Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Ellie

It was Thursday afternoon, and for once my inbox was empty. Soft winter rain pattered on the roof of my cottage, and everything was cozy and warm and conducive to getting some work done. If I had work to get done.

I refreshed my emails again. Nothing.

Two weeks had passed since the meeting with Kieran O'Neill, and I had cleared the decks so I could give all my focus to the project. And the waiting hadn't been a total waste of time: my budget spreadsheets and my kitchen were equally immaculate, and I'd even filed my taxes three months early. But I was supposed to be working on Kieran's book.

I punched the button again, and for a second my hope flew up. But no. Just an email from the library reminding me that my copy of The Highlander's Hellion was due in three days.

Why the hell hadn't Kieran emailed me? August eleventh may have seemed ages away to him, but when a cookbook was made of 150 recipes that had to be tested multiple times and introduced by quirky anecdotes, every day of work counted. He could afford to be cavalier, but I'd never had that luxury. I needed to work, damn it. Otherwise, all my plans fell apart.

But that wasn't helpful. I closed my eyes and breathed, thought about tamping down the fire in my chest. I'd learned young that hot frustration wouldn't remind my mother to give me the week's grocery money or help me forge her signature on Hank's health forms for school.

I wrapped my arms around my torso and squeezed, but it didn't help. I missed Max's bear hugs. In the before times, when a pitch for work would fall through or my mother would be even more self-absorbed than usual, he'd whisper, "Relax, kitten. It doesn't matter," and I would sink into his broad chest and rub my cheek against his sweater. He'd rest his chin on my head and squeeze me oh-so-tight, and my stress would float away.

I couldn't have a Max hug, but at least I could write to Tad and ask him to chase Kieran's agent. I could talk to Hank, if my little brother remembered that we were supposed to catch up today.

Speaking of my younger brother's forgetfulness, his birthday had been two days ago, and I hadn't heard any response to my presents or voice mail.

I opened up our text thread. I wrote mini obituaries whenever the absent-minded future professor hadn't called me in more than two weeks. He'd been run over by a bicycle while writing code in his head, crashed his car going the wrong way down a one-way street…

Now I typed, "Henry David Scott, RIP. Doctoral candidate in computer science at the California Institute of Technology and beloved not-so-little brother of Eleanor Ruth Wasserman, died age twenty-four, crushed under a mountain of dirty laundry."

Thirty seconds later, I smiled when my phone rang and his name flashed up on my screen. "Sorry, sis," he said when I picked up. "I just got distracted."

"I know you," I said warmly. "Don't worry. I'm running out of causes of death, though. Did you like your birthday presents?"

His happy voice filled the room with sunshine. "Oh, yeah, the pretzel blondies were amazing, and the Warriors T-shirt is really cool. Thank you, Ellie. I'm sorry I didn't call you when I got them. Sam and Josh took me to a party in Silverlake and it ended up being an all-night thing."

"That's all right. Did you do anything nice with Malia, too?"

He swallowed. "Things are a little weird with her right now."

Shit. I liked this girlfriend. We'd met when she and Hank had flown up from Pasadena last year. She was a calm and grounded presence, and she seemed to forgive him when he was focusing too much on research. "Oh no, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. She's just spending a lot of time getting ready for the bar exam. She's not home much."

"Kind of a ships-in-the-night situation for you guys?" I asked, crossing my fingers. "It'll pass, right?"

"I guess. But when she's here she gets mad that the bathroom's a little messy and the dishes aren't done and cleans instead of hanging out."

The words shot out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Well, you could just wash the dishes yourself."

"I thought you were on my side," he said, his voice small.

I rubbed my forehead. "I am. You can always count on me."

He sighed. "I know. Anyway, thanks for the presents. I'm glad you remembered my birthday."

Uh-oh. "Didn't Mom send you something?"

A long pause.

"Oh, for crying out loud," I groaned. According to Instagram, my mother had been driving through Mount Zion National Park three days ago, and if she'd had enough signal to post about her new boyfriend Rocky, she could have at least called my brother.

"Why does she suck so hard at being a mom?" he asked.

I knew it was a rhetorical question, but the placating words came anyway. "She could be worse. She never hit us, and she wasn't an addict or anything."

"Yeah, but she's this selfish hippie woman we see when she feels like it, and then she drives off with whoever her latest guy is. Hashtag vanlife. Hashtag blessed."

"I know, Stretch," I said, trying to calm him with his old nickname. He'd been taller than me by the time he was nine, and by eighteen he'd grown to six foot four. "But she is the way she is, and you've got me, no matter what."

He sighed. "I know I do. I love you, Shrimp."

I smiled at my phone. "I love you, too." I glanced up at the clock. "But I have to start dinner."

"You're still doing Shabbos for Ben and Diane?" he asked.

