Chapter 4
Sometime during the week, Rachel had acquired the unsettling ability to recognize the sound of Ben’s truck.
She discovered this on Friday morning while answering emails.
The engine hadn’t even stopped before she’d looked up automatically, and by the time she realized what she’d done, she was already annoyed with herself.
There was no earthly reason she should know what his truck sounded like.
Contractors came and went all the time. Delivery drivers arrived.
Clients appeared. Human beings noticed patterns. That was perfectly normal.
Still.
She suspected there was probably a line somewhere between ordinary awareness and whatever this was, and she had crossed it sometime around Wednesday.
Not that she was keeping track.
Good Lord.
By nine o’clock, she’d already had two conversations with herself and spent an unreasonable amount of time reorganizing paperwork.
The studio had settled into its familiar Friday rhythm.
The morning classes were finished, the reception desk was buried beneath water bottles and forgotten sweaters, and somewhere down the hall Allison was attempting to convince Spotify that Fleetwood Mac constituted a lifestyle rather than a musical preference.
Rachel smiled to herself and answered three emails before looking up again.
Which was how she found herself watching Ben through the courtyard windows.
He was kneeling beside the fountain, sketchbook balanced on one knee, his attention entirely occupied by something she couldn’t begin to understand.
The fountain was perfectly nice, and she’d developed more opinions about drainage than anyone should, but that wasn’t why she’d found herself pausing at the windows.
Ben was simply easy to watch.
Not because he performed his work or made a production out of it. He just seemed content to give his attention to whatever was in front of him, whether that was a sketchbook, a stubborn patch of soil, or Allison asking where she’d misplaced the measuring tape.
Rachel wasn’t entirely sure why she noticed.
Only that she did.
And that she had somehow reached the stage where she could recognize the sound of his truck.
Which seemed excessive.
She’d just managed to redirect herself toward an email about workshop registration when movement outside caught her eye.
Ben had looked up.
And smiled.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing meaningful.
Just a smile.
The sort exchanged by two people who’d spent the better part of a week talking about benches and lavender and the surprising emotional significance of places for people to sit.
Still.
Rachel immediately looked back at her computer with such unnecessary speed that she nearly laughed.
Honestly.
She was forty-two years old.
She owned property.
She had children in college.
She had opinions about anti-inflammatory supplements and a retirement account that inspired absolutely no excitement whatsoever.
Surely there came an age when women stopped behaving like teenage girls.
Though, if she was being fair, Vivian would probably argue the opposite.
Vivian considered embarrassment one of life’s remaining amusements.
The thought made Rachel smile.
Which was unfortunate, because Allison chose that exact moment to walk in.
“There it is.”
Rachel blinked.
“What?”
“That smile.”
“What smile?”
Allison set a box of yoga blocks onto the table and regarded her with entirely too much satisfaction.
“The one you’ve had all week.”
“I’ve had the same face for forty-two years.”
“No.”
Allison shook her head.
“Same eyes. Different face.”
Rachel laughed.
“That sentence means nothing.”
“It means you’re happy.”
“I’m always happy.”
“Mhm.”
Rachel smiled.
“You’re thirty-eight.”
“And?”
“You people say things.”
“You people?”
“You know. Young people.”
Allison burst out laughing.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Practically an infant.”
“I remember CDs, Rachel.”
“That proves nothing.”
Still laughing, Allison headed toward the supply closet.
“Whatever’s going on, I approve.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Excellent.”
“Allison.”
“What?”
“You realize you’re impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
But Rachel found herself smiling long after she’d disappeared.
Which was irritating.
Not Allison.
The smiling.
Because she wasn’t entirely sure where it kept coming from.
By lunchtime, she’d successfully convinced herself she was being ridiculous.
By one o’clock, she’d become deeply invested in invoices.
And by two, she’d almost forgotten about Ben entirely.
Which was why it felt particularly unfair when she walked outside to call Ethan and discovered him unloading bags of mulch from the truck.
There seemed to be an endless number of them.
“That cannot possibly all be necessary.”
Ben glanced up and smiled.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
Rachel shaded her eyes against the sun.
“No, seriously.”
“It’s less dramatic than it looks.”
“Impossible.”
He laughed and hoisted another bag onto his shoulder with the sort of easy strength that made Rachel immediately annoyed with herself.
