Chapter 17
I put the dress on, praying it will fit, which it mostly does, although I’m a little disappointed with how it looks on me.
The last time I wore this dress was over three years ago, and I’m still holding on to a bit of weight from the pregnancy, and the months of depression after the miscarriage.
If we weren’t so strapped for cash, I’d buy something more suitable.
But that feels irresponsible, since my only rationale for doing so is borne from some unfounded inadequacy brought on by Kalina’s own impeccable style.
In the end, I decide that no one but me will notice the slightly outdated cut or that it’s a little too tight around the hips.
And it will look better with jewelry. Not my jewelry, of course, which is long gone thanks to whoever broke into our apartment back in Jamaica Plain, but jewelry I borrowed from my mother.
Soon, once we have a bit more money, I’ll replace the stuff that was stolen.
Except for the silver Tiffany bracelet with the angel charm.
That will never be replaceable. Thinking about it brings a lump to my throat, and I quickly look for a distraction.
I change out of the dress and hang it up, then turn my attention to the rest of the scattered clothes.
An hour later, I’ve put them all away and broken down the boxes.
Next, I take care of the smashed glass in the sink and give the kitchen a quick tidying, even though it doesn’t need one.
Then I haul my ass back to the office and place a much-needed grocery order online, which I’m surprised to see will arrive within the hour.
By the time Sam comes home that evening, I’m sitting on the couch reading a book.
“How was your day?” he asks after pulling me into a quick embrace that ends with a lingering kiss. “Not too weird being here all alone in a new place?”
“Not too weird,” I tell him, even though that’s not exactly true, given the incident with the wineglass and the phantom crying baby that apparently doesn’t live in this building. I proceed to tell him about our fashionable visitor from across the hall, and the cocktail party on Wednesday evening.
“Huh.” He raises an eyebrow, even as his gaze shifts to the cake, which I suspect he would happily eat instead of a real dinner if I allowed it. “A formal cocktail party. How fancy.”
“We don’t have to go,” I say, “if you think it will be too stuffy.”
“What? And start off on the wrong foot with the other residents when we haven’t even been here for a week yet?”
“If you’re sure.” It looks like the cocktail dress will be getting an evening out, despite my reservations about how I look in it.
“I’m sure.” Sam heads for the kitchen and opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water. His gaze settles on the groceries I purchased. He almost sounds disappointed when he says, “We have food in the house.”
“I figured it was better than starving.”
He closes the door and twists the cap off the water. “You really feel like cooking tonight?”
“No.” I admit this with a twinge of guilt.
“Good. It’s been a long day. Neither do I.” He saunters back into the living room. “Angelo told me about this great Chinese restaurant. Figure we could give it a try.”
“Sure.” Apparently the doorman doesn’t just accept deliveries and keep the riffraff out. He’s also our own personal Yelp.
Sam calls in an order. When it arrives, we devour the food in front of the TV.
Afterward, we dig in to Kalina’s chocolate-honey cake, which turns out to be as delicious as it looks.
I resist the urge to have another slice—the little black dress isn’t forgiving—and look on with envy as Sam helps himself to seconds.
Then we snuggle on the couch watching a movie, although I doze off halfway through and don’t wake up again until the credits are rolling.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” he says, shutting off the TV and pulling me up off the couch. “Let’s go to bed.”
He leads me through the darkened living room and past the kitchen.
As we go, my mind slips briefly back to the bump I heard earlier in the day and the broken wineglass, which is now in the trash.
Was it really a slamming door that jogged the glass off the counter?
I tell myself that it was—that my unease is nothing but a lingering effect of the unpleasant incident at our old apartment.
After all, what other explanation could there be?
But even as I undress and climb into bed, I’m not so sure.
I try to push the doubt from my mind, because I’ll be alone here when Sam is at work, and I can’t afford to creep myself out.
Yet even as I fall asleep, the thought persists, an unsettling footnote to the happiness I feel at finally having a place that is all our own.