“Oh.” She waited for the punch of sadness, but it felt more like a soft slap even though she had seen the pictures online. “Good for you.”
“Her name is Monica Peterson.”
“Right. The paralegal in your office.” She compared the image of an athletic woman with short black hair and a keen gaze to her own current state, which could only be described as a drowned rat. Jeremy and Monica had been in an office running group, and Libby had crewed for their team at several races.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good for you.” She repeated the words like a scratched record album.
His gaze roamed the large front porch and the lavish arrangement of flowers. “Pretty different than our wedding.”
“Yeah.”
They had eloped, but a month after the wedding her father had held a dinner for them at the country club along with family and friends.
“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.
“I appreciated the flowers and nice note.”
“I liked your father. He was a good man. Your father seemed happy for us when he toasted us at our party.”
“He was happy for us.”
That had been a perfect weekend. They had left the party close to midnight and taken a car to a historic bed-and-breakfast, where they had made love. It had been one of the few times neither was pressed by work or deadlines. Once her father had commented that the divorce had robbed him of a son.
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” she said. “You could have mailed it to me or even chucked it. If I haven’t missed it by now, I doubt I would have.”
Jeremy had always been considerate. He had tried not to be disappointed when she had lost the babies. But his kindness had only fueled her rage. How could he not have been furious?
“I wanted to tell you about my marriage in person. Didn’t want you to see it on Instagram.” He shifted his hands to his pockets and rattled loose change.
She still followed him and from time to time checked in. She had hoped his life was still stuck in neutral like hers. Guess not.
“Go on; show me where you’re parked,” she said with a smile. “I can transfer it to my car.”
“Great.” As they walked over the gravel pathway dotted with puddles, a silence settled between them. She had never minded the quiet, and neither had Jeremy when they were married. Now, it seemed to bother him. “The Heckmans finally moved.”
The Heckmans were their elderly neighbors. They were vegan, and Mrs. Heckman drank so much carrot juice she’d actually turned orange. “How long were they in their house? Thirty, thirty-five years?”
“Forty. They moved to Tennessee to be closer to their children.”
“Good for them.” Mrs. Heckman was a health nut who had religiously delivered freshly grated carrot juice to Libby each time she had been pregnant.
Jeremy glanced back at the main house as the guests started to spill outside. “Your work looks like it’s going well.”
“It is. Booming, as a matter of fact.”
As soon as she and Jeremy had decided to get pregnant, she had had to stop administering chemo to her patients. After two lost pregnancies, her resolve to deal with the sick or dying had vanished. With Jeremy’s blessing, she had then started her photography business.
“You said you hated the weddings and fancy affairs,” he said. “Now you’ll be at events like this all the time.”
That coaxed the first real laugh she’d had in weeks. “They’re starting to grow on me. There’s something comforting in tradition.”
As they reached the Volvo sedan he had purchased after she had become pregnant the first time, she sensed he had something to say and was screwing up the courage.
“Out with it,” she said.
He looked up, shaking his head. “With what?”
“Please. You look like you could explode.” It was not charitable to take pleasure in his discomfort, but she did.
“You know me too well.”
“Three years of marriage. What gives?”
More coins jangled. “Monica is pregnant.”
And there came the punch to the gut that wiped away any smugness she might have mustered. Memories of lost babies swirled in her brain, and all the old pain, locked so carefully away, hammered to be released. For several seconds, she could not speak, fearful her tone would betray her sadness.
“I know it’s a hard subject for you,” he rushed to say.
It had been their hard subject. Their losses. Their pain. Now it was all hers.
“I should have told you months ago, but I knew you were dealing with the loss of