nine

Becca

Since Simon insisted on spending the entire weekend working on his manuscript at the flat, Becca decided to spend the entire weekend ticking off more boxes of must-see London treasures, including one of Degas’s famous paintings of ballerinas, a poster of which had hung in Becca’s room since high school. Miss Kennedy, her longtime ballet instructor, had given her the gift after she danced the part of Giselle. “Like a gossamer thread floating across the stage,” Miss Kennedy had raved. “Pure poetry, Rebecca.”

Remember? Becca nearly said aloud as she stood in front of the painting at the Courtauld Gallery. But there was no one to remember the triumph with her. Mom, Gran, Miss Kennedy, they were all gone. Like the dancers who had moved out of view from the painting, they had shared a brief moment on life’s stage, and then they were gone. As she leaned in to examine the brush strokes, lines from a Shakespeare monologue she had memorized years ago came to mind. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances.”

C’est la vie, Simon’s voice commented in her head. You live. You die. The end.

Her mother would not agree. Her mother would say, You live. You die. You live again. That’s what her mother did say. On the day they laid daffodils on her father’s grave, as she wept in her mother’s arms, Becca had heard her whisper, “It’s not the end. It doesn’t have to be the end. If you could only believe . . .”

If she had only known at that moment that her mother would be gone the very next day, she never would have spent the rest of that Saturday with Simon. She would have spent that last day looking at more pictures, asking more questions, begging for more stories. She never would have accepted her mother’s invitation for Simon to join them for dinner. She wouldn’t have made that their last meal together. She would have insisted on changing her flight. If she had changed her flight—if she had told Simon to head back to London without her—then her mother wouldn’t have collapsed at the airport. The emotional stress had been too much. The goodbye had been too hard.

Becca bit her lip as she stared at Two Dancers on a Stage.

You enter. You exit.

C’est la vie.

“Simon?” she called when she returned to his flat. No answer. She flipped on the light. No sign of him. On his leather chair was his computer, still open.

She checked her phone. No messages. Odd. He had insisted he wasn’t leaving the flat until he’d written five thousand words, and he’d said it would take him at least eight hours to hit that mark. She had only been gone for about four.

She set her bag of souvenir postcards on the counter and picked up his laptop. She had been dying to read his manuscript. And why shouldn’t she? If she was his muse, then she ought to be able to read what she had inspired. And besides. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She clicked the space bar, the screen flickering to life.

But the screen was not open to the manuscript. The screen was open to Simon’s instant messaging app. What filled the window were not words but a picture, a picture of a woman, scantily clad. Not a random model from a website. That would have been disturbing enough. No. This was a photo of a friend. And beneath her photo were the words, “Harriet just left. Come on over, professor.”

Pippa.

Her body shaking, Becca scrolled upward through their thread, with its multiple provocative photos and text after text arranging hookups, dating back several weeks. Beginning, in fact, the week Becca had buried her mother. On the day she was wearing her mother’s gown and standing in her place as Hannah’s maid of honor, Simon and Pippa had been together. One smiling photo taunted her more than any other: the two of them in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Becca closed the screen, backed away from the chair, and staggered to the bathroom, where she knelt on the cold linoleum, her head suspended above the toilet, and heaved.

She wouldn’t mention Paris, she thought as she rinsed out her mouth. If she mentioned it, Simon and Pippa would know she had invaded their privacy. She wasn’t even sure how she could confess to seeing the first photo, except to say that his computer was open to it. Maybe she had arrived right after he left, and the screensaver hadn’t yet concealed it.

Becca splashed water onto her face and wiped herself dry with her sleeve.

There was a Manet painting at the Courtauld Gallery—a painting they had studied in her art history class—of a forlorn barmaid staring forward, both her back and her view reflected in a mirror behind her. “Stand in front of it,” a docent had said to a small group of visitors, “and see if perhaps you’re in the place of the man whose reflection you see in that corner there. He’s likely asking for more than a drink.” Becca had watched the tourists take turns looking squarely at the woman. “See the bowl of oranges on the counter in front of her?” the guide continued. “Manet routinely associated oranges with prostitution in his paintings. The girl is not only a barmaid but a commodity. Something to be purchased. Used.”