"Yeah. I like doing it."

"I'm jealous." A second of quiet. Then, "I'll call again soon, Ellie. I promise."

I wouldn't hold my breath, but he meant well. He always did.

O NCE I ' D LAID out all the dinner ingredients in my in-laws' kitchen, I began the weekly ritual. One can of smoked sardines cracked open and drained of their oil. One big handful of wheat crackers on a little plate. One small swirl of yellow mustard squeezed out. One bottle of lager poured into a worn blue plastic beer mug.

One father-in-law appeared in the kitchen a minute later. Ben bent down and kissed both my cheeks. "Good Shabbos, sweetheart."

"Good Shabbos, Aba."

"What's for dinner?"

"Your chicken and carrots, of course." I'd tried marinating the bird in buttermilk, coating the skin in butter fragrant with garam masala and saffron. But all Ben wanted was a plain chicken rubbed with salt and pepper and roasted hot and fast, with vegetables under it to soak up the schmaltz. "Roasted potatoes with whole garlic cloves and rosemary, fennel and orange salad, and mocha cheesecake for dessert."

He said in his still-thick Long Island accent, "Beautiful. Diane will love that cheesecake with her sweet tooth." We both knew it'd be most of the calories she'd eat today.

I waited for him to ask me how my day was, but he seemed preoccupied.

"How was the office?" I asked. Ben was mostly retired, but he still saw a few teenagers at his family medicine practice.

"The kids are all right." He rubbed his forehead. "But Diane has had a rough week."

I bit down my dismay. Some days she came back from her office at Cal more cheerful, when she'd had a fruitful discussion with one of her doctoral students or the undergrads had been paying more attention than usual in her Dickens lecture. Other days, it was clear she'd spent the day playing bridge online and looking at Max's Facebook memorial.

Ben settled in at the end of the kitchen island with his crossword puzzle. For a little while, the only sounds were the bite of my knife through carrots and fennel, the scratch of his ballpoint pen, and the crunch as he ate his mini sardine sandwiches.

"Fourteen down," he suddenly said. "Cooking preparations en fran?ais, three words. Four, two, five."

" Mise en place, " I answered.

" Très bien," he said. "Your accent is still excellent. Did you ever find that conversation partner like I suggested?"

"I've been too busy with work. And I can keep practicing French with you, right?"

He smiled. "Of course. But I'm old and forgetful, you know. You need someone young and sharp."

As he said the words, the front door opened and shut firmly. I put my knife down and Ben capped his pen.

"Good Shabbos!" my mother-in-law said as she bustled into the kitchen.

At the cheer in her voice, Ben's eyes found mine and widened like we'd seen a burst of sunshine after a week of rain. Was the old Diane back, the one who'd been queen of the kitchen, the life of every department party? "Good Shabbos, Ema," I said, trying not to sound surprised. "How was the faculty meeting today?"

"It was wonderful, sweetheart. Couldn't have been better." She held up a burgundy paper bag to Ben. "I got those pistachio éclairs you like for dessert, Benny."

My tentative smile got more genuine. I'd already made the cheesecake, but I wasn't going to look her good day in the mouth. "That's great," I said, taking the bag from her. "Do you want to set the table?"

For the last month she'd been hiding in her room and only came down to dinner reluctantly, but she chirped, "Sure! Let's get the good china out."

That should have been our warning. I thought we were just celebrating for the sake of celebrating. I wasn't expecting Diane to raise her glass of chardonnay halfway through dinner and say, "I'm retiring at the end of the semester."

She said it like it was just another sentence instead of a screeching left turn. "Retiring?" I asked carefully. She was sixty-seven, so it wasn't a crazy idea. But all the relief I'd felt turned into more familiar worry.

"Yes," she said after a big sip of wine. "I told everyone at the meeting that this year would be my last. I've given too much of my life to Berkeley. Grinding out publications. Teaching ungrateful students."

"You never said you were so unhappy, my love," Ben said slowly. His confusion mirrored mine. Before Max died, the two things Diane had loved most were cooking and teaching. She'd always had her little flock of undergrads who followed her around worshipfully, and her grad students came to the house every semester for lavish dinner parties that lasted until two in the morning. Her fairy godchildren, she'd always called her advisees.

I'd taken over the cooking two years ago when she hadn't been able to get out of bed, and she still seemed content for me to feed her and Ben. But without her teaching, what was left?

"What would you like to do instead?" I asked hesitantly.

Her eyes ducked mine. "I haven't decided. I just couldn't take it anymore, and it felt so good to say no to something for once."

The slow sinking in my stomach turned into a free fall.

"Maybe we could travel, like we always talked about," Ben said, the optimism in his voice shaky. "We haven't been back to London for a decade. And I've always wanted to go to Japan, remember?"

