Seventeen

Judith

Rosaria, our cleaning woman of seventeen years, is disappointed in me.

“I think you don’t need me anymore.”

“Of course I need you.” For the last four and a half weeks, Rosaria has been the only other human being in the house for more than fifteen minutes at a time, which is how long it apparently takes to pay a condolence call or check in on a widow. Widow!

“No.” She looks around the family room, her eyes both sad and accusing. “You don’t.”

I follow her gaze. Every knickknack is in place. The area rug still appears freshly vacuumed. The wood floors gleam. The kitchen is no better. Or worse, depending on your view. The wineglasses are washed and in the cupboard. The stainless-steel appliances sparkle. I can see my reflection in the chrome cabinet pulls. Even the barstools are pulled up to the island in a perfectly straight row, just the way she left them two weeks ago. Although I wouldn’t have believed it when Ethan and Ansley were still living at home, it’s not that easy to trash a home that’s been professionally cleaned. At least not when all you do is wander from room to room in the oppressive and never-ending quiet that even a television laugh track can’t fill.

“Come sit down. Have a cup of coffee,” I say hopefully, moving toward the coffee maker.

“You don’t want to pay me to sit and drink coffee.”

Although it sounds ridiculous when she says it, I am willing to do this. Just to have some noise, another human being breathing the same air.

“Would you like something to eat? I still have . . .”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No more casserole. Not even the breakfast kind. I’m getting fat.”

Ironically, after a lifetime of unsuccessful attempts to lose weight, my clothes are starting to feel baggy. Sometimes I actually forget to eat. Yet I can’t bring myself to throw out the condolence casseroles—not even the quinoa risotto and brussels sprout tater tot ones—because they were delivered with such kind words and good intentions.

Plus, it might somehow signal that I’m no longer mourning Nate, that while I hate rattling around in this empty house by myself, I’m not sure that I miss him as much as I should.

Would I be more devastated if I’d been happier or at least less angry when he died? I honestly don’t know the answer to that or to any of the other questions I keep asking myself. I also don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Which is not all that surprising given that I’m not living enough of a life to leave a shoe print in the carpet or fingerprints on the refrigerator.

Rosaria and I are still staring at each other when Ansley’s daily text arrives.

How ya doing

OK, I reply, not adding the “ish” that rings in my head. You?

Good

That’s great. How’s Hannah?

Good

Great!

You need anything

No, but thanks for asking. I add a heart emoji. I do not add that the only thing I really need is a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

TTY tomorrow

Ansley texts every morning before she leaves for the office. Ethan texts each afternoon on his way to the gym after work—a tag-team system they’ve recently worked out between them to make me feel loved. Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond grateful that they both check in daily, even if it’s out of duty, but while they think of texting as talking, I’d much rather hear their voices. And frankly, why did we send them to college if they’re not ever going to use punctuation?

I look up to see Rosaria watching me. If I don’t give her something to do, she’ll leave, and I’m not sure I can survive another day of silence.

“Why don’t you start down here?” I say. “You know, just give it a once-over. The real work is upstairs. I mean, it’s practically a pigsty.”

Or at least it will be as soon as I get up there and wreak enough havoc to make her happy.

Jazmine

I arrive at Bistro Niko for brunch on Saturday—my second date with Derrick Warren, the first without Thea and Jamal grinning like they’ve pulled off a palace coup or the heist of the century. Already seated, he stands and smiles as he watches me walk toward him, then waits until I’m seated before sinking back into his chair. I look up into his eyes, which reflect his interest, and allow him to steer the conversation, which is light and comfortable as we peruse our menus. He asks how my week went and then actually listens to my answers. When I ask about his, he tells me about a faux pas he made in court, then laughs at himself. His self-deprecating humor is refreshing after the oversize egos and insecure neediness that I deal with on a daily basis.