She yanked her clothes off the hangers and thrust them into two grocery bags. With any luck she would be gone before Simon returned from their rendezvous, and he could wonder why half the closet was empty. Or not.

Love? No, he had never claimed to love her. Becca had never asked for such a declaration. Not with words. She thought his body had declared it, thought his passion had spoken it. But the texts and pictures were evidence that he had communicated nothing to her that he hadn’t also communicated to Pippa. And likely to others.

Oranges. She ought to buy some oranges and put them in a bowl.

Hadn’t she felt shamed by the appraising stares and the overt propositions on the dinner cruise? Hadn’t she seen her own reflection in the boat window and heard her mother’s voice pleading? Hadn’t she?

She hadn’t been purchased, no. She had given herself freely, completely, without reserve, with naïve trust.

She set his key on his dresser, picked up her bags, and shut the door behind her.

Poor, stupid, duped girl.

Somewhere between Notting Hill Gate and Holburn station—Becca wasn’t sure exactly where—she stared at her forlorn reflection in the Tube carriage window and felt anger overtake her shock and sorrow. Why should she be made to feel guilty over snooping through Simon’s account? She knew where Simon and Pippa were. Right this very moment. She could end this definitively, not by cowering away in anguish but by confronting.

Once she dropped off her bags at her flat, she marched down the hallway and pounded her fist on Harriet and Pippa’s door. Silence. She pounded again. Silence followed by a thud and shuffling feet. “Just a mo!” Pippa’s voice called. She was probably scrambling to get dressed. As soon as she unlatched the door, Becca pushed past her. “Becks!” The look of astonishment on Pippa’s face morphed into casual surprise as she straightened her sweatshirt. “I thought you were at the museum today.”

Becca hadn’t told her that information. “Finished early.” She scanned the room. Under the bed? In the closet? The bathroom door was closed. She laid her hand on the doorknob, watching the color drain from Pippa’s face.

“Becks—”

“I left something here.” Becca opened the door. Simon was stooped beside the bathtub, wrapped in a towel. “Ahhh,” she said. “Found it.”

Without waiting for explanations or excuses, she turned on her heels and left the two of them to commiserate in their shock, determined not to cry until she was out of the building and wandering the London streets alone.

You enter. You exit.

C’est la vie.

Charissa

If Charissa was forced to be on bed rest, then she might as well take advantage of it and stay in bed all day Saturday and pretend she didn’t notice the disenchanted look on John’s face whenever their eyes met. “She didn’t mean any harm,” John had said after the incident with Mara. “She was just trying to help, trying to show love.”

Okay, fine. But still.

Rain pelted the windowpane, blurring the view outside. Good. The greening of the earth only taunted her. Though Judi had offered through John to plant her garden this year, there was no way she would accept. It could lie fallow. Or bloom with what had already been planted. She didn’t care.

“Can I bring you anything?” John asked, poking his head just far enough into the bedroom to be heard.

“No, thank you.”

The door clicked shut again.

Nathan had called to apologize: He had stepped out of turn by contacting the church without checking directly with her, and he was sorry. He had violated her privacy, and he had been wrong to do so. Please forgive me. She told him she did. If Mara had called to reiterate her regret, Charissa might have listened and offered her forgiveness. She might even have confessed that she had overreacted and was sorry. But for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to make the overture toward mending the friendship. Why?

She stared up at the ceiling.

Maybe she wanted to stew in her irritation. Maybe she wanted to wallow in self-pity. Or maybe—she shut her eyes tight at the dawning revelation—maybe she wanted a target for her resentment other than God.

She glanced at the clock. Soon they would be gathering at New Hope for the silence and solitude retreat, a retreat she had planned to attend. Oh, the irony. She would now have days, weeks, months to enter into the wilderness where all her familiar props were stripped away and where she could potentially experience the furnace of transformation. Or—and this was a tempting alternative—she would have days, weeks, months to whine, wallow, and brood over all that was not going according to plan.

