Chapter Thirty-One

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I want to give Harriet time to roll my words around in her mind. So even though I'm eager to arrange another visit with the Barclays, I force myself to wait and see if the bait I've dangled catches her.

It would be better if Harriet reaches out to me, deepening the illusion that she is in control.

The company coming to fix my front door isn't due until late afternoon, so I have a pocket of free time. I should go home and try to relax after my late night of work and back-to-back interviews. Lie on the couch, watch TV, order groceries online.

The sorts of things regular people do during their downtime.

The thought makes me feel penned in. Claustrophobic.

Uneasy energy rages through my body. I know from experience mental distraction and physical movement are the only tonic for it.

It's hard for you to sit still, Chelsea observed once. Have you ever tried meditation?

Once, I replied honestly. It was the worst ninety seconds of my life.

The hard truth is, it wasn't just the issue of whether or not to have children that split apart me and Marco. That was the biggest, most jagged fissure, but we straddled others during the course of our marriage.

On our honeymoon to Thailand, I wanted to tour temples and explore cities, while Marco craved beach time. We compromised and did both, but I was always in the water or going for a jog down the sand or chatting up locals. I knew he wanted me by his side watching the waves, sharing the sense of peace they provided him.

But our atmospheres were so different we couldn't enter each other's orbits.

It was the same way at home. Our workweeks were packed, but Marco liked to have relaxed Sundays: the New York Times spread open on the kitchen island, a homemade soup simmering on the stove, a lazy nap. I signed up to run a marathon and spent Sundays as my long training day, running for hours.

Opposites attract. That's what I told myself—and Marco.

He stopped trying to pretend to believe it first.

I miss Marco so much. Since I don't feel comfortable reaching out to him, I do the next best thing. I phone his mother, Angela.

When Angela picks up after the second ring and tells me she's free, a weight is lifted off my shoulders.

I have a reason to keep moving.

Within forty-five minutes, I've swung by home, picked up her seventieth birthday gift and a light jacket since the October chill is setting in, and am standing on the doorstep of her ranch-style house in Silver Spring.

Her front porch is filled with pots of geraniums and fragrant herbs—basil and oregano, thyme and mint—that she moves indoors before the first frost. The furniture is well-worn wicker with flowered cushions, and a little calico with a bell on its collar is curled up on one of the seats. I bend down to pet Cannoli the cat, and when I straighten, Angela is opening the door.

"Stella!" She envelopes me in a hug. I squeeze back, feeling her slender, strong frame. It defies all rules of fairness and logic that despite living on pasta and bread and sweets, Angela maintains the figure of a yogi. With her highlighted blond hair and regular Botox appointments, she could easily pass for a decade younger than her actual age.

She ushers me inside, taking my coat and hanging it over the banister knob before leading me into the kitchen.

"You look wonderful," I tell her. I don't end my sentence with Mom, like I normally would.

"And you look thin," Angela replies. She presses her index finger into the space between my eyebrows. It makes me realize how much tension I've been carrying in my face; her touch forces my muscles to relax. "Is it work, or is something else stressing you? Are you dating anyone?"

Her questions are as rapid-fire as bullets. As mothers-in-law go, Angela could be a mixed bag. She melded warm and welcoming with blunt and nosy. It took me a while to forgive her for grilling me on why I didn't want to have children in front of the entire family one Thanksgiving while Marco was out of earshot in the kitchen dishing out pie. When I did—when I accepted her with all her flaws and grew to love her—I knew we'd truly become family.

"I'm not dating anyone special," I tell her honestly. I've learned the best way to get Angela to back off is to deflect her with humor. "How about you? Are you on Tinder yet, cougar?"

She barks out a laugh and reaches into a tin for a handful of cookies. She tucks them into a ziplock bag and shoves them into my hand. It's impossible to visit Angela's house without coming away with food.

"I've got something for you, too." I reach into my big shoulder bag and pull out her wrapped gift. It's a delicate gold necklace with individual round charms engraved with the initials of each of her children.

Angela claps her hands like a delighted kid. "Should I open it now?"

A wave of self-consciousness sweeps over me. "No peeking until your birthday. I hope your dinner is wonderful."

Angela considers me for a moment, and I feel the weight of all that is unsaid between us. For once, she doesn't blurt out her unfiltered thoughts.

"I'm going to pack you up some ziti. No arguments."

"As if." She makes it with homemade noodles and fresh basil.

She opens the refrigerator door, swinging it in my direction. Dozens of photos are tacked up on it with magnets, overlapping like a collage. I've been present at many of the occasions captured in the snapshots—weddings and birthday celebrations, graduations and holidays. I scan the faces of Marco's family, feeling my heart twist.

Then I see it.

A photo of Marco and his new love. She's blond and athletic-looking, with a red bandana tying back her hair and a big smile. She looks perfect for Marco.

All the wind rushes out of me.

Marco looks utterly, completely joyful. His arms are wrapped around his girlfriend, holding her close.

Angela pulls out a big glass pan and closes the refrigerator door, erasing the picture from my view. I'm given a moment of what feels like grace while she busies herself scooping out a big portion and putting it in a container.

By the time she turns to me, I can breathe again.

Still, it's difficult to meet her eyes.

"This looks amazing." I stare down at the baked ziti. "I can't wait to dig into it for dinner."

A second bit of grace is bestowed on me when my cell phone buzzes with an incoming text.

"Shoot, I've got to run. I have a work call in a minute," I lie. "But let's get together for lunch soon."

"I'll cook."

"Obviously. That's why I suggested it."

I kiss her cheek and grab my jacket and hurry out the door. When I reach my Jeep, I slide into the driver's seat and inhale a few shaky breaths.

I read once that we humans are wired to create patterns, even unhealthy ones. The dynamics we learn at a young age, when our brains are the most malleable, are the same ones we seek out as adults. Predictability feels more necessary to us than positive change.

When I was a child, I had a family and lost it.

Now I'm an adult, and I've lost another family.

I take out my phone and scroll to Angela's contact card. I backspace over Mom and type in Angela .

I do it quickly, like yanking off a Band-Aid.

Then I pull up the text that came in moments ago. Relief pours through me like a drug; a distraction has offered itself.

The text isn't from Harriet, as I'd hoped.

It's from Ian Barclay: Is there any chance we can meet tonight to talk? I'm worried about something.