“How so?”
“It’s more balanced. With Edward, he knows more about you than you know about him, so you’re playing catch-up. With Peter, you’re getting to know each other more organically. Without being burdened by the gravity and expectations of marriage.”
“It’s not a burden.” Oona rushed to defend her situation. “Marriage is a responsibility, sure, but you make it sound like I’m being crushed under the weight of it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, sweetheart.” Her tone was soothing but measured. “What I mean is, when a man you’ve never met is placed before you and you’re told, ‘Here’s your husband, go love him,’ it’s understandable if your heart doesn’t follow the command. It would make sense if you developed feelings for someone you had a less stressful, more natural rapport with instead.”
They dodged two baby strollers approaching from opposite directions and took refuge beside the Brussels sprouts.
“It’s not like I’m falling in love with another guy.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Even if it’s a crush, it’s okay. Your father was sweet on one of the bank tellers who worked with him—I could tell by the way he talked about her—but it’s not something he ever acted on. When you work with someone and see them all the time, these things happen. Like Stockholm syndrome, but less sinister.”
Does Edward have a crush on Francesca? The possibility mollified her guilt over Peter, but only for a moment, because it raised a bigger question she couldn’t bear to consider.
“Do you think Peter has feelings for you?” Madeleine asked.
“Doubtful. He’s way younger than me. He’d never—and I’d never—it’s naive to believe I have a special connection with him because of some easy banter. Maybe he’s easier to talk to because he’s closer to my real age. I am still twenty-one on the inside. But regardless, it’s not like I’m gonna jeopardize my marriage over some silly crush.” If it was even that. “Look at these, I’ve never seen Brussels sprouts this big.” Oona scrutinized the baby cabbages.
“You hate Brussels sprouts.” Madeleine waited until her daughter looked up at her. “Maybe your crush isn’t so silly. What you need now may not be what 2003 Oona needed. You don’t have to feel beholden to whatever arrangements last year’s version of you made.”
Before either of them could say more, a boy on a Razor scooter zipped by and came up short on the turn, knocking into the table beside them, which pitched forward. Brussels sprouts cascaded down like a mass of green golf balls. They rolled and scattered in all directions.
Oona was asleep when Edward came home that night, and he woke her by running kisses up her bare legs.
“Mm, that feels nice.” Her murmur was tinged with slumber. She let him remove her nightshirt to give him access to more bare skin.
“I’ve been thinking of doing this all day.”
As he touched her, without intending to, Oona stopped feeling her husband’s hands—which were rough and patchworked with scars and burns resulting from years of food preparation. Instead, she imagined Peter’s hands, warm and smooth, his long fingers gliding over her, inside her.
And that’s when the bigger question loomed again, demanding to be considered.
Do I even want to be married?
17
Opening night at Clary’s Pub was a relative success—not the star-studded affair Francesca had promised, but her networking did produce a number of journalists, local business owners, relevant industry tastemakers, and irrelevant celebutantes. Despite the promising start, business dwindled immediately thereafter. A lukewarm write-up in New York magazine two weeks later left her husband desolate. Oona was at the restaurant during a quiet lunch hour when Francesca brought in the review.
“‘… not elevated enough to justify the prices for what is ultimately pub food dressed in frilly French garments. Chef and proprietor Edward Clary needs to lessen his reliance on truffle oil and revisit the menu with a fresh and frugal eye. Small portions of stodgy food at exorbitant prices plus an out-of-the-way location puts Clary’s Pub at risk…’” Edward stopped reading to take a long gulp of Guinness. “I knew we should’ve done a soft opening. It would’ve given us a chance to iron out problems before word spread. All this bloody hype for the grand opening when we should’ve come out of the gate quietly, not with our bollocks hanging out.”
From the white-knuckled way he held his pint glass, Oona expected him to throw it across the room, but instead he hunched his shoulders, deflated, and set it down.
“It’s one review. You’ve gotten some good write-ups, too,” Francesca said.
“Yes, the Brooklyn Paper said my mash was the best in the borough. It’s a shame nobody fucking reads the Brooklyn Paper.”
He stomped upstairs to his office, taking the magazine with him. When Francesca went to follow, Oona blocked her path.
“I’ll take this one,” Oona said.
“Actually, I should go. He’ll want to talk strategy, since business has been so slow.” She stepped around a table to take an alternate route, but Oona was faster and blocked her again.
“You can do all that later. Right now, he needs his wife.” Ignoring Francesca’s dubious raised eyebrow, she pressed on and took brisk strides to Edward’s office.
Barely across the threshold and—
“Not now, Oona.” He was poring over the magazine again.
“It’s only one review.” She hated herself for echoing Francesca.
“It’s a review that matters. I don’t know why nobody else understands this. We’ve been open for three weeks and we’re lucky if we clear ten covers at lunch. Luckier still if we do twenty at dinner. And this”—he clutched the magazine and shook its glossy pages—“isn’t going to help. Why did I even make this place a pub? Nobody’s going to be popping by for a pint and ‘overpriced shepherd’s pie.’ We get zero foot traffic out here.”
This wasn’t the time for I-told-you-so’s; instead, Oona played the supportive wife, going over to him and massaging his shoulders.
“I’m sure things will pick up. It’s only a matter of time before this place is booked solid.”
“We’ll see.” He bent his head and kissed her knuckles, then removed her hands from his shoulders. “Maybe doing a brunch menu will help. I’ll run some ideas by Francesca. Could you send her up here? Thanks, love.” Without waiting for a response, he returned to the magazine.
Oona stood with her hands suspended in midair like someone had paused the movie of her life. There was nothing else to say, so she did as she was told, focusing on Francesca’s pointy red stilettos to avoid her inevitable smirk.
Weeks passed. The restaurant continued to lose money, Oona continued to play guitar and write checks, and Edward continued to come home late. So late, sometimes he never made it past the living room couch.
Clary’s Pub was closed on Mondays, which was typically when Edward carved out time for Oona. One such Monday in late March, they went to a local Italian bistro for lunch.
Once they were seated and their server was out of earshot, Edward shook his head in disgust. “Is that hostess having a laugh? She barely looked up from her mobile when she greeted us. Like she was doing us a bloody favor calling over a waiter. And did you get a look at him? All rumpled like he just rolled out of bed, reeking of body odor. If he was my server, I’d send him home for a shower before letting him anywhere near my customers.” Opening his menu with a grunt, he gave Oona an expectant look.