Choose, a voice from deep within commanded. Choose well.

SILENCE AND SOLITUDE RETREAT

Waiting for Morning

You are invited on this Holy Saturday to inhabit the threshold space between death and resurrection, to grieve the sorrows, disappointments, and losses while simultaneously rehearsing confidence in God’s steadfast love, power, and faithfulness.

Today we practice waiting. Today we remember the women who waited to anoint Jesus’ body, who expected to find death and who instead encountered the risen Christ. Today we offer our fragility, our confusion, and the ashes of our dreams to Jesus so that we may also discover and embrace new life in him. We wait and watch in hope.

Today we practice silence, not simply as a fast from speech but as an engagement of deep listening to God and to our own souls. We also practice solitude, not simply as a way to be alone but as a way to be fully present to God. In silence and solitude we let go of the things that keep us busy and distracted so that we can enter into a vulnerable place where God can both comfort and confront us.

As you keep silence, you may wish to meditate on one or more of the following Scripture texts:

Lamentations 3:17-26

Psalm 130

Matthew 27:57-61

Mark 16:1-4

2 Corinthians 4:7-11

May you know the presence of the crucified and risen One as you keep watch today.

Hannah

Hannah had hoped when she arrived at the retreat Saturday morning that the prayer stations would still be assembled in the chapel. Instead, everything had been stripped bare. Even the cross on the center platform, which had been draped in white for their wedding and black during Holy Week, was unadorned.

After distributing handouts with Scripture verses for meditation, Katherine stood beneath the cross to give a word of welcome and brief overview of the day. “The silence may feel awkward and unsettling,” she said, “especially when practiced in community. But perhaps you’ll discover a different kind of fellowship with others today, wordless communion and solidarity with those who are longing to hear God’s still, small voice.”

Mara, who had already warned Hannah that she felt like a geyser ready to erupt at the slightest provocation, spent the first half hour beside a window with a box of Kleenex and her Bible on her lap. Hannah, meanwhile, spent the first half hour trying to quiet the distractions and clamor in her soul. But pushing down the loud and racing thoughts about Nathan and Laura and Jake and Mara and Charissa and Becca and Westminster and all the rest was like trying to keep a beach ball under water. Though she had hoped to begin the day in wordless, unperturbed communion with God, she was going to need to use her words. She opened her journal and wrote her prayer.

Saturday, April 11

10:00 a.m.

Lord, I release all that clamors within me, all the racing thoughts, the worries, the cares and concerns, the wondering about Nathan’s time with Laura, the bitterness that still grumbles within me. I don’t have the power to silence the noise, Lord. So, please. With the same authority you used to silence the raging sea and the storm, silence the turmoil within me and bring me to a place where I can be still and know that you are God.

Peace, be still! you commanded. Lord, I want to obey.

There, Hannah thought, as she closed her journal and leaned her head back. Something right in that moment had shifted in her spirit, from striving to rest, from clamor to quiet. Jesus had just spoken with authority, and her soul had responded. Peace, be still.

She breathed deeply once. And again. And again.

Peace, be still.

She was. Quite remarkably, she was. With gratitude, she offered her hushed response: Speak, Lord. I’m listening.

Mara

Mara wished she had a wider radius of solitude surrounding her. Between her sniffling and her growling stomach, the others near the chapel windows were probably not experiencing the gift of silence. Too bad it was raining. The courtyard would be a more private place for her to disintegrate. Or erupt.

She glanced again at the verses from Lamentations. My soul is bereft of peace. Yep. Katherine had told them they would likely notice the noise of their thoughts and feelings once they tried to be quiet, and it was true. Maybe she would try the palms down, palms up prayer that Katherine led for their opening exercise: Palms down, cast all your cares on him. Palms up, receive God’s care for you. They had done that exercise in the sacred journey group, and she had completely forgotten about it. She was always forgetting everything she learned.

She turned her palms over again on her lap. Lord, I release my worries about Jeremy. My regrets about Charissa. My guilt and shame and—what does Dawn call it? She thought a moment. Self-loathing. That was it. I release my self-loathing. And my despair. And my fears about Jeremy and Abby and Maddie moving away. And my broken relationship with Brian. Jesus, I release it all to you.

