Chapter 3
As I walk into my too-quiet house with the orchid and package, I avoid looking at Philip’s dress loafers, still by the door
where he left them. Dust settles around the soles, but I can’t touch them—that would mean he really isn’t coming home to wear
them again. I place the orchid on the fireplace mantel and press an ice cube into the soil. I remember how Dad listened so
well that wintry Christmas when rat-bastard Wes broke my heart, and I suddenly ache to talk to him.
But just as I reach for my phone, Sarah calls.
“Hi, Lizzie,” she says gently. I never tire of her charming, crisp British accent. She updates me on Japanese sales of The Heathcliff Saga. She tells me we have a nibble from a Brazilian editor interested in buying rights. Then, after a pause, she asks me how
I’m doing.
“Crappy. But I’m drowning myself in cheesy funeral-food leftovers and campus politics.”
After a moment’s pause, she clears her throat. “You don’t have to be a big girl for me, Lizzie. I can’t even imagine how bloody awful things are for you now.”
A lump swells big in my throat.
“Listen, well—our family row house is empty for the summer. I want to offer it to you and Heathcliff, rent-free, if you just
want to get away. London is so lovely this time of year, and it is such a cute place. The beds are cozy, there’s a garden
bathtub in the guest room upstairs, and our housekeeper, Ms. Fernsby, is marvelous. She lives there full-time, and she’s really,
really lovely.”
Sarah’s late father was a lord in Parliament, and after he passed, she and her brother inherited the row house. I always picture
her childhood home life like something out of Peter Pan or Mary Poppins—ruffled nightgowns and nannies. Clotted cream and scones for breakfast.
I think about Heathcliff and me flying to London on a whim. It’s appealing. But I’m teaching this summer and I can’t wrap
my mind around the logistics at this point. There’s my summer class, and legal paperwork that has to be finished. And Mirabel.
And Brad McGregor and Bill Rhodes. But to fly away from it all does sound . . . wonderful.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
“Well, then . . . take care of yourself, Lizzie.”
I hear the loud engine of the school bus, and the front door bangs open. Heathcliff. As soon as he gets home, he always strips
off his clothes and gets into his Batman costume. It’s from last year, so it’s already a little too short, the fabric pilled.
“So Chloe told me at recess that I totally had to eat the earthworm and I was like ‘No—you eat it,’ and she was like ‘I’ll give you all my Twizzlers at lunch if you eat it.’” He pulls his shirt off.
“And I was like ewww . . . but I really wanted the Twizzlers because you can bite the ends off and drink from them like a straw. Did you know that, Mama? Did you?”
“Yes. When I was your age . . .”
“So I ate the earthworm and it wriggled as it went down my throat and Ms. Hoffman—” he pulls off his pants and steps into the worn Batman
costume “—Ms. Hoffman said she couldn’t believe I did that, but Chloe gave me the Twizzlers and they were good and cherry
and—” he puts on the mask “—and I drank all my apple juice with my Twizzlers straw!”
“That sounds great,” I say, hugging him. I should be mad about the worm, but his cheek is sticky and sweaty, and he smells
like little boy. He squirms away from me, one blond eyebrow raised as he looks up and down my black skirt and blouse. “Why
are you dressed like the Dark Knight?”
“Well, I . . .”
But he’s already tearing through the house toward the backyard. It’s his last week of school, and learning is about over for
him. If we don’t make it to London, we should get away somewhere this summer. Perhaps to the Outer Banks. Disney World?
Painfully, I make myself look at Philip’s dusty loafers. I also can’t get rid of his toothbrush, or his razor, or his glasses—folded
neatly on my dresser. I worry if I keep touching them, they’ll lose his fingerprints and skin oil. I wonder if our son sees
all these daily reminders that Philip is gone.
The next evening, I ride my bike to Henry’s house to get my paperwork in order. After teaching my Jane Austen seminar, I fell
asleep in my office, silky black sleep mask over my eyes. I dreamed that I died, and Mirabel and Ted got Heathcliff. She raised
him in seersucker suits and bow ties, and he took tea every afternoon with her and Ted on the front porch. Batman costumes
weren’t allowed in Mirabel’s home. It was horrifying.
