“Come on, that looks delicious!” I say as I head toward the exit.
I hear a little whimper.
I turn around: “I’ll be back in a week.”
He drops his head onto his paws, his gaze never wavering.
I swear I can feel the sadness of the dog who wouldn’t fight back, even to protect himself, for the entertainment of despicable people.
“This is a terrible idea.”
I go find the shelter’s director, to tell her I want to adopt Romeo.
* * *
On my drive home, I blast the Indigo Girls and make a mental list of the supplies I will need for Romeo when I pick him up tomorrow—bowls, a new leash, toys, kibble. I find myself smiling as I imagine Romeo’s nails clicking on my hardwood floors as he follows me around my house, and him snoozing by my side as I write up client notes. Then I picture him chewing on my favorite leather pumps.
As I pull into my driveway, I see my stepdaughter, Lana, sitting in the driver’s seat of her Honda, parked behind the old Mercedes that her dad used to drive.
I turn off my engine and step out as she mirrors my movements.
“Sorry I’m late.” I stretch out my arms.
“It’s okay. I just got here.”
As we hug, I notice a streak of pink paint in her hair. Lana runs kids’ birthday parties at a decorate-your-own-pottery store. “Princess theme?” I touch a chocolate-brown curl. She inherited her thick locks from her dad, along with his love of roller coasters and Monty Python and aversion to mayonnaise. Lana and her cerebral, intense father had little else in common, though.
I unlock my front door and gesture for Lana to come in. She still has a key, since Paul shared custody with his ex-wife after their divorce and Lana lived with us part-time as a teenager, but she stopped using it when she graduated from college and moved into a nearby apartment. It could have been a disastrous mix: a thirteen-year-old girl and her father’s new wife cohabitating under one roof. But Lana and I formed a bond that’s all our own.
“Want some coffee?” At her nod, I drop a pod into the Keurig and reach into the cupboard for the box of almond biscotti.
I crunch into one as I lead Lana into the living room. Two packing boxes are stacked by the fireplace, containing memorabilia Paul stored in the basement.
When my husband died, he left his generous life insurance policy to Lana, and he willed our home to me. I got rid of a few things immediately, such as his containers of medicines and the hospital-style bed that we’d set up in Lana’s old bedroom, so he could have the brightest room in the house. We’d tried to offset the grimness of all the medical supplies by erecting a trio of bird feeders just outside the windows so Paul could watch the fluttering of blue jays, finches, and soft-brown sparrows. We’d also covered the walls with family photographs of Paul, Lana, and me in happier times and brought in his vintage Crosley turntable so he could hear his beloved jazz music.
It took me a little while to box up Paul’s clothes and donate them to a homeless shelter. Now, just a few of Paul’s belongings still occupy our rooms, including his vast DVD collection of black-and-white movies, hundreds of records to go with his turntable, and books ranging from the classics to spy thrillers. Sometimes when I walk by his office, I almost expect him to swivel around in his black leather chair, calling out, “Luv?”—in the British accent that won me over the first time we met, when I went to Politics and Prose to attend his book signing.
These boxes represent another layer of clearing away; they’re filled with Paul’s academic awards, old letters, photographs, and Lana’s childhood artwork.
“Take anything you want,” I tell Lana.
She sinks onto the carpet and crosses her legs. But she doesn’t reach into the top box.
I study her face. “You okay, sweetie?”
She sighs. “I just miss him so much.”
If Lana were one of my clients, I’d open the box myself and hand her the first item. But instead I hug her. “If you’re not up for this, we can do it another time.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” She sucks in a deep breath, then lifts up a flap and pulls out a big padded envelope filled with loose photographs. She begins flipping through them: Lana sitting on a spotted pony; blowing out six blazing candles atop a pink-frosted cake; standing in between her parents; beaming through a mouthful of braces at what must have been her junior high school graduation.
My eyes linger on that photo. It was taken shortly before I met Paul; neither he nor his ex-wife is wearing a wedding ring in the picture. Paul’s hair was still a riot of dark curls back then, with just a few strands of silver glinting in the temples. He was tan and fit; strong enough to scoop me up in his arms and carry me to bed on our wedding night.
So different from the frail man who I held in my arms as he took his final breath, eight months ago.
Maryanne, Lana’s mother, stands on the other side of her daughter, looking as if she smells something sour—an expression I’ve come to associate with her.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, the same.” Lana’s eyes flit away from mine. Maryanne and Paul separated long before he and I met, but Maryanne never liked the idea of him with someone else—let alone someone who was nearly two decades younger. Years after he and I wed, Lana confessed to me that her mother still referred to me as her.
Deeper in the box are first-edition copies of Paul’s three books—all bestsellers. I’ve saved copies for myself, too. Lana flips open his debut, titled You, Me, and the Couch, and stares at the dedication: For Lana, my precious daughter.
She runs her fingertip over the words, and we both blink back tears. The sight of the book is transporting me back to the first time I ever glimpsed Paul. He was standing behind a podium, microphone in hand, enthralling the crowd that filled every seat in the Politics and Prose bookstore. I was twenty-four, attending grad school at George Washington University to get my master’s degree in social work, and I walked in late for Paul’s reading. I wasn’t good at setting boundaries back then and I’d allowed one of the clients at my internship to overstay his session. Paul’s gaze met mine as the door closed behind me. Sorry, I’d mouthed.
I’d read a few of his articles, and I admired his insights into the complexities of the human mind as well as his dexterity with language. But I was unprepared for his physical magnetism.
His eyes, still holding mine, crinkled as he spoke his next words: “That’s when the police came rushing in to arrest my patient, who tried to hide behind me. As if a rumpled psychiatrist was any defense against a SWAT team. Bloody hell, did he think I’d whack at them with my reading glasses?”
That accent. His fierce intelligence. His graceful movements and the elegant yet strong-looking hands that gripped the pen when he signed my book: To Avery, I can already tell you’ll make a brilliant therapist.
I emailed him a week later—it was easy to find his contact information through his office, and I had a legitimate question about one of the cases he’d described in his book. At least that’s what I told myself. We fell into a correspondence that felt natural and exhilarating. I instinctively knew I had to be the one to ask him out because of our age difference. So, one night after a couple glasses of wine, I carefully crafted a note suggesting we meet for coffee or a drink. I closed my eyes as I pressed the key to send it.