She turned her palms up to receive God’s gifts: peace, presence, hope, faith, forgiveness, mercy, grace, and the steadfast love and faithfulness God promised was new every morning. By faith, Lord, I receive. I receive. Help me receive.

The problem was, she so quickly returned to thoughts about her cares and concerns. Like Lamentations said: her soul continually thought of her affliction and was bowed down within her. She frequently rehearsed her trials and disappointments and needed to frequently rehearse God’s faithfulness and provision. It needed to be more than standing in front of a mirror and declaring her belovedness. She needed to continually call to mind God’s care and concern for her and for those she loved. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end. If she could keep calling that to mind, then maybe she would be able to wait quietly for the Lord to act instead of fretting her prayers all the time. The Lord is my portion, says my soul, therefore I will hope in him.

Portion.

That was an interesting word. She used to ask Nana for an extra portion of chicken and dumplings because that was one of her all-time favorites, and Nana would always dish out a large, generous portion. But there were many nights at home when the portions weren’t large, when Mother hadn’t gotten her paycheck yet and they had to scrimp by. Mother would take a very tiny portion of Spam and baked beans for herself and say she wasn’t very hungry and that Mara should eat her portion. Mara believed her and ate. Double portion.

Her stomach rumbled again, and she cleared her throat to cover the noise.

What did it mean to say that God was her portion? God was a pretty huge portion, wasn’t he? Not just a scraping-to-get-by sort of portion but something that filled, that satisfied, that was enough. God was enough. More than enough. The Lord is my portion, says my soul, therefore I will hope in him. Mara leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes, the gentle patter of the rain soothing her soul.

Hannah

1:30 p.m.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced silence in community quite like this before. It’s one thing when you’re scattered into solitary places for prayer, but when you’re sitting together at round tables for lunch, not talking to anyone, it can feel pretty uncomfortable. All you hear is the sound of spoons clinking against the soup bowls or the sound of water being poured into glasses. Or throats clearing. Or you sneeze, and someone mumbles, “God bless you,” and then quickly covers her mouth because she wasn’t supposed to say anything, and you share this smile between you that communicates you’re with one another in both the discomfort and the invitation of it all. It was actually a gift after a while, not having to come up with things to say. I felt myself relax into it and became more aware of the rhythm of my breathing, my chewing, my slow thoughts about God.

I had to fight the temptation as we finished lunch to duck into a secluded corner to check my phone for messages from Nate about his meeting with Laura. I release that clamoring anxiety, Lord, and ask that you help me return to waiting. With peace. With hope. With quiet confidence in you. “I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope.” That’s the text I was praying with this morning: keeping watch for the dawn in dark places. I want to be like the watchmen scanning the horizon for the first signs of morning. I want to wait in the darkness, confident that God’s light will shine. Not just for me. For all who wait and keep watch.

Now my attention is drawn to the text of the women going to the tomb. It’s their question to one another that shimmers for me and invites me to linger with it: “Who will roll away the stone for us?”

They’re on a mission. They’re going to finish the act of love they had not been able to perform for Jesus after he died. They’re going to anoint his body and say goodbye. But there are obstacles to the mission. They know a stone has been rolled into place—they had watched Joseph of Arimathea roll it into place against the tomb.

But it’s interesting that they didn’t take men with them that morning to help. Maybe they asked and couldn’t find anyone to go with them. Maybe they didn’t think about it until they were already on their way there—they had been so single-minded about getting the spices and anointing the body that they hadn’t considered the logistics of it.

And so, in the early light of the morning, they’re saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us?”

That’s what I need, Lord. What we need together. We need you to roll away all the impediments that keep us from seeing resurrection. We return to places of death, expecting to find death, expecting to tenderly embalm the losses. We come prepared to do so. We’ve got our spices and oils, and we’re ready to weep. We think that what we need help with is rolling away the stone so we can grieve. But we need the stones rolled away so that we can rejoice. So that we can see again that death never has the last word.

