The Swap(43)

While I felt lonely and blue, my husband’s outlook had improved. His exercise had become less manic, and, between marathon phone calls with his editor, he was writing again. Brian was happy that Freya and I had fallen out. He didn’t say so outright, but it was obvious in his chipper mood. And in his suggestions that I replace her with a new friend.

“Why don’t you join a running club? Or take a watercolor class? It would be good for you to meet some new people.”

“I don’t have time for running and painting,” I retorted. “I’ve got to do my ordering and scheduling before business picks up at spring break.”

It was an excuse. I had plenty of time to take up a new hobby, but I didn’t want to act on my husband’s suggestions. On some level, I blamed him for the loss of my best friend. It was Brian’s jealousy and insecurity that had severed my relationship with Freya. I appreciated his devotion to me. I was grateful for his loyalty. But Freya, Max, and I might have been able to close the door on the whole swapping incident and put it behind us. Brian was the one who couldn’t get over it.

So, I bided my time, working at the store, going for long solo walks in the forest, reading. I had little human contact other than Brian. Of course, I had to respond to the artisans who contacted me, asking, in vain, if any of their products had sold. I dealt with the sprinkling of customers who dropped in for a birthday or housewarming gift. And Low worked with me every Saturday, although my introverted employee did little to assuage my loneliness.

One Saturday, she seemed marginally more upbeat. “Can I leave a bit early today?” she asked, as she was wiping a shelf of scented candles in mason jars. “I want to get some backlit photos of Freya for her Insta.”

“Oh . . .” I cleared the frog in my throat. “I didn’t know you two were friends again.”

“Yep,” she said, her tone breezy. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“Great.”

“We’re building Freya’s brand. I’ve been taking some amazing shots of her. She’s going to be more popular than she ever was.”

Maybe Freya didn’t miss me? Maybe she was consumed by her Instagram celebrity, her days filled with photo shoots and sponsorship deals and swag deliveries?

“So can I go?” Low asked. “The sun sets so early this time of year. If I leave here at five thirty, I’ll miss the light.”

“Yeah, of course.” I forced a smile. “Unless it gets too busy, but I’m sure it won’t. I can handle things alone. And close up alone. It’s no problem. You go and get your sunset photos of Freya.”

A small, triumphant smile twitched Low’s lips, but she pulled it back. “Thanks.” She returned to her dusting.

As soon as Low left at five, I got out my phone and tapped the Instagram app. I hadn’t looked at Freya’s page since she returned from Mexico. To my surprise, she’d been posting daily. The photos—Low’s photos—were stunning, showing off Freya’s fecund beauty. My former bestie had been photographed in a kayak, against a backdrop of fir trees, lounging on a pebbled beach. She was promoting everything from sofas to breakfast food to skin-care products. Freya was back in the game that had turned on her and tossed her out.

It was childish to feel jealous of my teenaged assistant, but I did. Low was in, and I was out; we had effectively traded places. It was Low who gave Freya what she needed now, who answered to her beck and call. Had Freya asked Low to help her with a birthing plan? To hold her hand and coach her through delivery? Would Low be there with her camera, taking photos of that precious moment?

With a heavy lump in my chest, I closed up the store and drove home.





38


low


Jamie’s reaction proved what I had suspected: she and Freya were no longer friends. This should have delighted me. Other than Max, who floated on the periphery of our world like a spirit, I had Freya all to myself. But that damn baby was still on its way, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

What had Jamie done to make Freya angry enough to banish her? It didn’t take much, that I knew. I almost felt sorry for my employer, but Jamie was pretty, outgoing, charming. She’d move on, find another friend. For me, there was only ever Freya. And I was not going to screw up again. I was going to be everything that Jamie had ever been to her, and more. I’d make Freya need me, rely on me; I would become essential. Freya would never be able to cut me out of her life again.

The object of my devotion was waiting for me, wearing one of Max’s flannel shirts and nothing else. The outfit was her idea, but I had to admit it fit perfectly with the milieu. Freya would stand on the deck, the setting sun and a blur of cedar trees behind her. A sexy, pregnant lumberjack. Freya came up with the witty captions, but I might suggest it.

“Hurry,” she instructed, without so much as a hello. “We’re losing the light.”

I followed her out to the deck, where she positioned herself at the railing and struck a pose: back arched, pregnant belly exposed, thigh bent to conceal her privates. Angling myself so the sun’s rays were just out of frame, I took a number of shots. With her fair hair and tanned skin glowing in the natural light, she looked like an angel. No, something fiercer and sexier. A fire goddess.

“Why don’t we get Max to join you for a few shots?” I asked.