Unmissing(8)

I’m here for one thing and one thing only—to get my life back.





CHAPTER THREE


MERRITT

“How’d it go?” I cradle my phone on my shoulder while lifting Elsie from her high chair, a move that sends a shock of pain down my left shoulder blade. Once again, my body is silently screaming at me to slow down and take it easy.

“Couldn’t really get a read on them,” Luca says from the other end. “They asked all the right questions, but they weren’t overly friendly.”

He’s wooing not one but three potential buyers for our franchise. If none of them bite this week, things will go from bad to worse the second his feet hit Oregon soil. We’ll have to close at least two locations by the end of the month, laying off some of our best, most loyal employees. Not to mention we’ll have to dip into our retirement to cover any costs that may come up—as well as living expenses. All this as we prepare to welcome our second babe. These should be happier times.

“Well, that’s disappointing.” My voice cracks.

“Don’t give up on me that easily.” The confident chuckle in my husband’s voice is planted, but I appreciate his lightheartedness nonetheless. “One down, two to go.”

I run a baby wipe across Elsie’s face, swiping away the blackberry jam from her morning toast, and then I clean her chubby little fingers one by one. Glancing outside, I spot a couple of moms pushing strollers, gabbing away. As an introvert, making friends—and maintaining those friendships—has always been challenging for me. I kept thinking once I had kids, it would change. I’d find a group of moms to hang out with every week, and I’d finally have my clique.

Only it turns out, mom life is twenty times more isolating than I ever imagined.

At least I have Luca—my best friend, the keeper of my secrets, the knower of my dreams. I’d trade a thousand girlfriends for one of him.

Exhaling, I check the clock above the stove. I’ve got an appointment with our OB in a half hour, and our part-time nanny should be here any minute. Afterward, I was going to run a few errands—dry cleaner’s, post office, baby boutique—before grabbing groceries on the way home. Exhaustion gnaws deep to my marrow today, but staying busy should help keep my mind off that strange woman from last night.

“Change is a part of life,” he adds. “This isn’t the first mountain we’ve scaled, won’t be our last either.”

Three years ago, Traveler magazine deemed Bent Creek the “hidden gem of the West Coast,” sparking a migration of moneyed Seattleites, San Franciscans, and Portlandians, each one salivating with greed, desperate for unpolluted air, shorter commutes, and heftier bank accounts. The population explosion served us well at first—until we were hit with an influx of shiny, new competing restaurants.

In the blink of a contented eye, our livelihood went from the goose that laid the golden egg to a kamikaze pilot on a mission. From a secret paradise to a brand of pretentiousness I can describe only as sunshine dipped in granola with a side of Patagonia.

“Yeah. I know.” I fail to stifle a yawn. My mouth burns from having used Luca’s cinnamon toothpaste this morning. I make a note to pick up a tube of mint for myself at the store.

“When was the last time you had a full night’s rest?” Luca asks.

I miss my husband, but I must admit the house stays tidier when he’s gone. No wayward socks to pick up. No toothpaste to scrub off the sink. No clock to watch while I time dinner with his arrival home in the evenings.

“Hard to get comfortable when you’re the size of a house.” I’m dying to tell him about the woman because I suspect he’d laugh it off and confirm my suspicions, which would make me feel a million times better—but he needs to be on his A game for these pitches. He needs to focus. And sell. And to do so, he can’t be worried about what’s happening back home.

“Twenty-four days,” he says, referring to our scheduled C-section date. I detect a smile in his voice. “Twenty-four days till we can finally hold him. Think he’ll look like you or me?”

He’s trying to lift my spirits, and I adore him for that.

“I think he’ll surprise us,” I say. “It’d be fitting, don’t you think?”

After we welcomed Elsie, we were done. My pregnancy with her was difficult and complicated toward the end, leading to an emergency cesarean in which we almost lost her. Fewer things in this life are more traumatic than having a child ripped from your body with blue lips and no heartbeat. Fewer blessings in this world are better than that baby taking her first breath and being laid on you moments after you thought she was gone.

After a handful of tearful conversations, we decided to be grateful for the baby we had, agreeing that we didn’t need another one to complete our family.

But this little guy had other plans.

My grandmother once said life is what happens between the curveballs and happy accidents. So far I’ve found that to be true. But while some may find the uncertainty of life exhilarating, I’ve always thought it downright terrifying. I’ve never been a fan of surprises. And my little slice of the world is much more enjoyable when I can control it.

I rub my belly, silently letting him know he’s the exception.

The only exception.

“What do you think of the name Everett?” Luca asks. An elevator chimes in the background. “After my great-grandfather on my father’s side. And it’s an E name. I know you don’t like the whole matching thing, but—”