Speak, Lord. I’m listening.

At five o’clock Katherine broke the silence by offering a prayer to commit them into God’s safekeeping. “And as you carry in your mortal bodies the death of Jesus, may you also carry within you the life of the One who was crucified, who was buried, and who rose again.”

Amen.

On their way to the parking lot, Hannah reached into her bag. “A little something for you.” She handed Mara a piece of paper torn from her journal. “A poem. Well, not really a poem. Just some lines that came to mind today as I prayed for you. For all of us. I was thinking about death and darkness and light and resurrection and your image of the geyser erupting, and this poured out.”

As Hannah listened, Mara read the short lines aloud: “‘Keep watch for geysers of grace, faithful but unpredictable eruptions that refuse to be controlled or tamed. Wait. Watch. Hope. Pray. Delight in being startled and awed by the explosive force of dancing water no depth of darkness can contain.’ Ooh, that’s good.” Mara folded the paper and put it into her purse. “It feels explosive, all right. And it would be great to think that it’s grace erupting, not sorrow. Or despair. Thank you. Thanks for the reminder.” She wrapped Hannah in a bear hug. “And thanks for coming today. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it the whole time, but I’m glad I stayed. It was good.”

“For me too,” Hannah said. “It took me a while to settle in to the quiet, but once I got there, it was a meaningful time with God.” Nathan had told her he usually went away for silent retreats a couple of weekends a year. Maybe she would join him, and they could share the silence and solitude together.

Mara was checking her phone, a frown tugging at her lips.

“Everything okay?” Hannah asked.

“Looks like Charissa tried to call. Hope it wasn’t to chew me out some more.” She pressed the phone to her ear. “Nope, didn’t leave a message. Should I call her?”

Hannah wasn’t sure. “Maybe send a text to say you see she tried to call, and does she want to talk?”

Mara shoved her phone back into her purse and sighed. “I don’t think I can take another round of anger right now. And I’ve already tried to apologize. Unless you think I should—”

“No. I don’t have any advice about it. Just prayers for mending.”

“Yeah.” Mara jingled her keys. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“For worship. Abby’s getting baptized and—”

“Right! Sorry. Yes, I’ll see you there.” Easter. It was hard to believe it was Easter. After a goodbye hug Hannah headed to her car and checked her messages to find one uninformative text from Nathan: Can you meet me for dinner at Timber Creek at 5:30?

She replied: Be there soon.

When she arrived at the restaurant, Nathan rose to meet her at a corner booth. “Everything okay?” she asked.

He helped her out of her coat, then waited for her to sit down. “Yeah, okay. Do you want something other than water to drink?”

She shook her head.

He slid along the bench across from her.

“So? How’d it go with Laura?” In the few seconds it took for Nathan to answer, Hannah tried not to leap to any conclusions.

“Better than I expected. It took a while to get there, but in the end we managed to agree about what’s best for Jake right now.”

That was surprising. Astonishing, actually. Even when it was the very thing they had prayed for.

“I know,” he said, replying to her raised eyebrows. “I was shocked. She even said she was willing to take it slow with him, not to try to force her way back into his life. But she wants to start building bridges with him, and I need to encourage that. So we’ll start tomorrow. She’s going to meet him for ice cream tomorrow afternoon.”

Again, surprise. No demand for Easter lunch? Easter dinner? Going out for ice cream seemed about as innocuous a first visit as possible. “I’m stunned,” Hannah said. “Given the way she’s interacted with you the past couple of months, making her demands, coming off as controlling and threatening . . .”

“Yeah. I know.”

So why didn’t he seem elated? “Did something else happen?”

Nathan removed his cutlery from his napkin and slowly set each piece down on the table. “God held up a mirror to my life, and it was pretty humbling.”

