Thirty

Judith

Meena’s already seated and waiting when I arrive at Marlow’s Tavern for lunch. It was always our go-to when she lived in River Forge because it’s only about five or six minutes from the neighborhood, it’s in the middle of a shopping district, and—asparagus fries!

“Thanks for coming out to the burbs,” I say as I slide into the banquette.

“No problem. It’s good to take a stroll down memory lane now and then. A good chunk of my life took place here. I expect it’ll always feel ‘homish.’”

“Homish.” I repeat the word, letting it roll off my tongue. “That’s how our house feels to me right now. Homelike, but not really home. It changed the night Nate died, and it hasn’t felt the same since.”

Meena reaches over the table and squeezes my hand. “The condo felt that way for a while after Stan moved out. And we hadn’t even been there that long.” She winces. “And, of course, he wasn’t gone completely.”

“It’s all right,” I say when I see her getting ready to apologize. “I know what you meant. Tell me what’s going on with the kids.”

We catch up on our four until the waiter comes to take our order.

“Okay,” I say as he departs, “I want all the juicy details. And I want to see pictures. I’ve never been on the Mayan Riviera or on a vacation with anyone besides Nate.”

She laughs and picks up her phone. “Okay. Here’s where we stayed.” She scrolls through photos, and I legitimately ooh and aah over shots of sparkling clear green water and fine-white-sand beaches. A private casita.

Then come shots of Meena smiling here and posing there. A selfie shows her grinning up at the camera with a man, presumably Frank, pressed in behind her with his arms wrapped around her, his hands clasped at her waist. His face is buried in her neck.

Another shows her at a crowded table in a restaurant. “Oh, Frank took that one,” she says when I see only an empty seat next to her. “He makes friends wherever he goes. And he loves to play photographer.”

She scrolls past a few more shots of scenery to one of a man stretched out on the beach. A straw hat covers most of his face, but his chest is bare and tan, with a dusting of dark hair threaded with gray that arrows down a trim stomach until it disappears into the waistband of a pair of bathing trunks.

“Very nice.”

“Yeah.” She winks. “We had such a great time together in Mexico. He used to go there regularly with his wife. The casita we stayed in belongs to a friend of theirs. Frank hadn’t been there since his wife died four years ago. I . . . we got along so well.”

“It’s not hard to get along on vacation,” I point out as gently as I can, even as I think of all the holidays I had with Nate. How he’d stopped inviting me when he traveled for work. How angry I was when he’d gotten back from Europe.

Our grapefruit rickeys and asparagus fries arrive. We sip and munch.

“I’m starting to think I might be ready to put the house on the market.”

“Really?”

“Yes. As annoyed as I am with all the cold calls and Susan Mandell for using her casseroles to try to get my listing, the house is just too big. I’m living like a squatter. I sit in one chair in the family room, one barstool in the kitchen. I sleep in a corner of the bed; the only time I pull the comforter down at all is when Rosaria’s coming.

Meena snorts. “Do you remember all the time we used to spend cleaning the house before the cleaning people came?”

“I do. It feels like a lifetime ago.” I sigh and take a long pull on my cocktail. “But I’m afraid of what the kids will say. What if they don’t want me to sell the house?”

“You do realize this isn’t up to them. If you and Nate had decided to move and the kids didn’t want you to, would you have given up the idea?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”

“Don’t ask them, Jude. Tell them. This is your decision, your life. They have lives somewhere else. You need to do what’s right for you. And if you decide to put the house on the market, you give them plenty of time to come down and go through their things so they can choose what they want to take or keep or store or whatever. I was shocked at how little my children wanted. And the silver and formal china we all got when we married? Neither of them were even remotely interested.”

“I can’t imagine going through that whole house. Having to look at everything. Remember everything.” I take a sip of my drink. “I don’t know how you managed to downsize from five thousand plus square feet to . . . how many do you have now?”

“Just under two thousand.” She shakes her head. “It’s crazy, right? Stan did take some of it, but I had to let the rest go. Purging a lifetime of stuff was brutal. But I have to tell you, Jude. I don’t miss a single thing I got rid of.” She grins. Neither of us mention Stan.

We finish off the asparagus fries and our grapefruit rickeys. We decide to split a second cocktail rather than getting two more. (Is that restraint or what?)

When our main courses come, I dive into my fish tacos.

Meena picks at her steak salad. “You know how I told you that Frank had brought up being exclusive?”

“Um-hmmm,” I manage around a mouthful. “What did you decide?”

“I’ve been waffling. I mean, I’m not really dating or responding to new people. He’s a great travel companion. And I’m not about to sleep with more than one man at a time.”

“At least you don’t kill the people you sleep with,” I point out after a long pull on my drink. “I feel kind of like a black widow sometimes.”

“Hmmm . . . If you do decide to try online dating at some point, you could post a warning.”

We laugh, but I can tell there’s something on Meena’s mind.

“I really enjoy spending time with Frank, you know?” She hesitates. “But yesterday morning, while we were just kind of lounging around, he started talking about how much I meant to him, how he hadn’t felt this way about anyone since his wife died.”