Diane looked down at her plate, her effervescent mood suddenly flat. "I thought you two would be happier for me." She pushed it away. "I'm finished. You can have the éclairs."

Later that night, I settled in with my latest romance novel, knowing I wouldn't have long. My in-law cottage in Ben and Diane's backyard was cozy and quiet. When I'd first moved in, it'd been spartan, furnished and decorated for guests staying for a day or two. I'd made it as nice as I could: with Ben's help I'd painted the walls a soft, leafy green, built cheap pine bookcases and filled them with cookbooks, and bought jewel-colored blankets and pillows to liven up the basic gray furniture.

But someday I'd have someplace where I'd picked everything out myself. Eighteen months ago, I'd read a blog about an English cookbook author who wrote, tested, and shot her books all in her living room and kitchen. I started pinning photos of combined working and living spaces that same day and opened a new spreadsheet to track how much money I could save week by week for a down payment. I already didn't pay rent, but now I cut coupons for groceries, stopped buying new clothes, borrowed books and movies from the library.

Someday I'd have a double oven again and a dishwasher. I'd have a huge wooden table that would be both a place for big, crowded dinners and a set for taking pictures. I'd collect beautiful old glassware and dishes for props and hire the space out to photographers and food stylists for when they wanted a homey backdrop.

Best of all, I would own it. I wouldn't have to move because my mother thought her latest boyfriend was getting clingy or because my husband had died and my landlord's idea of condolences was doubling the rent.

Max hadn't wanted to think about buying a place until he'd gotten tenure. When I'd showed him real estate listings, he'd kissed me and promised that we had time. "You're my home, kitten. We could be living in a treehouse or on a submarine, as long as I knew when I came through the door, you'd be waiting."

And he'd been right. After he died, our rickety apartment in Davis wasn't home anymore, even before I'd been effectively evicted. It'd been cold, empty, airless. When Ben had called me and asked me if I wanted to move in with them, I'd said yes before he could change his mind.

The cottage wasn't what I really wanted, but it had kept me safe when I'd needed it and given me a purpose. Ben and Diane had given me so much, loved me so much, it was only right that I repay them.

A questioning meow snapped me out of my memories. "Aren't you nice?" I murmured to the feline emperor on my lap as I petted him.

Floyd yawned and stretched out so that his huge striped head rested on my knee and his tufted white paws waved off my thighs. The vet had said there must have been some Maine Coon in my cat to explain his quantities of fur and ridiculous size.

The therapist I'd seen for a few months after Max died had suggested I adopt a pet, for companionship and to give structure to my days. At the shelter, most of the cats had been flat against the backs of their cages, but this enormous animal had strutted out and collapsed onto my feet. I'd known something about love at first sight, and I'd signed the adoption papers then and there. Floyd had been a swaggering vagabond in his previous life, and along the way he'd picked up the feline immunodeficiency virus. He couldn't go outside because of his compromised immune system, but that didn't stop him from sitting and yowling at the front door every morning until I lured him away with breakfast and cuddles.

But this late at night, he was content to be my lap warmer. I stroked the long crescent of his spine and he rewarded me with a loud purr. "That's it, we're good, aren't we? Just the two of us all curled up together."

I turned back to my book. A big stoic Scotsman was saving a stubborn English damsel in distress. It wasn't going to win a Pulitzer, but after tonight's dinner, all I wanted was a few hours of believing in happily ever after.

The hero and heroine finally got down to business on a windswept mountainside, and I thought that maybe I'd be able to get to bed undisturbed for the first time in a while, when I heard a timid tap. Diane's shadow floated outside the curtain.

When I opened the door, she said, her voice as fragile as her too-thin body, "I saw your lights were still on and I thought I'd say hello."

"Of course," I said, keeping my voice warm and steady. Did Diane's visits make me more of an insomniac, or did the fact that sleep was capricious make her appear on my doorstep?

She held out her hand. "I wanted to bring you your Yahrzeit candle, too."

The anniversary of Max's death wasn't until July, and it was still January. But from the way her eyes blinked and her lip wobbled, I could only say, "Thank you. Would you like anything to drink? Peppermint tea, maybe?"

"That sounds nice." She wandered in, and I put the candle down and busied myself with the teakettle, ignoring how exhaustion settled on my shoulders. She'd been visiting me like this for over a year. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes night after night.

She wandered over to my bookshelves and picked up the picture of Max and me in its silver frame. "Such a beautiful couple, like something from Old Hollywood," she told it. "You two had a love affair for the ages."

Diane had taken the picture at Max's doctoral graduation. Twenty-four-year-old me was wearing a light-blue dress, a burst of clear sky next to his black-and-navy velvet-trimmed gown. I smiled with my eyes closed, my hand resting over the heart that my husband promised beat just for me, while he bent to press a kiss on my crown.