Being with Laura again after so many years, Nathan said, had stirred up old memories that he had stuffed away. Being with her—now as a newlywed again—had brought back memories of their early days together as a married couple and how he had expected Laura to fit into his life, his ministry, his schedule. Being with her reminded him of how she had become a casualty of his ego, how his need to be busy in ministry and his drive to be respected and honored and adored and needed by his congregation had impacted her. “Sitting across from her today, Shep, I saw how angry she still was, how much she still resented me. She didn’t admit any of that, she didn’t have to. It seeped out of her as she was ranting and demanding her rights as Jake’s mother.”

Hannah communicated to the approaching server that they needed more time, then turned her attention back to Nate, who was fiddling with his straw wrapper, smoothing it and then folding it methodically into triangles.

“I was about ready to shut her down,” he said, his gaze still fixed on his hands. “I was ready to spit back my own venom and lash out at her for abandoning her son—our son. But then suddenly I realized that I never once apologized to her for the way my sin had wounded her. Not once. So I did. I asked her to forgive me.” His voice broke. “I interrupted her, right in the middle of her accusing me of all sorts of things, and I asked for her forgiveness. She was so stunned, she couldn’t speak. She just looked at me. And then she started to cry. It’s like it all broke loose, right there in the booth. God broke the pattern of blame and resentment. Not only did she forgive me, but she asked me to forgive her.” He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “It was amazing, an amazing work of God. And we moved forward from there, able to talk about what’s best for Jake.”

Hannah swallowed hard and rearranged her napkin on her lap. “That’s . . .”

The word “incredible” caught in her throat and lodged there, scraping.

She tried again. “I’m . . .”

The words “amazed,” “so happy,” and “so excited about what God did” bumped into “incredible” and stayed put too. She cleared her throat. “Wow,” she said, and shook her head slowly.

“I know.” Nathan put on his glasses, pushed aside the straw wrapper, and picked up his menu. “So much more than I’d hoped for. Why am I always surprised by the Spirit’s work?”

Hannah stared at the flickering candle on the table. Yes. Amazing, the Spirit’s work. Amazing, how Nate had seen with fresh clarity all the ways he had disregarded Laura in their marriage, expecting her to fit into his routine, his life, his schedule. How lucky Laura was to be the recipient of such insight and confession, the fortunate recipient of the Spirit’s work.

Wow.

She straightened her silverware, then took a long sip of water. Amazing, too, how Nate seemed not to recognize that fifteen years later, he was repeating the same pattern of disregarding his wife, of expecting her to fit into his house, his life, his routine.

Wow.

Nathan glanced up from his menu and motioned to hers, still closed on the table. “Do you already know what you want?” he asked.

Oh, yes. She did. But she wasn’t sure she was ready to say it out loud. “Give me a minute.”

“Take your time.”

She opened her menu and made a pretense of studying entrees. Amazing, how, with all of his keen powers of observation and insight, he could be so oblivious to his current wife’s state of agitation. He had obviously not considered the possibility that she could be anything other than overjoyed by the Spirit’s work of enabling him and Laura to move forward together, amicably cooperating for the sake of their son.

Wow.

The words blurred on the page. What did she want?

She took a deep breath. “Nate?”

He glanced up from his menu.

She set hers down. “I’m feeling really upset and angry right now.”

If a restaurant booth could become holy ground, then theirs did, not because the conversation was straightforward or easy but because after speaking candid, difficult words about feeling disregarded, Hannah knew she had been heard.

“You’re right,” Nathan said after she laid it all out before him. “You’re absolutely right. Even after you were brave to say what you wanted and what you needed, I went right on thinking you could blend in to my world if I just cleared enough space for you.” He reached across the table for her hand. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. Will you forgive me?”

Since speaking too quick an answer might belittle his request, she paused. No denying. No minimizing. No disregarding his need for her forgiveness with a dismissive, Oh, it’s okay. No big deal. Offering forgiveness was a way of admitting her hurt, a way of moving forward together in authentic and intimate vulnerability. “Yes, Nathan,” she said, “I forgive you.”

Mara

“A whole day of keeping quiet,” Mara said to Kevin as she stirred a pot of spaghetti on the stove. “Can you believe your mother managed to do that?”

From his barstool at the kitchen counter, Kevin smiled slightly but did not reply.

