returning to me. Like we were a couple. Like in spite of people wanting to get to know him, he was apart. It was something I felt more than saw—felt, because I kept remembering those damn tears and knowing I had never fully considered the fallout of Lily’s death on him. My own pain had been too great to allow for his. So now, here we were. Call it guilt. Call it atonement. However misguided his move here had been, he had abandoned old friends and didn’t yet have new ones. Like advising him on who should renovate his home, I could help him with this.
Not that it was hard. Not that he couldn’t comfortably converse with these people. Not that I didn’t appreciate the admiring glances sent his way and feel just a little bit of pride that he chose to stand by me.
Nina noticed. When he left to replenish drinks, she said, “He likes you.” Her voice held an edge. She was nervous about the upcoming meeting, but I couldn’t tell if there was more. Edward had suggested jealousy. If so, it was misplaced.
“No,” I assured, “he just knows me from the Inn. I’m a familiar face in a sea of unfamiliar ones.”
But Jessa, too, noticed his attentiveness. She and her husband had joined us right before Edward set off, and she waited only until her husband was distracted talking with the head of Fish and Game, also in our current circle, before leaning close to me. “Is something going on between you and the Inn guy?”
I rolled my eyes, like the question was tiresome. “I work for him. He’s paying me.” In the broadest sense, it was true. Beyond that, I was only a vehicle, helping him break into Devon. Given our past, I could never be anything more.
And of course that saddened me. Hell, I was human, too. I had loved Edward through our marriage and could argue that I agreed to the divorce for that reason. I had become convinced that being apart was the only way we could survive. Divorce was the humane escape.
Still, my heart ached as I watched him pass out soft drinks and a plate of the Inn’s signature chocolate chip cookies, like the host he had been when we entertained at our home. He might not have helped with the cooking, but he had always taken charge of wine, flowers, and—oh God, how could I have forgotten—the grill. All those cookouts, with or without friends, and manning the grill was his thing. He might not buy, season, or garnish the steak, but he did like his grill tools.
I hadn’t thought about this in years. I hadn’t allowed myself to. But a window had opened, lowering my defenses, so I was overly sensitive when, even with half-eaten cookies in hand, there was one more remark about Grace not seeing, knowing, stopping.
“Does any mother know everything her child is doing?” I replied with more bite than was necessary, because though I was holding a cookie in my own hand, though chocolate chip ones were my all-time favorite, and though this one was nearly as good as those my mother’s bakery sold, my mind was still on cookouts at Edward’s and my house. This time, I recalled being in the kitchen, slicing sweet peppers for him to grill, while upstairs and out of my sight, Lily used colored markers to decorate the walls of her bedroom, the hall, and the stairs leading down.
She was three. This was what three-year-olds did. But a dozen guests were arriving within the hour, so my first response was to panic. That was followed in succession by anger, frustration, and, finally, humor. Lily, even at three, could draw. As self-portraits went, hers was unbelievable. I had actually taken a picture. It was one of the items in my green velvet box. Not that I needed a refresher. The image was so vivid, even these seven years later, that my chest started to seize.
Edward touched my back just lightly enough, just briefly enough to help me breathe again. I was vaguely aware of responses, though truly more focused on regaining balance. And I might have done it, if someone hadn’t used the word distracted.
“Okay,” I said, letting my hand drop, cookie forsaken, “I’m really uncomfortable talking about this. Are any of us perfect? I mean, take any mother with her kids in the car. She looks away from the road to shoot a quick text to her husband to