The way Peter asked questions was terribly endearing. He listened with his whole body, absorbing every word through small nods and head tilts, reacting without interrupting. He listened that way when Oona played guitar, too.
“It’s been my dream to play for years, but my life has been … chaotic,” she admitted. “Even so, music is one thread that’s always run through it.”
“Life can get in the way of our dreams. The important thing is that you found your way to your instrument. And what’s better than the guitar?” He regarded her Carl Thompson 6-string as if admiring a beautiful woman. If only he knew it used to belong to Lou Reed.
Over the past month, Edward worked increasingly long hours to prepare for the restaurant’s grand opening, so he was supportive of Oona’s new hobby (“I was wondering if you’d pick it up again, seeing that you already played quite well when we met,” he said). The more she played and the better she got, the less she minded his absence.
Seeing her husband sporadically made it easier to get used to marriage in general, as did Edward’s eagerness to keep her satisfied when he was around, whether by bringing her leftovers as he developed the restaurant menu or fulfilling her needs in the bedroom. He even took her out on at least one proper date a week: a movie at the Pavilion or drinks at Brooklyn Social or brunch at the 12th Street Bar & Grill. Bit by bit, she got to know her husband. He loved Terry Gilliam but hated Monty Python. All his friends worked in restaurants and every other Monday, a group of them played poker. He’d eat anything—organ meats, rotten fish, you name it—except for raisins (“bloody awful things”). His favorite music had grit to it: Pixies, Nirvana, Sonic Youth, and—thankfully—Velvet Underground. He could recite every line of every Tarantino film.
While Edward updated her on general restaurant business when they went out, he was tactful enough not to mention expenses. Instead, he left new invoices clipped to the fridge, which Oona replaced with checks.
One night in mid-February, high on having just learned Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” and unable to wait for Edward to get home, she decided to surprise him at Clary’s.
It was just after ten o’clock and Francesca answered the door. “What are you doing here?” they asked each other in unison and shared a tense chuckle.
Any signs of disarray in Francesca’s clothes or hair? None that Oona noticed.
“I’m finalizing the grand opening details. Guest list, seating arrangements, that sort of thing.” She didn’t move to let Oona inside.
“You need to be here to do that?”
“Being in the space helps me get ideas on how to best utilize it. So yes.”
“Can you let me in to see my husband, please?”
“He’s in the middle of something. It’s really not the best time.” Her smile was pitying. “We only have a week until the opening and Edward needs to stay focused.”
Oona ground her jaw so tightly, it was a wonder her teeth didn’t crack. “I don’t think it’s your place to tell me what Edward needs. Now let me in.”
A put-upon sigh and Francesca stepped aside.
Her boots thundered on wood, tile, and wood again as Oona stormed into the kitchen, which was empty, then upstairs to Edward’s office. She opened the door without knocking and found him slumped over messy piles of papers.
He looked up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
Maybe this was a bad idea. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.” It came out more needy than lusty.
Incomprehension in his eyes. “So … there’s no emergency?”
“No. You haven’t been around much this week, so I thought I’d stop by.”
“Oh.” A long sigh. “I have so much crap I need to sort out. I really have to focus if we’re going to open on time. Sorry, love. I’ll bring home some beef Wellington.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Though she said it more to herself.
“Bear with me these next few weeks. Once we’re up and running, I’ll be around more.”
“Of course.” She kissed him goodbye and left the room.
At the top of the stairs, she ran into Francesca, who followed her back down.
“He won’t, you know,” Francesca said.
Keep walking. Ignore her.
But Oona couldn’t resist. “Won’t what?”
“Won’t be around more. Prepare to be a restaurant widow for at least the next six months. Maybe nine. You have no idea how demanding it is running this type of business, how much he is responsible for.”
“Well, if it gets too demanding, he can always hire more people to help.”
A you-poor-girl grimace. “That is not the point. He thrives on the pressure, and he is meticulous about every detail. The restaurant is his baby, and he will not entrust it to other people to take care of.”
There was no denying this. She left with a burning in her chest. Not only had Francesca gotten the last word in, but she’d painted such a lonely picture. Oona did the math: six months from now would put them at August, but nine would be November. That would leave little time before her next leap. How many years would it be before she returned to Edward, to their marriage? And what about these next months of being a restaurant widow? What might she miss out on in the meantime?
* * *
“Did you ever flirt with other men while you were married to Dad?”
Oona and Madeleine were browsing the Grand Army Plaza farmers market one Saturday morning, a few days before the restaurant opening.
“I flirted with other men all the time when I worked at the travel agency. Sometimes it helped me finagle discounts on hotel rooms or tour packages, or it got customers to upgrade their vacations, spend a little more. But it was harmless.” Her mother ran a hand over a mound of beets. “Is it too cold for borscht?”
“You swim in the ocean in February, but you’re worried about eating cold soup? I’ll never understand you.” Oona examined jars of organic honey at a neighboring stand.
“Is Edward giving you a hard time about flirting with other men? Is he jealous?”
“Not at all.” I wish. Not really, though it would’ve held her accountable for any salacious thoughts about her guitar teacher. “But, you know, Peter and I have a vibe. Obviously it’s nothing. He probably flirts with his students the way you did at work. Still, sometimes I feel guilty about it.”
“Peter your guitar teacher? Interesting.” She drew the word out to extra syllables. “Is he cute?”
“He’s—I mean—yes, he’s cute, but it’s not—I’m not…” A cold wind eased the heat rising to her face. “Most of it is just the two of us bonding over music. Which I haven’t had since my first leap, with a friend you don’t know yet.” Another postcard had arrived from Thailand yesterday and Kenzie still hadn’t said when he’d return to New York. Shouldn’t he have seen all the temples and palm trees by now?
The brisk air was suffused with the pungent, peppery smell of fresh basil as they passed the potted herbs. Madeleine ran a finger across a sprig of rosemary. “Maybe it’s more than bonding over music. You’re also getting to know Peter in a different way than Edward.”