“Well, I didn’t think I could do it, either. Gotta say, it was pretty weird sitting with a whole bunch of people at lunch and not saying anything to each other. Not sure I would do it again, but it was a good experience for a day.” She emptied a can of tomato sauce into a pan and set the burner to medium heat. “Hear anything from your dad today?”

“Nope.” Kevin did not seem upset about this. But it was odd that Tom never even bothered to text him to see if he was feeling better. Maybe Tom knew he had been faking it. Maybe Tom knew and didn’t care.

Mara decided to pry. What did she have to lose? “You wanna talk about the real reasons why you didn’t want to spend the weekend with him?”

He shrugged.

“If something happened, maybe there’s something I can do to help.” Or maybe there was something her attorney could do to help.

“I just didn’t feel like hanging out with him, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She’d try one last time and then leave it alone. “When you got back two weeks ago, you seemed upset. That’s why I asked.”

He looked down at his phone and typed something. “He was being a jerk.”

“To you?”

“Just a jerk.”

“Did he say or do something to hurt you?” If he had, she would take care of it. Immediately.

“Nah . . . nothing like that.”

“Like what, then?” She gave the spaghetti another stir and then set down the spoon to give him her full attention. When he did not reply, she said, “You can trust me, okay? I’ve gotta know the truth about what’s going on so I can help you.”

He scratched at a pimple on his chin. “He promised to take Brian and me to Hawaii this summer. That’s why he bought me the surfboard at Christmas.” Mara had already suspected that. She figured Tom had planned some expensive holiday for the boys, a way of continuing to win their affection. “But now he’s taking Tiffany, and he said we couldn’t go.”

“Tiffany and her kids?”

“Nope, not the kids. Just him and Tiffany.”

How romantic.

“They’re getting married there.”

Of course they were. Tom had done plenty of other things that had taken her by surprise. This was not one of them. “When?”

“Sometime in July.”

Uh-huh. He was giving the divorce what? A few weeks to be final? “When’s her baby due, do you know?”

He shook his head. “But she’s like, huge.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Has your dad said whether”—Go for broke, she told herself—“whether he’s the father or . . .”

“Tiffany says he is, so yeah. I guess.”

Uh-huh. She ought to be furious that Kevin knew that detail. Paternity test “gotcha” moments from Jerry Springer episodes came to mind. Given her own past with Tom, Mara knew she wasn’t someone who could throw stones; Kevin had been her “gotcha” pregnancy. But at least Tom was the only one who could have been his father.

“I’m sorry, Kev.” No wonder he hadn’t wanted to spend the weekend with his dad. He’d been betrayed. Replaced. “Wish I could do something to make it up to you.”

He didn’t answer, but he also didn’t vacate the barstool. When the tomato sauce began to spit in the pan, she turned down the heat and stirred. “What about Brian? What does he think of all this?”

“He doesn’t care. Dad says he’s taking all of us to Disney World instead. That’s all Brian cares about.”

Brian wanted to go to Disney World? That was surprising. “Your dad’s taking all of you? As in all Tiffany’s kids too?”

“Yeah. And I told him I don’t want to go.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“He got mad, said I have to, that it’s part of the rules or whatever.”

Mara wasn’t sure about that. “I’ll check, okay? I don’t know if he can make you or not. But, Kevin?” He looked up at her. “I’ll be your advocate, all right? If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it. I promise. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

She thought she heard him mumble, “Thanks.”

After dinner Mara pored over her temporary custodial order documents. There was no way to know for sure until she spoke with her attorney, but it looked like they could appeal with a judge if they needed to. If Kevin felt that strongly about not going out of state with a new stepmother and her kids, then maybe a judge would grant his request. Tom was entitled to his vacation time, that much she understood, but he also was required to give her written notice when he intended to take the boys out of state. She would remind him of this by email so she had it for the record.

“What does it say?” Kevin asked when he entered a few minutes later with Bailey trotting beside him. He hung up the leash on the hook and gave the dog a treat from the jar on the counter.

