The kitchen held worse news: her anniversary watch was no longer on the counter.
“Are you sure that’s where you left it?” Edward helped her scour through the other rooms, in case she’d misplaced it, but the timepiece failed to turn up.
Back in the kitchen, Oona was queasy and weak-kneed. “Of all the things they could’ve taken. I’d trade this house for that watch.” She burst into tears.
Edward wrapped his arms around her. “God, I’m so sorry.”
“The blackout must’ve knocked out the alarm.”
“Was anything taken besides the watch and guitars?”
Grabbing a paper towel, Oona blew her nose. “Not that I could tell. But the guitars are worth two hundred grand, so it was a good score for whatever scumbags did this. They didn’t even need the watch.”
One more tight squeeze and Edward stepped back. “I’ll go call the police.”
“I won’t see those guitars again.” She dabbed at her eyes. But I will see the watch. Because she’d begin 2004 with it in her coat pocket.
Or.
What if I don’t have the watch next year, either?
Was it possible she’d done something to shift her fate? Maybe this new future included a lasting marriage to Edward. If losing a couple of guitars and the watch from Dale was the price she paid, she could do little but accept the obvious symbolism in the turn of events.
Within days, they put the burglary behind them, and within weeks, development plans for Edward’s restaurant proceeded in earnest as they scouted potential properties around Brooklyn. Despite knowing how things would pan out, Oona tried to push for a promising site in East Williamsburg while Edward had his heart set on the space in Gowanus.
Save the restaurant, save the marriage? It was worth a shot.
“Clary’s Pub is going to fail in Gowanus,” she warned.
He recoiled as if slapped. “I thought you believed in me.”
“I do.” She touched his arm and he flinched away. “But I don’t believe in this location.”
“Does that mean you’ll pull your backing unless we go with the East Williamsburg space?”
“No! God. Of course not. I just—”
“I’m sorry, love, but I have to be firm on this. Gowanus has to be the site of Clary’s Pub.”
But does it still have to fail?
He hired construction staff. And brought on Francesca as a consultant.
This time, Oona’s dislike toward her was stronger and more immediate. Part of it was pure jealousy. Edward’s fine cooking had caught up with Oona; she’d packed on fifteen pounds that wouldn’t budge. And while she’d considered overcoming her fear of needles to get some Botox or Juvéderm, Edward had pleaded with her to age naturally. If only such a thing were possible, being twenty-two in a body seventeen years older. But she vowed to accept herself the way she looked, which was easier in Edward’s presence than Francesca’s, whose youth and smug confidence was tough to ignore. There was the way she’d explain things with a vague air of condescension, as if Oona didn’t already know a deuce was a table for two and waxing it meant giving someone the VIP treatment. There was also the way she behaved around Edward, as if they had a secret shared history Oona wasn’t privy to. It was more than their food industry expertise; it was the natural flow of their banter. They teased each other like old friends, though Edward swore she’d only ever been a professional acquaintance.
“Francesca is good at what she does, so I need to keep her around, but I don’t let her forget I’m a happily married man,” he reassured her.
So Oona quashed her jealousy and kept out of their way. While Francesca was busy creating operational systems and developing service protocols, Edward racked up invoices, which Oona paid. Every night he came home, weary but inspired, and drew her into deep embraces filled with gratitude. Even if the restaurant ultimately failed, it still felt good to fulfill his greatest ambition.
As summer transitioned into autumn, a new unease took root. The year 2004 would begin in the aftermath of a fight between Oona and her mother—it was only a matter of time before this blowout occurred. She tried to safeguard against it by minimizing contact with Madeleine after the wedding. Easy to do, since her mother was too caught up with Nathan to notice. The duo took up golf and spent long weekends up and down the East Coast at different courses. Once in a while, Madeleine returned with quaint gifts from their trips: glass jugs of maple syrup, mason jars filled with preserves, homemade candles.
One Sunday in November, Madeleine asked her daughter out to breakfast, just the two of them. “I have something I need to discuss, face-to-face.”
They met up at Dizzy’s, a colorful diner with terrible wall art and terrific eggs Benedict.
Madeleine drummed her nails against the table as she scrutinized the menu, glanced up when her daughter slid something across the table.
“Suzanne Vega’s playing Joe’s Pub next month.” Oona nodded at the ticket. “I thought you’d like to go with me. It’s been ages since we’ve seen a show together.”
“Oh. Thank you.” A startled look and she stashed the ticket into her purse before returning to the menu. “Have you had the French toast here?”
“I haven’t. I always get eggs.” Oona took a long sip of tepid water from a plastic tumbler.
“I think I’m in the mood for French toast.”
“You always get eggs, too.”
“French toast is made with eggs. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with trying something different.”
It’s just food, let it go.
Oona tore at the napkin on her lap with stiff fingers. “Funny, you always complain there are too many sweet morning foods and not enough savory ones besides eggs and breakfast meats—lox if you’re lucky. Now all of a sudden you’re switching over to the sweet side?”
“You make it sound like I’ve become a white supremacist or a Scientologist.”
“Does Nathan like sweet breakfast foods?”
“He does.”
“I knew it,” Oona muttered.
“As does much of the human population.”
“Including Nathan.”
A waiter with muttonchop sideburns and a forearm tattoo of an abacus came over.
Oona ordered the eggs Benedict.
“I’ll have the French toast,” Madeleine said.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” they answered in unison.
When he left, Madeleine reached across the table and touched Oona’s wrist. “I think Nathan is going to ask me to marry him.” Her voice was gilded with giddiness.
Oona stared across the room at an awful painting of Jackie O done in neon colors. “I’m not surprised. You’re quite a catch.”
“So is he. Intelligent, charismatic, and you have to admit he’s nice to look at.” A dreamy smile as if he were standing before her. “Very well put-together.”
“Oh, very. He puts the me in metrosexual.”
“I know you don’t like him.”
“You don’t like Edward—it baffles me why—but that didn’t stop me from marrying him.”
The waiter served their coffee. Madeleine poured sugar into her cup, the spoon a clanging soundtrack as she stirred and stirred. “I never said I didn’t like Edward. I never said much about him at all.”