I try and fail to imagine ever saying that, ever feeling that strongly about anyone again.

“Then he brought up the idea of moving in together.”

“Really?” It’s a lot to take in.

She nods.

“So, he wants you to move in with him?”

“Actually, no. I think he wants to move in with me.”

“Wow.” I look at her face, the way she’s downing the last of her cocktail. “That’s a pretty big step.”

“Yeah.” She glances down into the empty glass. “I’m just not sure whether I’m ready to take it.”

Jazmine

It’s Friday night. Derrick and I have braved rush-hour traffic for dinner at Thea and Jamal’s house in Candler Park, where all the advantages of wedded and long-standing bliss are on display.

Carmen and Maya are at their grandparents’ so as not to spoil the picture with too much reality. I am in the kitchen with my sister, who is worried that Derrick’s and my relationship is not moving forward fast enough. For some reason, she’s decided that tricking him into thinking I can cook will help.

“There are laws against misleading advertising. And misrepresentation,” I point out while I stir what is apparently beef stroganoff.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting him think that you know your way around a kitchen.”

“Except that the only things I know my way around are the microwave and the toaster oven.”

Thea is not fazed. We both know that she can beat me at any argument, having served as captain of her high school and college debate teams. “We’re just celebrating the Sony PlayStation deal.”

“We already celebrated that at Mom and Dad’s. This is just you trying to force Derrick and me together.”

“Well, when Jamal asked Derrick how things were going, he said you’d been busy whenever he called.”

“I am busy.”

“Not too busy for Saturday afternoon meetings with Rich Hanson.” She shoots me a look. “Or for arriving to pick up Maya from tennis in his British racing car.”

I roll my eyes. “Rich is a colleague. We’re working on a project together. I borrowed his car to pick up Maya when I had a flat. You’ve taken all of these things out of context.”

“Derrick is perfect for you. Richard Hanson is not.”

“No argument there.” I set down the spoon and turn to face her. “But I’m not so sure your candidate is all that into me.”

“Why do you say that?” She puts her hands on her hips.

“Well, for one thing, our first, and only, kiss was slightly less than enthusiastic on his part. And when he had the opportunity to come in after our last date, he didn’t.”

“He’s a gentleman,” she says. “You can’t penalize him for that.”

“Maya was gone for the night, Thee. I assumed he’d at least come in. He didn’t.”

“Oh, tosh.” She dismisses this, but a small worry crease appears on her forehead. “He’s attractive and intelligent and available. And he has a great sense of humor.”

“I know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I’ve wondered this myself, and I haven’t come up with an answer. I close my eyes and listen to Jamal and Derrick chatting amiably in the living room. Derrick’s voice is unhurried, well modulated, ever friendly. And there’s that faint island lilt.

I look down at the stroganoff Thea wants me to pass off as my own, trying to put it together. “I don’t know. We have a good time together. We’re on the same page about almost everything. He’s like the nicest guy ever, Thee. That’s the truth. But there’s just no . . . spark.” I wipe my hands on the dish towel and remove the apron she insisted I put on. “You and Jamal would have lasted like five minutes without that.”

“Hmph.”

We carry the dinner out to the table. Derrick pulls out my chair and waits until I’m seated before he takes his own. His manners are impeccable. He is one of the politest men I’ve ever met.

“Wow. That smells delicious,” he says as we fill our plates.

“You have totally outdone yourself,” Jamal says to Thea. At her glare, he amends it to, “Yourselves. Outdone yourselves.”

“What’s your favorite meal?” I ask Derrick as he takes his first bites.

“At the moment, it’s definitely this one.” He takes another bite and smiles his approval. “I’m always grateful for a home-cooked meal.”

We eat and talk. Laughter comes easy.

When we’ve finished the main course, Derrick excuses himself to take a phone call from the office. The three of us carry dirty plates into the kitchen.

Jamal looks between Thea and me. “What’s going on?”

“Jazz here has already relegated Derrick to friend status,” Thea huffs. “She’s hardly given him a chance at all.”

“I like him a lot,” I reply. “He’s a genuinely nice guy and really good company. But we don’t seem to have any real chemistry.”

“That just makes things . . . restful,” Thea argues. “And friendship is an important part of any relationship, and especially a marriage. Derrick is smart and kind, and he has a great sense of humor. He’s such a good man. Shouldn’t those things matter more than chemistry?”

“But we have all that and chemistry,” my brother-in-law points out to my sister. “We’ve got mountains of chemistry.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We got chemistry out the . . .”

“Okay, you can stop right there,” I say to Jamal. “You guys definitely got it going on. Sometimes I’m even jealous of how right you are together. How you light up around each other. But it shouldn’t be an either-or situation, Thee.” I lower my voice. “It doesn’t matter if someone’s perfect on paper. Or even perfectly nice.” I tap Jamal’s chest and then Thea’s, right where their hearts are. “If it doesn’t feel perfect right in here.”