“I’ll call my lawyer on Monday to double-check.” She wasn’t going to get his hopes up about a judge listening to him. She might be reading it wrong. “But maybe the first thing for me to do is tell your dad you don’t want to go. Are you okay with me doing that?”

“Yeah.”

“If I do that, he’ll know you talked with me about it. You’re okay with that?”

“Yep.”

She wouldn’t have the conversation with Tom face to face—that didn’t feel safe—but she would email him after he dropped Brian off tomorrow night. That way she would have a record of his response if she ever needed it. And if he said no way, then she could let him know she was pursuing it with her attorney.

Kevin sat down on the edge of a chair, still wearing his coat. “You’re okay with it?”

“With what? Emailing your dad?”

He nodded.

“Yep,” she said. “I’m okay with that.”

“He’ll get mad.”

Mara patted his hand. “It’s all right. We’ve got to work these things out.” She would ask some friends to pray. Maybe that would be her excuse for calling Charissa. On second thought, asking for prayer might stir up Charissa’s resentment about the prayer chains.

“Can you drive me over to Michael’s house?” Kevin asked. “He’s invited a bunch of us over for laser tag.”

“Sure.” She had one more question to ask, a question that had been swirling around in her mind all day. “Say . . . Abby’s getting baptized at church tomorrow, and since you’re home this weekend, I wondered if you’d like to go. For Easter. And then we’re all going out for brunch afterward.”

He leaned over to rub Bailey’s back. “Yeah. Okay.”

Really? She did not voice her astonishment or squeal her delight. She simply said, “Okay, cool,” and tried to remain so.

Becca

What was meant to be a short walk to catch her breath and collect herself after confronting Simon and Pippa ended up stretching into hours. Mile after mile Becca walked. She walked across bridges and along the river and through parks and down medieval alleyways. She walked past museums and churches and government buildings and squares filled with monuments. And then, since she felt desperate for some kind of link to her mother, she walked to the hotel near Russell Square.

No one was standing at the welcome desk, and the dining room was dark. Becca hesitated at the threshold, staring at the table where the two of them had shared pots of tea, the table where she’d first seen the ultrasound picture and her father’s card, the table where she had announced she wanted to spend her twenty-first birthday not with her mother but with Simon in Paris. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down and tried to imagine her mother sitting with her, comforting her. Because one thing her mother had never said—one thing her mother would never say—was, “I told you so.”

“Hello? Someone there?” The overhead lights switched on, and Becca squinted, the glare harsh after an hour spent in the dark. “Oh, hey,” Claire said, her expression softening in recognition. “I was just getting ready to lock up and thought I heard something.”

Becca wiped her eyes. She hadn’t expected to see her again, and now Claire might assume she had come to the hotel specifically to track her down. “I’m sorry,” Becca said, “I was out for a walk and got tired.” She picked up her wad of tissues.

Claire sat down across from her, her coat draped over her arm. “I could ask if you’re okay, but I can tell you’re not. Is there something I can do to help?” When Becca did not reply, Claire said, “How about if I fix us both a cup of tea?”

They sat together in front of the unlit fireplace with their mugs, Claire listening and Becca speaking far more than she had intended. The compassion of a slight acquaintance in the wake of the betrayal by both a lover and a friend was a gift Becca hadn’t known she needed when she entered the hotel lobby. “My mom knew Simon was no good, and she tried to make me see it, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t. I defended him. I defended us, said he was the best thing that had ever happened to me and that I wasn’t giving him up just because she didn’t approve.”

Claire handed her another tissue.

“And now what do I do? I can’t go back to my flat—not with Pippa there on the same floor. And how am I going to finish the semester?” In the course of just a few weeks her entire world had imploded. She had lost everything. And there was no restoring any of it. She wished she could just go to sleep and not wake up. Or wake up and realize it had all been a bad dream. There was nothing left. She was completely alone in the world.

“How about this?” Claire said. “How about if tonight you come stay at my flat? It’s not much, but I’ve got a sofa you can sleep on.”

It was a kind, generous offer, and Becca couldn’t think of any better options. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“No worries at all. C’mon.” Claire put on her coat. “It’s just a short walk from here.”