The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,66

quarters while he told me he’d made a lot of money investing in “dot-coms” with his son-in-law, Michael.

“I haven’t spoken to you in years, and the first thing you do is brag about your investments?”

“I was trying to impress you with my success,” he chuckled. “Isn’t that what you always wanted?” he whispered.

My cheeks flamed. “Don’t be silly.”

He talked a bit more about people we knew. He asked about Betsy, and if Theo’s funeral had been difficult. He mentioned that his wife lived in the health care center of Wyndon Manor and had for nearly ten years. I nodded, not wanting to let on that I already knew this, that Betsy had told me years before.

“And how are your daughters? Are they married?”

“One is, one isn’t. Carrie has given me two plump grandbabies in the last five years, and Laura is torturing her boy-friend by traveling all over Europe without him. Every few weeks she emails us pictures of herself with different people she’s met, and most of them seem to be gentlemen.”

Both of his daughters were frozen in time in my mind: from the faded picture he carried in his wallet. They were four and five then, and looked almost identical, with big smiles like Peter’s and the same cowlick in the front.

“Sounds like she’s not ready to settle down.”

“Oh god, Annie, who is, at that age? Were you? Was I?”

“No.” I laughed. “There should be some sort of college you have to go through before they allow you to get married and have children. Something that prepares you.”

“But what can prepare you for the surprises life hands you?” he said quietly.

I sighed and fiddled with a dish of peanuts that sat on the bar. “We’ve both had our share of surprises.”

“And drama,” he said.

“Tragedy and comedy,” I said.

“What are you guys talking about?” Ellie said, turning her eyes to me, then Peter, then back again.

I took a sip of my wine, which was so much better than the other glass I’d had, it was hard not to gulp it down.

“Life,” Peter said. “Love.”

“Love?” Ellie screwed up her face, and we both laughed.

Peter’s left thumb rubbed his wedding ring absently and I remembered this much: he was still married. His wife never fully recovered but he didn’t divorce her—not for me, and not for anyone else.

“Things never turn out quite the way you expect, do they?” I said breezily. “In love or in life.”

“I thought you’d leave,” Peter said quietly.

“What?”

“Who?” Ellie said. “Leave where?”

“Ellie,” he said, recovering with a twinkle, “doesn’t your grandmother seem like the kind of person who’d live in a big city? I always imagined her walking to a great job at a magazine where she’d write articles or short stories and boss everyone around, then she’d leave to pick up her son from school before walking home to a smart high-rise apartment with a sweeping view of the river.”

“Cool,” Ellie said.

I burst out laughing, the wine nearly flying. “I’ll give you this, Peter: you have always known the right thing to say.”

“Have dinner with me next week,” he whispered, leaning in. He smelled of whiskey and cherry and salt, a not-unpleasant combination. It reminded me of the Jersey shore, of pink taffy and paper cones full of French fries, cheap but delicious.

“That,” I said and smiled, “was not the righ—”

“You and Ellie, meet me here.”

“I’m free.” Ellie’s eyes were hopeful; she liked the bar stools, the darkness, the sticky feeling against her hands. She inhaled deeply as she spun in her chair, searching for a whiff of the forbidden.

“I don’t think so,” I said, but I didn’t stop myself from smiling.

We spoke of a few old friends who lived nearby. I told him a bit about Tom’s job, where he worked, what he did, but he said he already knew, which struck me as odd. Had he been checking up on us?

Ellie slurped the last bits of soda through her straw, and I took the sound as a buzzer: it was time to go. The sky was darker when I stood up and told Ellie we had to mosey on.

“Well, if you change your mind about dinner, you know where I am. Every night.”

“Yes,” I said softly.

He shook Ellie’s hand solemnly and leaned over to kiss my cheek. His lips brushed, then lingered a moment. There was no dampness or sound, just a connection. As if he took a tiny part of me with him when he pulled away. I shivered, and made an inane