on the weekends. The Scotch was a Christmas gift from several years ago. The $200 collector’s bottle imported from Scotland went perfectly with the Baccarat crystal tumblers I’d bought us for our first wedding anniversary. They were the perfect complements to our well-appointed home bar. But this is perhaps the third time I’ve ever seen my husband so much as go near that bottle.

I’m hopelessly wild about Luca, but not when he’s drunk. There’s a darkness in his eyes when he overindulges. He slurs and rambles and becomes testy. Wine doesn’t affect him as much as the hard stuff, but he generally avoids both.

He tosses the entire thing back in one gulp, wearing a pained expression when he’s finished. My esophagus burns with phantom sympathy.

I’ll have to keep an eye on him.

“Come.” I thread my fingers through his. The roast chicken I put in the oven still has another ten minutes. “Let’s sit down and relax for a bit . . .”

I lead him to the family room, where Elsie plays with her little dollhouse and the wooden family I had specially made from some local artisan in Bent Creek. Little wooden versions of Luca, Elsie, me, and the baby.

We sink into the sofa cushions together, and I nuzzle up to him, inhaling the cocktail of restaurant scents that cling to his dress shirt.

“Heard anything from out east?” I ask. Out of three pitches, there has to be someone.

“One said definitely not.” His body tenses with his words. “The other said they were waiting until next week, after a shareholder meeting. Nothing from the third.”

“I’m not worried.” It’s a little white lie. I don’t tend to make a habit out of dishonesty, but someone needs to be the beacon of hope.

“That makes one of us.” He stares out the picture window, toward the gray seascape beyond our backyard. It isn’t like him to be so gloom and doom, but I don’t hold it against him. His mind must be laden with worry and doubt and uncertainty.

“I, um, had lunch with Lydia today,” I say. But before he allows me to explain, he flies off the sofa and grabs a fistful of his dark hair.

“Jesus Christ, Merritt.” His dark eyes burn with a fiery haze. “What the hell are you thinking? She’s not your friend. Did I or did I not tell you to stay away from her?”

I stay calm—mostly for Elsie’s sake and for the baby, but also because Luca needs to simmer, and meeting his frenzy with mine won’t help anything.