Though I can’t tell if he loves her. The other night, he didn’t give her more than a passing glance after he saw me.
She lifts a hand to her heart, her diamonds throwing even more dancing lights on the wall.
“He’s a good man,” she says.
I offer a bittersweet smile. “The best. I’m just glad he was able to move past everything so easily.” I reach for my water. “Losing a spouse the way he did . . . you’d think it’d stick with a person.”
“I’m not sure he moved on from everything so much as he accepted that he couldn’t change the past.” She sips her drink, the straw taut between her thumb and forefinger. “If I’m being honest, I was the one who finally convinced him it was okay to marry again.”
She rests her glass on the table, face contorting as if she’s got more to say—only she must have second thoughts because she reaches for her wrap instead, adding nothing.
I clear my throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” She dabs her mouth and leans in like she’s living for this conversation.
“What did you see in Luca when you first met him? What made you think he’s the one?” Not that her answer matters. Simply filling in blanks here.
Lashes fluttering and her mouthful of teeth on full display, she exudes radiance. “Oh, gosh. Where do I start?”
The Luca I first met over a decade ago had overgrown hair in constant need of a wash, a trim, or both. He was average in build and height, introverted, never one to dominate a conversation or command a room. The kind of guy you pass at the grocery store and mentally categorize as a background prop, like an extra in a movie scene.
The two of us together, average and ordinary, never made anyone look twice, and that was part of the reason we were so perfect together.
The woman before me with her New England upbringing and old-moneyed breeding, with her style and good taste . . . what could she have possibly seen in someone like that?
“He was different,” she begins. “Different from everyone else, I mean. He was mysterious without being closed off. Loyal without being possessive. Well read without being pretentious about it. And he was good with his hands—he could fix just about anything, electrical, mechanical, you name it. He wasn’t like the guys back home or any of the guys I grew up around.” She stirs her drink with her straw, elbow on the table, and exhales as she concentrates on something in the distance, a lovestruck half smile forming on her perfect pout. “I saw him, and I just knew . . . he was perfect for me.”
I place the mental image of Luca-from-ten-years-ago next to the beautiful, glowing woman across from me, and it simply won’t compute. Perhaps she saw something special in him, something that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye.
“How did you two meet, anyway?” I pick at my food, my stomach growing unsettled as it tends to when I eat anything rich anymore.
“We were neighbors,” she says. “Both renting out opposite halves of a little duplex over on Acadia Drive. He fixed my fridge one night, and I invited him to stay for a glass of wine . . . which turned into a few glasses.” She chuckled. “We talked all night, until the sun came up. Now here we are.”
Merritt rubs her belly, blowing a hard breath from pursed lips.
“You okay?”
She nods. “Braxton-Hicks contractions—it’s normal this late in the game.”
“When are you due?”
“Soon.” It’s her turn to be vague.
“Oh, so this spring?” I call her bluff. We’re six weeks from the official first day of spring, and while I don’t know much about pregnancies, I know when a woman looks like she’s two seconds from bursting at the seams.
She chuckles. “Early March.”
Still no date, but close enough.
I imagine she doesn’t trust me. Perhaps she’s seen one too many Lifetime movies and thinks I’m here to rip her baby straight from the womb and run off with it.
“Do you know what you’re having?” I ask next.
Merritt sips her water. “A boy.”
“How perfect. A girl and a boy,” I say. “Luca must be thrilled.”
“He’s excited.” She beams again, as if someone flipped a switch to power her back on. God, pregnancy looks exhausting. I can’t imagine running an entire gamut of emotions on a daily basis and still being able to put myself together and go shopping with my husband’s undead wife. “This little guy was a total surprise.”
“What’s Luca like?” I ask. “As a father I mean.”
“Wonderful.” Her gaze grows unfocused, as if she’s lost in thought. “Doting and gentle and attentive. More patient than most. Protective.”
Merritt’s hand splays across her rotund middle for the millionth time today. Eyes squeezed tight, she winces.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.
Zoned out, she breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth a few times before finally nodding. “That one was a little more intense than the others. I hate to call it a day, but I think I probably should go home and lie down while I still have the nanny.”
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.”