When the waiter returns to take our orders, I go with the herb omelet and crispy potatoes while Derrick chooses the trout amandine. We both order mimosas. The live music lends a festive air and floats above the buzz of conversation. Sunlight streams through the plate glass windows and glints off the mirrored bar.

“So, who are you looking at right now? Any athletes you’re hoping to scoop up?” Derrick asks.

“I don’t do a lot of ‘scooping,’ but there’s a pitcher at a local community college that I feel has been underrated.”

“And what is it about him that makes you think otherwise?”

I tense briefly before I reply, but I can see from his expression and his tone that it’s a real question and not an assault on my observation skills or knowledge of the game. “Scouts and agents have dismissed him because he doesn’t look like a pitcher and his windup is a little bit jerky. His fastball rarely hits ninety, but he’s got a great changeup and a killer curveball. A lot of people are so fixated on the radar gun that they overlook someone with skill and finesse.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes. If I can find a spot for him at a ball club with a pitching staff that will take advantage of his strengths and help him develop, he could be big.”

He looks at me with surprise. “I didn’t realize there was so much nuance involved. So much long-range planning and strategizing.”

“Well, there are those who go for the obvious and prefer to sign players who are already in demand. But I’m not always those players’ first choice.”

“Because?” He waits, practically daring me to say it.

“Because I’m a woman. And although I’m at a well-known agency and have handled some very successful athletes, that is a strike against me in many players’ eyes. I have to work harder than most men. Be smarter.”

I wait for him to laugh or pass it off as my imagination or knee-jerk paranoia, but he nods. “I see it in the legal field all the time. One of the women who mentored me when I was starting out was absolutely brilliant. I learned so much from her. But she had to prove herself over and over again. She had this poster of Ginger Rogers on her wall that I’ve never forgotten, not that I knew who Ginger Rogers was at the time. Had to look her up. It said, ‘Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it . . .’”

“‘. . . backwards and in heels,’” I finish.

“That’s the one.” His smile is slow and appreciative. “I started watching old musicals after she explained it to me. I don’t admit it to a lot of people, but I kind of liked them. And there’s never been any question in my mind that Ginger had the harder role.”

Our mimosas arrive, and I cover my surprise at Derrick’s admission by taking a long sip, then another. Derrick is a good listener and an even better interviewer, and by the time our food arrives, we’ve covered a lot of ground.

“Thea and Jamal told me that your daughter is a gifted tennis player. Like her mother.”

“Oh.” I meet his gaze. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they felt they had to tell you every little thing about me.” My cheeks flush with heat. “I gather they covered the accident and . . . everything?”

He nods, takes a bite of his trout, and chews thoughtfully. “You’ve dealt with a lot. And managed to raise a child and succeed in a male-dominated profession. It is impressive.”

“We all have to play the hands we’re dealt.”

His eyes close briefly. “Not everyone manages to deal with their hand. Some people fall apart or abdicate all responsibility.” His voice rings with something deeply personal. “My father fell in love with drugs early on, and he never loved anyone or anything as much, including me and my brother. We were raised by a mother who fought for every single thing she achieved. Somehow, she got a nursing degree. Fed all three of us. Made sure my brother and I took our studies seriously. Stayed out of trouble. Got college scholarships. I have a huge amount of respect for strong, determined women.”

“That’s good to hear.” I’m getting why Thea and Jamal are so adamantly Team Derrick. “A lot of men don’t see things that way.”

“A lot of men aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

“Can’t argue with that.” I finish off my omelet and potatoes. Derrick is not Fred Astaire, and I’m definitely not Ginger Rogers, but I’m enjoying the dance and surprisingly glad that neither of us seems worried about who’s leading.

“It’s nice to see a woman who isn’t afraid to eat.”

I laugh. “That’s good news, because we’re going to be ordering dessert.”

“We are?”

“Um-hmmm.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it would be downright criminal to leave here without sharing an order of their profiteroles.”

“I’ve never ordered them here, but I’ve always had a weak spot for profiteroles.” His grin is infectious.