Because hands were one thing.
Arms, apparently, were where dignity went to die.
Women had fought too hard for this.
She nearly burst out laughing.
Ben stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, that was definitely something.”
Rachel shook her head.
“I was just having a conversation with myself.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Dangerous.”
“Apparently.”
“Did you win?”
“Too early to tell.”
That made him laugh.
Not loudly.
Just enough that the corners of his eyes crinkled.
And because the universe enjoyed irony, Rachel discovered she liked that too.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
“You know,” she said, because apparently she had no instinct for self-preservation, “I don’t think I realized landscaping involved this much lifting.”
“Mostly people picture me standing beside flowers.”
“Do you stand beside flowers?”
“Occasionally.”
“Good.”
“Professional standards.”
She smiled.
“What are all these for?”
“Mulch.”
“I gathered that.”
“You asked.”
“I asked what for.”
He set down the bag and brushed his hands together.
“Healthy soil. Water retention. Weed control.”
“You’re passionate about mulch.”
“I’m passionate about not fighting nature.”
Rachel laughed.
“That’s unexpectedly philosophical.”
“It’s laziness.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“You’re too calm to be lazy.”
“People confuse those.”
The answer stayed with her longer than she expected.
People confuse those.
Interesting.
Not because she’d never heard the sentiment before.
Because she’d spent most of her life doing exactly that. Busy had always looked responsible. Exhausted had often looked productive. Stillness, on the other hand, made her nervous. As though rest required justification.
Liz would probably have opinions about that. Liz had opinions about everything. Or perhaps observations. There was a difference.
Ben picked up another bag.
“You were headed somewhere.”
Rachel looked down. “Oh.”
“The call.”
She laughed. “Right.”
“You don’t have to rush off on my account.”
“No, I know.”
But she remained where she was.
Ben smiled.
“Everything alright?”
“Perfectly fine.”
A beat passed.
Then Rachel laughed softly.
“I came out here to make a phone call and somehow got distracted by mulch.”
“People underestimate mulch.”
“I certainly did.”
He grinned and reached for another bag.
“I’ve devoted my life to changing minds.”
That earned another laugh.
And as Rachel walked back toward the studio, she realized she’d forgotten to make the call to Ethan entirely.
Which, she suspected, said something.
She just wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know what.
That evening, Divorce Supper Club met at Lydia’s house.
By the time Rachel arrived, the kitchen island had disappeared beneath pasta and bread and three bottles of wine, one of which Elena insisted possessed medicinal properties because she’d read an article and was now practically a doctor.
Nora had nearly forgotten the flowers she’d bought, Lydia was threatening bodily harm against anyone who touched dessert before dinner, and somehow, as always, the evening assembled itself.
Rachel loved this part of the evening.
Some habits became obligations over time. This one had somehow become easier.
Which still surprised her.
There had been a stretch, especially during those first years, when Divorce Supper Club had felt less like dinner and more like triage.
Women arrived carrying tissues and stories they hadn’t told anyone yet.
There had been tears over custody schedules and panic over finances and evenings when someone cried before the appetizers arrived.
More than once they’d closed down restaurants while discussing lawyers and mediation and the strange indignities of dividing twenty years of accumulated life.
Thank God those days had passed.
Not because they hadn’t mattered. They had. Rachel wasn’t sure any of them would have survived those years with quite so much humor intact without the others.
But life had changed.
The conversations had changed.
Nobody needed emergency phone numbers anymore. Instead they argued about pickleball injuries and disappointing television finales and whether men over fifty understood that “Hey stranger” had somehow become the official greeting of the emotionally unavailable.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, grief had loosened its grip enough to make room for ordinary things again.
Rachel laughed so hard at one of Vivian’s stories that wine nearly came out her nose.
Vivian looked delighted.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
Rachel reached for another piece of bread.
“What?”
“You’ve done that six times.”
“Done what?”
“Laughed.”
Rachel frowned.
“I laugh.”
“Yes.” Vivian smiled. “But usually you’re listening.”
Nora nodded.
“You’ve been telling stories tonight.”
“So?”
“So nothing.”
Lydia poured more wine.
“It’s nice.”
Rachel looked around suspiciously.
“Why are you all behaving like Victorian women discussing a scandal?”
Vivian grinned. “Because we’re bored.”
“No, seriously.”