I smiled a little. "He always made me feel special."

"You both were. We were so happy," Diane whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Three years later, Max had flown to Paris for an academic conference. He'd begged me to go with him, but Tad had given me my first big ghostwriting job. I didn't want to blow it, even for the promise of a hot night in a five-star hotel after Max was done listening to papers and networking. The day before he was supposed to return to me, he'd gone to sleep and never woken up. He hadn't suffered, the police officer told me. But it was exactly the kind of white lie I would have told a woman who'd been widowed at twenty-seven, one who could barely speak through her sobs.

I don't know how I didn't turn into a dried-out husk that first year, with how much I cried for him. In my cold bed, I wished for one last night wrapped in his strong arms, one last night of feeling cherished and protected.

But now I was thirty. Thirty-one in August. Next year, I'd be older than Max had ever been. I'd had therapy, and did yoga badly, and cared for Floyd, and cooked. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to get me out of bed every morning.

I still wished for someone to love me at the end of the day, when I was clean out of sweetness and light. But that hope was vague and formless, while Diane's hurt now was concrete and sharp-edged.

My husband had been her precious gift, born after years of hopes built up and dashed month after month. Ben had had to hold her up at the funeral, and her animal howls when dirt struck plain pine still echoed in my head on bad nights. We'd both been holding her up ever since.

Diane sniffed hard. "The students said in their evaluations for last semester that I was distracted. That I just didn't care about them. Of course I'm distracted. We're allowed to be distracted when the best person dies out of nowhere, aren't we? Aren't we allowed to miss him?"

"Of course we're allowed to miss him." But a small, traitorous voice inside me asked, This much ? For this long?

She ran her palm over my head and gave me a watery smile. "He loved you so much, you know? You were his sweet little kitten.

"The day he ran into my office," Diane said, still remembering, "I was so surprised. He'd seen girls at Harvard but never brought anyone home, and now he wanted to get married after one date? And you only just nineteen. But he was right. You were his bashert, and he was yours. Meant to be."

"Yeah, I remember." I had been a wide-eyed freshman in my first French literature class at Berkeley, and he'd been the boy wonder grad student, a young Gregory Peck with intellectual swagger for days. I'd been dragged to a weekly French conversation group at a bar on Telegraph, and Max had presided over the scratched-up table like a king with his court. His eyes had found mine, and without a word he'd stood and pulled up a chair right next to him. When I sat down, he'd leaned in and whispered in French, "Do you know what a coup de foudre is?" and that had been us for the next eight years.

Now I could hear Diane's crescendo of grief coming. I'd occasionally pet her hand and make soothing noises, but she wouldn't hear me until after the pain had peaked.

"I miss how things used to be. The way he cherished you, the way you worshipped him. Everything's different, and I hate it. I hate it ."

"I know." I wasn't a therapist, but something told me that repeating the same words several times a week for years wasn't the healthiest thing.

I'd tried to tell Ben about the late-night visits right after they'd started. But when I'd said, "Diane's struggling," he'd replied, "Please know I appreciate everything you're doing. She needs someone to talk to whom she's not married to. It's a mitzvah." What could I say after that?

"Thank you so much, sweetheart," she finally said now. "It feels so good to get that off my chest." She reached out and petted my hair again. "You still look wonderful with short hair, by the way. I'm glad you took my advice to cut it all those years ago, and to stop wearing those awful baggy jeans."

"Thanks, Ema." Going to Diane's hairdresser had been a perfumed, luxurious universe away from trimming my split ends in front of the bathroom mirror. And Diane's fulsome compliments when I put on a dress for the first time had made the daylong march around Union Square's department stores worth it.

Diane had cared about me, and I tried to give that caring back.

But out of nowhere, Kieran's wolfish smile and light green eyes flashed across my memory from two weeks ago. The ease with which he sauntered in and out of that room, like he knew that someone else would clean up his messes, while I knew I'd always be the person doing the cleaning, forever and ever.

But that was OK, right? I'd always been good at making things better for everyone else.

I blinked away a wave of envy.

She squeezed my hand. "You're a good girl, Ellie. Max would be so proud if he saw you now."

I wasn't sure about that. I didn't know if Max would recognize this part of me, the sharp, sour bite of resentment I felt at Kieran's fecklessness. "Thanks, Ema," I said quickly. "That means a lot."

"And you'll make his dinner again this year? It'll be good to get all his friends around the table."

"Of course." I cooked a memorial dinner of all of Max's favorite dishes every July. Again, six months away. But Diane's sense of time was different from mine. She woke up every morning feeling like Max had died yesterday.

When she left, sleep was miles away. When I picked my book up again, I was jealous of my happily shagging Highlander, too. He only had to deal with warring clans and freezing castles without indoor plumbing.