Chapter 7
Thursday afternoons had always occupied a peculiar place in Rachel’s week.
They lacked the clean beginning of Mondays and the quiet promise of Fridays.
For years they had belonged to errands and forgotten permission slips and standing in grocery store aisles trying to remember whether anyone actually liked the yogurt she’d just placed in the cart.
Even after the children had grown and the rhythms of her life had changed, Thursdays retained something of that old feeling.
They were transitional. A little untidy.
A pause before evening classes and Friday dinners and all the small rituals that made up the shape of her life.
Which was why it surprised her when she glanced at the clock shortly after one and thought, with unexpected satisfaction, that there was still plenty of time.
Plenty of time.
The thought lingered just long enough for her to frown at her computer screen.
Plenty of time for what?
Outside her office window, September sunlight spilled across the courtyard.
The fountain murmured softly now, sounding happier than it had in years, and the path beneath the maple tree looked as though it had always belonged there.
Ben was near the herb beds with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, studying something with the kind of concentration he brought to almost everything.
Even from the window she could recognize the posture.
Hands on his hips. Slight frown. Complete absorption.
She smiled automatically. Then caught herself.
Good Lord.
The thought that Ben’s presence, and the anticipation of seeing him in yoga class again, had such an impact on her was unsettling.
Still, she sat back in her chair and stared out the window for another moment, vaguely annoyed by the fact that she’d discovered this about herself before she’d had the opportunity to approve it.
Eventually she stood and wandered outside under the entirely reasonable pretense of needing tea.
Ben looked up immediately.
“Hi.”
Something in her settled.
“Hi there.”
He nodded toward the mug in her hand.
“Is that your fourth?”
“It’s tea.”
“That’s not a number.”
She smiled.
“Since when are you monitoring my tea consumption.”
“You’re evading the question.”
“I had soup today.”
“Mhm.”
“It was very nourishing. Soaks up any and all caffeine.”
“Of course.”
Ben crouched beside the herbs again.
Rachel watched him for a moment.
“You know, most people don’t look that serious around rosemary.”
“Most people haven’t replanted thirty-six of them.”
She laughed softly.
“Fair.”
She laughed softly and leaned against the stone edge of the fountain. The afternoon was warm without being oppressive, and the air smelled faintly of rosemary and damp earth. Somewhere inside, one of the instructors was finishing a class, music drifting softly through the open windows.
For a few moments neither of them spoke.
Ben seemed perfectly comfortable with silence. Rachel had noticed that almost immediately. So many people rushed to fill quiet, as though pauses represented failure. Ben simply existed inside them.
Eventually Ben sat back on his heels and looked around.
“I think we’re getting there.”
Rachel followed his gaze.
The path beneath the maple tree. The lavender. The bench. The fountain.
The space already felt different.
Not because it was prettier.
Because people lingered now.
Students stayed after class. Tea lasted longer. Conversations stretched.
People stayed.
And watching Ben look around at something he’d made, Rachel felt that ridiculous little flicker of pride again.
Not because she’d done anything.
Simply because she was happy for him.
Which was embarrassing.
As though she’d somehow grown him herself.
And because she had known him long enough now to recognize the shape of his smiles, she caught the one that appeared when he was amused despite himself.
Interesting.
The thought stayed with her long after she returned inside.
Not because anything had happened.
Nothing had happened.
And yet, later, when one of the massage therapists paused at reception and said, “I love what he’s doing out there. The whole place feels different,” Rachel found herself smiling immediately.
“I know.”
The answer escaped before she thought about it.
And afterward, sitting alone in her office, she laughed quietly at herself.
Because she felt proud.
Not of the courtyard.
Not even really.
Proud of Ben.
Which was absurd.
As though he’d arrived at Wild Oak as a sapling and she’d patiently watered him into existence.
Good grief.
The thought amused her all the way to Liz’s office that afternoon.
Traffic moved lazily beneath the bright September sky, and somewhere between two stoplights she found herself remembering Robert.
Not the divorce.
Not even the sadness.
Simply Robert.
Robert at thirty-five, standing barefoot in the kitchen on Sunday mornings, making pancakes with complete confidence despite possessing no measurable talent for the task.
Robert asleep twenty minutes into every movie they’d ever watched together and denying it afterward with extraordinary conviction.
There were road trips and Christmas mornings and family dinners and ordinary days. There was Ethan asleep against Robert’s shoulder on long drives and Grace insisting they stop for milkshakes and years of small moments woven together so tightly they no longer existed separately.