“Prepare to be dazzled, then. I’ll try to make sure you get a bite or two.”

Sara

When I get home from work on Monday, I find Dorothy in the living room reading, which is still a surprise. The book is The Body: A Guide for Occupants, which we picked up at Between the Covers over the weekend and are planning to share.

She looks up and considers me for a moment as if she, too, is still surprised to be reading in public. “I’ve never been into nonfiction, but I do love this author’s voice,” she says. “I’m not sure how I feel about knowing so much about all the stuff that’s stuffed inside me.” Her voice carries something unexpected.

I look up and meet her eyes.

“I heard from Mitchell today.”

“Oh?” Something inside me deflates. I’ve been meaning to reach out to Meena, who’s the only happily divorced woman I know, but at the moment just getting through the workday and acting normal takes all my energy. Plus, once I have a referral I’ll have to make an appointment. Tell a total stranger what my husband has done. Admit how completely I’ve been deceived and then discarded. I’ll have to fight for the house. Fight to get back the money he’s already stolen. Just thinking about it is exhausting.

“Yes. He apologized,” Dorothy says. “He told me that he didn’t mean to do what he did. That he panicked and that everything got away from him and he was very sorry.”

It takes everything I have to keep my expression neutral. Even though this is almost exactly what he said to me. As if the whole having children with another woman, living a secret life, and stealing from his mother and his wife to keep that life secret was just some sort of accident.

“He said that if I could just give him some time, he’ll sort everything out and find a way to try to get the house back.” Her chin is up so high that if she were taller, she’d be looking down her nose at me. “And I’m certain that he will keep his word.”

Our gazes lock, and I clamp down hard on the retort that springs to my lips. I desperately want, make that need, to let loose on someone. But Dorothy is the only person who knows the truth, the only person I don’t have to keep up a front around.

I know exactly how it feels to want to believe the best about someone you love. How much I’d give to be able to erase what Mitch has done or somehow turn it into something less heinous. But that would require a level of denial that apparently only a person who gave birth to the perpetrator could possibly achieve.

“And I . . . I realize you have no obligation or reason to allow me to live here any longer.” Dorothy’s face is pinched, the words blunt and unadorned. “But . . . if you’ll let me stay . . . at least for a while, I can . . . My social security, I still have that. I can pay you rent.”

Her chin stays up, and she does not cry despite her obvious fear that she’s about to be chucked out onto the street. If your own son doesn’t care what happens to you, why should the daughter-in-law you’ve never gotten on with?

It’s my eyes that blur with tears.

Dorothy and I have never had a good relationship or seen eye to eye. The only things we have in common now are books and being betrayed by Mitchell. But I grew up virtually homeless, and I’m not going to be putting a seventy-five-year-old woman who’s only just recovered from surgery out on the street no matter who she’s given birth to. Which is, I assume, what Mitchell is counting on. Unless he actually cares as little for his mother as he does for me.

“I have no idea what’s going to happen next or how long . . . things . . . might take.” I’m not going to discuss my plans, or lack thereof, with someone who could so easily aid and abet the enemy. I’m somewhat shocked when I add, “But as long as I have the house, you can . . . you’re welcome to stay.”

“Thank you.” The words come out in a rasp, and I know what they cost her. I’m surprised when she cocks her head and continues, “I expect you’ll take this the wrong way, but I went online and put together a list of family law attorneys.” She holds up a two-page document. “They’re listed in order, based on reviews. The top five look very strong.”

When I hesitate, she pushes the pages toward me.

“Thank you.” The pages rustle in my hand, which seems to be shaking. “I think I’m going to need a glass of wine before I study this. Maybe two.”

“I understand. I just . . . if I were in your position, I would already be looking for representation.”

I stare at her in shock; does this mean she’s on my side? Her tone is brusque. But her face is ravaged by too many emotions to catalog. It looks the way mine feels.

“Would you like to join me?” I ask quietly. “I don’t think I can face drinking alone tonight.”