A Mother Would Know (6)

As we approach the table, I realize that I don’t even know if he drinks wine. I pick up the bottle, anyway. Offer him some.

“Sure,” he replies.

It’s not exactly enthusiastic, but I’m relieved he doesn’t say no. There’s nothing else to drink in the house. Darren liked hard liquor—whiskey or gin—and also indulged in the occasional beer, but I usually stick to wine, and I don’t do it regularly.

I used to drink almost daily, and I preferred cocktails, but when Darren was diagnosed with liver cancer, a result of years of alcoholism, I gave it up. Only recently, I’ve indulged again. It helps me relax.

Ice shifts in the ice maker. The refrigerator hums. I pour us both a glass of the dark purple liquid, filling it way past the halfway mark. I feel like we could both use it. I hope it will cut the awkwardness.

When I sink down into my chair, it creaks beneath me. Hudson plops down across from me and takes a gulp. He almost sucks down half the glass in one fell swoop, reminding me of when he was young. He could chug an entire glass of orange juice in mere seconds and eat a sandwich in just a few bites.

I lean back, drawing the glass to my lips. The acidic tang lingers on my tongue.

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” Hudson says. “I could’ve picked something up.”

His statement stings, but I know it isn’t meant to. If Kendra had said it, it would’ve been a dig, a reminder of all the meals I didn’t cook them growing up. But I’m certain Hudson’s only trying to be helpful. “No, it’s fine. I wanted to make dinner,” I say, and then add with a wink, “while I still remember how.” After the words leave my mouth, I worry that it was an inappropriate joke. In bad taste.

But then Hudson laughs for the first time since arriving. I laugh, too, and it feels nice. I can’t remember the last time I truly laughed. It’s why I was looking forward to having Hudson back. He’s always been the funny one. The silly one, who likes to joke and tease.

Between bites of lasagna and sips of wine, I try to think of something to say. A dozen questions pop into my mind all at once like the finale of a fireworks show.

What happened between you and your ex?

What have you been up to since?

What kind of work have you been doing?

Do you have any job prospects now?

What are your plans?

But I can’t bring myself to ask them. I don’t know much about his ex, other than that her name is Natasha. Or is it Natalia? Natalie? Well, I guess I don’t even know that. But I’d tried to get him to tell me more about their breakup when I’d called to ask him to stay here, and he’d clammed up immediately. Jobs seem to be a sore subject as well. Our first night together shouldn’t be spent on uncomfortable conversations. Plus, I don’t want him to feel pressured or interrogated.

So we eat in silence.

Hudson finishes before me. I’m still a little hungry, but I abandon my plate and replenish both of our wineglasses before inviting him to join me in the family room.

“I can help you clean up,” he says, eyeing the plates, silverware and serving platters.

I wave away his suggestion. “I’ll get it later,” I tell him, heading toward the family room.

The beauty of living alone is doing things in my own timeframe. Darren hated messiness. He couldn’t ignore dirty dishes in the sink, a table that needed clearing. It had to be done immediately. But it doesn’t bother me.

The family room has always been my favorite. Many a morning, I’ve sat in the window seat, sipping coffee and watching the sun rise. I’d redecorated over the last few years with vintage and antique pieces, my favorite being the rolled-arm blue velvet sofa that I found at an estate sale here in midtown about a year ago.

Darren would have hated it.

“What’s all this?” Hudson asks, moving toward the baby grand piano in the corner. His fingers light on the box and file folders littering the top, disturbing the dust that’s constantly accumulating.

“Oh.” I follow him, set my wineglass down and pick up a file folder. “It’s just stuff about the house.”

“What kinda stuff?” Hudson grabs a few papers out of the box.

“The history.”

“These are all articles about Grace Newton’s death,” he says.

“Yeah, I wanted to see if I could learn anything new about it.”

“And did you?”

“I mean, not really. Just that the police had originally suspected the dad, and eventually the mom. There were even people who thought maybe it was one of her older siblings. But, you know, eventually it was ruled accidental.”

His forehead becomes a mess of squiggly lines. “Why’re you so interested in this?”

I get the same kind of questions from Kendra.

“It’s creepy enough that you chose to live in this house. Why do you fixate on its morbid history?” She’s said a version of this repeatedly over the years.

I shrug. “It’s my home. I’m curious about its history. Besides, I’ve been living alone in this house with Grace for the past five years. Shouldn’t I know about her?” Making light of it, I wink.

Hudson doesn’t laugh. His concerned expression deepens.

I nudge him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Oh, come on. I’m kidding.” I open the file folder in my hand. “Look, I’ve been able to trace the genealogy back to the original owners of the home. I’d always thought it was Grace’s parents. But it wasn’t. It was her grandparents, who built the home in 1910. Then it was passed down to Grace’s parents and eventually Grace’s siblings. Isn’t that cool?”