Perhaps that was why guilt had stayed.
Not because she’d done anything wrong.
But because some part of her still felt disloyal for wanting more.
The thought followed her into Liz’s office.
They spent the first twenty minutes discussing Thanksgiving and Grace and Ethan’s continued belief that a thumbs-up emoji constituted meaningful communication.
Eventually Liz smiled over her mug.
“You seem happy.”
Rachel groaned immediately.
“I hate that sentence.”
Liz laughed.
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time you say it, I discover something inconvenient.”
Sunlight moved slowly across the rug between them. The room had become so familiar over the last two years that Rachel occasionally forgot how strange it was to know where someone kept their tea and absolutely nothing about who they spent Christmas with.
She smiled into her mug.
“I think I’m excited about things again.”
Liz nodded.
“Okay.”
“And apparently I don’t trust that.”
“What don’t you trust?”
Rachel considered the question.
Not carefully.
Just honestly.
“I don’t know.”
She laughed softly.
“That’s irritating.”
“Hm.”
“I spent so many years knowing exactly what everyone needed.”
“Yes.”
“And I was good at it.”
“Yes.”
Rachel looked down at her hands.
“I liked being needed.”
The words surprised her.
Not because they weren’t true.
Because she’d never said them out loud before.
“I liked motherhood.”
“Yes.”
“I liked marriage.”
“Yes.”
“I liked taking care of people.”
Another nod.
“And now…”
She smiled helplessly.
“Now I buy peaches because they look beautiful.”
Liz smiled.
“Living dangerously.”
Rachel laughed.
“I know.”
“And I keep looking forward to things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, glamorous things.”
“Hm. Like what?”
“Friday dinners. Books. Soup weather.”
Liz nodded solemnly.
“Scandalous.”
“Exactly.”
Rachel smiled into her tea.
“And Tuesday classes at six o’clock.”
Liz was quiet, waiting for Rachel to share more.
Rachel laughed immediately.
“There’s the silence.”
“What silence?”
“The one where you wait for me to spill my guts.”
Liz smiled.
“I’m listening. What’s so special about Tuesday’s at six o’clock?”
Rachel shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Mm.”
“It’s not.”
“No?”
“No.”
She stared into her mug for a moment.
“It’s just… Ben. He’s just… easy.”
The smile appeared before she could stop it.
Liz waited.
“That’s such a strange thing to say about a person.”
“No.”
“No?”
Liz shook her head.
“Not at our age.”
Rachel laughed softly.
“I know that sounds ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t.”
“He isn’t exciting.”
The words escaped before she could examine them.
Then she laughed.
“God, that sounds terrible.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I don’t mean boring.”
“I know.”
“He just…”
Rachel searched for the words.
“I don’t have to manage him.”
The room grew quiet.
Not heavy.
Just attentive.
“I don’t explain everything.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t worry that I’ve said too much.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t spend conversations trying to figure out what he needs from me.”
She smiled faintly.
“We talk about herbs and soup and his back and apparently his hips.”
That earned a laugh from Liz.
“And somehow…”
Rachel looked down.
“I always feel better afterward.”
Neither woman spoke for a moment.
Late afternoon sunlight had moved across the rug, and somewhere outside, someone was mowing a lawn.
Finally Liz asked quietly, “How long has it been since that happened?”
Rachel frowned.
“What?”
“Since someone felt easy.”
She thought about that. Really thought about it. And perhaps that was why the answer surprised her.
“Since Robert.”
Liz nodded.
Rachel smiled softly.
“Not at the end.”
“No.”
“But for a very long time.”
“Yes.”
“He felt easy.”
The smile lingered. And suddenly Rachel felt tears threatening. Not because she missed her marriage. Not because she wanted it back. But because she’d forgotten that part. The ease. The comfort. The ordinary pleasure of another person.
She looked down at her tea.
“I think I forgot wanting was allowed.”
The sentence emerged so quietly she almost missed it herself.
Liz smiled gently.
“And what if it is?”
Rachel laughed immediately.
“You’re impossible.”
“It’s my profession.”
“No, I mean it.”
She wiped at her eyes and smiled.
“You people make everything sound so reasonable.”
Liz smiled.
“It’s very annoying.”
“It really is.”
And for a while neither woman spoke.
Because nothing had been solved.
Life rarely worked that way.