his wing tips and tosses them into a canvas bag. Jean-Paul yanks off his gloves, hands them over and offers his thanks.
On the elevator, he forces himself to count to twenty, taking deep breaths while he does so. But as he watches the floor numbers creep by, all he can think is that the elevator can’t carry him away fast enough. Because what he wants more than anything is to be back home with Marie and Isabella, cradling them both in his arms. To smell the scent of Marie’s shampoo, like apples, and the sweet baby smell of Isabella’s skin. He wants to race up the stairs to their brownstone and double-bolt the door behind him so that nothing bad can get in. To keep the monsters out. To keep the news of this horrible day far, far away. He wants nothing less than the whole day to rewind and start over.
What if he’d stayed home today, he thinks? What if, instead of stepping out onto her balcony around twelve thirty, the victim had decided to go for a walk in the bright afternoon sunshine? There are so many maybes and what-ifs. If only he could get a do-over for today! A chance to get it right. An opportunity to keep a closer watch on his property. He thinks back to when he woke this morning, the foreboding feeling that had taken hold of him, as if something were off-kilter. Maybe the universe had been sending him a sign, and he’d chosen to ignore it.
But, no, Jean-Paul mustn’t blame himself. It will get him nowhere. When he steps off the elevator, though, the impulse to keep on walking straight home to his wife and daughter is almost unbearable.
Earlier that week
EIGHTEEN
On Thursday night, Riley and Tom are stretched out on their sofa. Five cartons of Chinese food lay scattered across the TV table alongside an almost-empty bottle of Cabernet. Beef and broccoli for Tom, chicken lo mein for her, an assortment of dumplings and egg rolls. Typically, they save ordering in for Sunday nights, but after a long day, Riley suggested it as a stopgap measure for tonight’s dinner. After Marilyn had left Smart Stems, there’d been a steady stream of customers at the store, and Riley hasn’t had a moment off her feet since approximately eleven thirty this morning. Exhaustion rolled over her as soon as she walked in the door and kicked off her clogs.
“I’m sorry my mom ambushed you at the store,” Tom says now, raking his fingers through her hair. She’s leaning back against him while they watch Lester Holt deliver the news on their wide-screen TV above the mantel. “I don’t know what she was thinking. Or what’s gotten into her. It’s like she’s reliving her own wedding day or something.”
After a glass and a half of red wine and a liberal helping of lo mein, Riley is feeling slightly more magnanimous toward her mother-in-law. The recent chain of events—from dinner at Tom’s parents’ house last night to his mom’s unexpected visit at the store today to the already planned tasting at the Seafarer tomorrow afternoon—have been annoying, for sure. But maybe, she allows, it’s not the worst thing having her mother-in-law so invested in their big day.
“It’s okay. Do you think maybe she’s having trouble dealing with the fact that her little boy is getting married?” This is the theory that Hannah floated past her after Riley had texted her about Marilyn’s sneak attack at the store.
“Hmm...not likely,” he says. “My mother has never been the sentimental type.”
“But she was a teacher!” Riley protests. “A second-grade teacher,” she says, as if to emphasize her point. “Aren’t teachers supposed to be all touchy-feely and emotionally in touch with their students?”
He shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? All I know is that she was never the hugging type. More of a kiss-on-the-cheek mom.”
Riley lifts her head to better read his eyes, see if he’s kidding or not. But there’s zero mirth there. “But that’s so sad,” she says. She thinks back to her own mother, whose love had been all-encompassing, almost to the point where Riley couldn’t breathe. Literally. She remembers coming home from summer camp one year and having to tell her mom to stop hugging her so hard because her ribs felt as if they were about to break in half. Whenever Riley’s friends would come over, Libby Thorton would settle herself at the kitchen table, fix them a sandwich and say, “Now,