The Empty Jar(83)

Much like my wife, I would do anything for Grace.

“Where’s the little chick?” comes a second female from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

“Back here!” Grace says in a louder voice.

Within half a minute, Nissa appears in the hall. She walks up to Grace, slings an arm over her shoulders, and hauls her in for a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“You packed yet, kiddo?” she asks.

“Daddy just finished, even though I expressly forbid him to touch any of this.”

Both Nissa and Grace both turn their disapproving gazes toward me, but in Nissa’s I see the laughing tolerance she’s always had for the way I indulge and spoil my little girl. “Thick-headed as always, I see,” Nissa says, shaking her head. Then she looks back to Grace. “No, I meant for your trip. You know the honeymoon.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and a sly grin plays with the corners of her mouth. I can remember finding her wearing just such an expression as she sat with my wife, having coffee early in the mornings. I woke to find them that way countless times.

I push that thought out of my head in favor of what’s happening right now. “Oh no!” I say firmly, holding my hands up to stop what might be a disaster.

“Oh no, what?” Nissa asks, her features arranged in her most innocuous fashion.

“You are not helping her pack for her honeymoon!”

“And why not?” Nissa’s hands go to her hips. I know what that means. Grace does, too. If the finger comes out…

“If you recall, I got to see firsthand what kind of sh— stuff you pack for Europe.”

A mixture of happiness and deep melancholy swirl through me.

Europe.

Lena.

Lingerie.

Kisses in London, Paris, Rome, and several more countries than I ever thought I’d kiss my wife in.

“Nathaniel Grant, you ought to be ashamed! Do you seriously think I’d pack things like that for my little Gracie-Lou?”

I say nothing, just eye her suspiciously. I don’t think. I know.

Finally, she concedes. “Fine,” she huffs, muttering under her breath. “Spoilsport.”

I smother a grin.

As she has for years, Grace sweeps in to mediate. “I have everything I’ll need, Aunt Nissa. It’s fine. Really.”

“Are you sure? Because after Mark and I split and I married Thad, he let me take his credit card for a spin and, girl, let me tell you. I bought some pretty nice stuff. You sure you don’t want to come take a look?”

“Aren’t you needed at home?” I ask, pushing through the door to take Nissa by the shoulders and aim her toward her own house, which she kept in the divorce and then remodeled for her new husband. She was adamant they live in that house, in this neighborhood. She wanted to be close to Grace, something I’ll never be able to adequately thank her for.

“As a matter of fact, I do need to get supper on.”

“Then by all means,” I say, giving her a nudge, smiling in spite of myself.

Nissa blows Grace a kiss over her shoulder and reminds her, “See you at the airport, kiddo. Call if you need me.”

And then she’s gone, the back door slamming shut, leaving me once again alone with my daughter.

“That woman… She’s a bad influence,” I murmur halfheartedly.

Grace knows me too well to believe that, though. “You love her just as much as I do,” she teases, smiling up at me.

“Yeah. She was a good friend to your mom. And she’s been good to both of us over the years.”

“Maybe you should take it easy on her, Daddy,” Grace advises. “I think she’s empty nesting. I’m the last of us to go off and get married, you know.”

The last of us.

Grace grew up with Nissa’s children. It was like having a ready-made family. They love each other like siblings. I know if Lena could see how it all turned out, she’d be pleased.

Thrilled, even.

I can almost see her smile…

“Daddy?”

“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll take it easy on her. As long as she doesn’t send you to Rome with stripper clothes.”

Grace gives me her brightest, most Lena-like smile and tells me as she’s walking away, “I make no promises.”

I just shake my head and watch her go.

********

Rome.

Jesus, I think silently when I unlock the hotel room door and step inside. The rush of emotion hits me like a physical blow. I can practically smell Lena.

Shaken, I wonder if it was an enormous miscalculation on my part to think I could handle staying in the beautiful suite I shared with my wife all those years ago. I’d thought I might feel comforted, might feel her presence stronger, but this…

I stumble forward and drop down onto the closest chair, a Queen Anne-style one sitting at the edge of the living area. The room has been redecorated, but it’s still so much the same that when I glance up at the window, I can envision with disturbing clarity my wife standing there, looking out at the incredible view. I feel closer to her all right, but I also feel closer to the loss of her. Like it just happened, the anguish of it that poignant.

It staggers me.

Or maybe it daggers me.

Right through the heart.

An increasingly familiar pain ripples behind my breastbone, and I fist my hand in my shirt right over my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut. I wish I knew exactly how many days, weeks, months, or years it will be before I’m reunited with my wife. Maybe that would make it easier, knowing. Seeing an end in sight.