“Francesca, what are you doing here?” Edward’s frown deepened.
“Oh well, you know I never stop working.” Leaning against the doorframe, she peeled off her leather gloves with the suspense of a burlesque dancer. Her faint accent was also tough to trace—Italian? Israeli? “Since we’re meeting with the interior designer on Monday, I thought I’d come in and do another sweep of the place, without the noise of all the contractors. What brings you around?”
“Same.” He turned to Oona, putting a protective arm around her. “You’d think my consultant would take a day off, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am.”
How well am I supposed to know this woman?
Francesca gave Oona a sardonic smile. “You’d think your husband would remember how much is involved in organizing a restaurant launch. The opening-night party alone is a huge undertaking.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Oona replied, sounding the furthest thing from it. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”
Waving a dismissive hand, Francesca replied, “It’s under control. Unless you’ve been hiding any celebrity friends who could attend the grand opening.”
“I thought you already had big celebrities lined up,” Edward said.
“Some, yes.” There was a note of defensiveness in her voice. “Not Friends or Sex and the City big, but I have connections to David Blaine, Heidi Klum, and Kelly Osbourne. I may also be able to pull some strings to get Paris and Nicky, though so far I’ve only been able to get a direct line to one of their hanger-ons, Kim Kar-something-or-other. One way or another, we will have a killer launch.”
“First I need to make sure we can actually open on time,” Edward grumbled. “I’m still worried about the next MEP inspection. The mechanical should be fine, but electric and plumbing might have issues.”
“We’ll get there, don’t worry so much. Listen, why don’t I give you two some space? I can come back another time.” Francesca turned to go.
After she left, as Edward locked up, Oona asked, “Does she know about … my condition?”
“No, why should she? That’s a personal matter and she’s just a business associate.”
A very pretty one. Should I be worried?
Edward rubbed his bare hands together and blew into them. “Bad day to forget gloves. There’s a diner on Smith Street if you want to get breakfast, have a chat, get used to each other some more.”
Oona’s head was full of so much new information, adding in a getting-to-know-you meal with her new husband was too much. “Actually, do you mind if we go home? I’m not really hungry and I could use some time to—settle in. And I’d like to call my mother.”
“Madeleine is on vacation.”
A sharp look of disbelief. “What?”
“She took a cruise with Nathan, her boyfriend. She’s coming back in two weeks.”
“Oh.” Disappointment coursed through Oona like mercury, weighing her down. She just left me to fend for myself with a strange man? Again? Is that what she does now?
Noticing Oona’s soured mood, Edward asked, “What can I do to cheer you up? Take you to a movie? Buy you flowers? Do a funny dance?” He did an impromptu jig on the sidewalk until she cracked a smile. “Or would you rather have a bit of time to yourself?”
Once again, his innate understanding released a pressure valve within her. “Yes. That. And maybe a movie later?”
The brownstone was usually her sanctuary, but going home felt odd now that her house held a new resident. She’d have to get used to the physical reality of a husband. The shared space, decreased privacy, another person beside her in bed every night (she couldn’t let Edward sleep in the guest bedroom indefinitely).
Less than a day into the marriage and an unspoken expectation hung over her, for her to get back to normal or find a new normal.
Back home, Edward busied himself in the kitchen and Oona went to her study, locking the door behind her. She checked the safe for the binder. It was intact, its pages filled with her numbers and notations. At the top of the 2004 section, she’d written: Edward doesn’t know about this binder. No need to tell him.
That made sense … though maybe she’d encourage him to buy Google stock when it went public in August. It would make for a nice buffer against any potential money lost in the restaurant.
What about money you might lose in the divorce?
Oona put the binder away and headed to her desk file cabinet. An apprehensive knot formed in her lower back until she found the prenuptial agreement. She waded through the legalese until its terms were clear: in the event of a divorce, neither party was responsible for spousal maintenance, and each would retain their separate income and assets. The house, bank account, and investment portfolio were still solely in Oona’s name. A holding company in her and Edward’s name jointly owned Clary’s Pub and the Gowanus property housing it. So her main assets were secure, and she wouldn’t have to pay Edward alimony when (if?) they split.
Next she reviewed the Clary’s Pub paperwork. There were construction contracts, insurance documents, copies of licenses, permits, and invoices. Most of the bills contained four- or five-figure numbers, but a few were into low six figures—customized build-outs, tableware, kitchen and bar equipment. A rough calculation tallied the costs to date at over a million dollars.
That is one expensive dream.
Judging from some of the bank records she reviewed, she funded more than that. There were big purchases at stores like Brooks Brothers, Ralph Lauren, and Salvatore Ferragamo—presumably attire for Edward. Additionally, she’d been writing him a five-thousand-dollar check every few weeks (I give him an allowance?) and paying his credit card bills, which also amounted to thousands per month.
Whatever she spent on Edward or the restaurant wouldn’t affect her overall financial health. But if she supported him to such an extent, was the nature of their relationship transactional? Put more simply:
Am I buying his love?
It was a rational notion considering her circumstances, but in this case, the numbers couldn’t tell the full story. If the marriage to Edward was going to work, she’d need to have more faith in her earlier self.
Oona put away the paperwork and headed downstairs to the music room. Once she put on a Velvet Underground record, she regarded her wall of guitars.
Growing up, she’d opted for rock music over pop. Where other girls were singing Olivia Newton-John songs into hairbrushes, Oona would grab a broom, crank up Brian Eno’s Here Come the Warm Jets, and strum her makeshift guitar. She’d never envisioned herself as a rock goddess, but got a rush at the thought of performing music.
When she began seeing Dale and he enlisted her to be in his band, they’d gone to a store on Kings Highway to select an instrument for her. The curved gleaming bodies of the guitars immediately lured her, like mythological sirens.
As if reading her mind, Dale picked up a red-and-white Stratocaster and said, “I’ve had my eye on this one. Been saving up for months to buy it.”
After working summers as a cashier at Genovese, Oona also had enough money saved for a guitar, but Dale discouraged that idea. “I don’t see Early Dawning as a two guitars kind of band.” He tapped a finger against his chin, musing. “We could use a different instrument to flesh out our sound.”