Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,79

of strappy sandals Diane had given me, I’d gone with the sandals. After all, from the ankles down, I still had it all going on.

“Toenails?” I asked.

“Toenails,” he repeated.

“What’s your point?”

“You never painted your toenails purple when we were married.”

I glanced down at my feet and shrugged. Not a what-in-the-hell-business-is-it-of-yours shrug, but rather a will-you-look-at-that sort of shrug.

I never did a lot of things when we were married.

I thought the words, but I didn’t say them. Maybe I was a coward. But maybe, just maybe, I thought the words might hurt Ryan and at that moment, hurting him was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.

After all, it hadn’t been Ryan’s fault I’d shut down after Emma died.

It hadn’t been anybody’s fault.

It just was.

“People change.” I spoke the words lightly, downplaying their significance.

People did change.

I’d changed.

Soon I’d no longer be Ryan’s wife. And while I’d always be Emma’s mom, I was moving past the grief of being Emma’s mom. I was ready to be me. To live my life. To be Bernadette Murphy.

And why not?

I stole another glance at my feet.

Anyone who wore purple toenail polish couldn’t be all bad.

Ryan gave me a tight smile and began to turn away. I remembered the box, reaching into the large tote bag I’d carried to hold my copies of our papers.

“Hang on a sec.”

He hesitated, frowning at me slightly. When I handed him the small, wrapped box, surprise and curiosity danced in his gaze.

“For the baby,” I said.

He blinked.

We hadn’t spoken a word about his new daughter. It was probably better that way, but I wanted him to have what I’d brought him.

A pair of young mothers stepped away from a wrought iron bench nearby, hurriedly pulling up the canopies on their strollers as the sky darkened.

I pointed toward the vacated bench. “Here. Let’s open it.”

“You sure?”

Our eyes locked and held, and for a moment I could see our entire past played out in the depths of Ryan’s searching gaze.

“Very,” I said softly.

We settled next to each other, and he peeled back the wrapping paper, slipping a finger beneath the flap of the box to pry open the top.

The pale pink hippo sat inside, nestled in a bed of tissue paper.

“This is Emma’s,” he said softly.

“Was Emma’s,” I corrected. “I think she’d like her little sister to have it, don’t you?”

Ryan’s features pinched and for the briefest of moments, I thought he might cry. Instead he straightened away from the bench and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of my hair.

“He plays Brahms Lullaby.” I explained as if he wouldn’t remember, even though his expression made it evident he hadn’t forgotten a thing.

I reached to pull the hippo’s accordion-pleated tail. “Right here.”

Soft music filtered into the warm air and for a moment I found myself transported back to the day Ryan and I picked out the toy for the nursery.

The music came to a stop and we stayed motionless, wordless, until Ryan returned the hippo to the box and closed the lid. “Thanks.”

We stared at each other and I nodded, unable to find my voice.

“See you around, Bernie.” His eyebrows lifted slightly as he said the words, and my heart hit my toes.

I forced a smile as he turned and walked away, down the windswept sidewalk back toward the metered space where he’d parked his car.

“See you around,” I whispered toward his back, my words lost on a sudden burst of moist air. In my heart I knew chances were pretty good I wouldn’t see him around at all.

Ryan Murphy had really and truly walked out of my life and into his new one.

o0o

There were two messages waiting for me on the answering machine when I got home.

The first sent my pulse into an excited frenzy. I absent-mindedly waited for the second message as I reached for the phone to return the first.

Jim Barnes at the Courier Post wanted to talk to me about a regular column.

Regular.

Column.

He’d never heard back from me when he’d called about the second article, so would it be all right to run them both now? How soon would I be able to get him another, and when could I come in to the office to discuss whether I’d be able to provide them with something on a weekly basis?

Regular.

Column.

I longed to say the words over and over, tasting them, trying out the feel of them on my tongue.

Had I found a job by pouring my heart onto paper? If only Dad