I left a letter with Sandra to give to Dean McGregor excusing myself from an afternoon college admissions fair due to “bereavement issues.” My fusty neighbor, Edith, agreed to babysit Heathcliff for the evening, and I know I’ll hear from him about her “old lady” smell and how she knits in front of her “boring” murder mystery shows.
I feel a little guilty. But he’ll survive.
Although Henry only lives a few miles from me, I’ve never been to his house. Warm air whips at my cheeks as I pedal. It’s
that late-afternoon hour when neighbors start walking their dogs and twilight glows from above the treetops. I swapped my
pencil skirt for black yoga pants and a loose black T-shirt. The jet necklace holds Philip’s lock of hair at my throat, and
his bird urn rests safely in my mini-backpack. My helmet is bright lime green, but, well—I have to be practical. I still text,
take antibiotics, sing Spice Girls songs in the shower, and watch Netflix.
As I ride, easing away from my street of 1930s-era bungalows to Henry’s “newer” neighborhood of sprawling midcenturies with
large picture windows, I remember my few interactions with Henry. He joined us once or twice for a holiday dinner. I saw him
coming and going throughout the years with Philip. I definitely remember the first time I met Henry back in grad school, and I blush.
My coffee date with Philip had gone well. Then there was a second date. Then he called back to see if I wanted to spend an
afternoon at the zoo. He just seemed too good to be true. Even after we kissed for the first time, in front of the monkey
habitat, howler monkeys and toddlers screaming around us, I knew there had to be a catch. This great, laid-back guy couldn’t
like me and only me.
When I called the next day to see if he wanted to catch a matinee, he said he’d love to but had a dentist appointment.
Likely excuse. So around the time of said appointment, I camped out in my little green Corolla, half a block from his brick duplex.
Sure enough, he was talking to a cute blonde woman about our age.
She wore Daisy Dukes and held a Pekingese.
My jealousy flared. All I could see in my head was this blonde and Philip getting busy on an antique ice box. At least I’m ahead of it this time.
I slammed my car door and marched down the street.
“Oh, hey, Lizzie,” Philip had said cheerily.
“Hey, I’m Ginger,” the woman said, showing big white teeth.
“Ginger?” I glared at Philip. Of course her name was Ginger.
He seemed confused. “It was a good dentist appointment, Lizzie. I’m still a member of the no-cavities club.”
Suddenly, a large dented red truck pulled loudly up to the curb, and a nice-looking guy with a beard and worn flannel shirt
got out. He hauled a cooler from the truck bed.
“Good catch today,” he’d said, pulling the top off to reveal about fifteen bass on ice. Then he kissed Ginger’s cheek as she
grimaced—“Eewwww. Please shower. You reek of fish and muck.” Her Pekingese snarled at him.
Philip properly introduced me then to Henry, Ginger’s boyfriend.
I’d been beyond thrilled.
Now I step off the bike and walk it up the driveway around the same dented truck from fifteen years ago. I’m embarrassed I
ever imagined Philip to be a cheater. As I take off the helmet and smooth my hair, Henry opens the door. A large yellow Lab
bursts out, big paws on my chest, tail wagging wildly.
“Whoa, Bonnie!” Henry gently pulls her back by the collar. And then he greets me, welcoming me in as he restrains the friendly
Bonnie. I feel a strange wash of shyness. I’ve never actually visited with Henry without Philip, and yet, my husband meant
the world to both of us.
Inside, I look around the neatly furnished home. It’s been a few months since Ginger moved everything out, and I don’t see any photographs of her. According to Philip, they were a bad match from the start but kept trying to make it work until she ran off last year with her yoga instructor.
Henry leads me to the den, his cozy at-home office for when he’s not at the firm. Manila folders are stacked neatly on his
desk and coffee table in front of a small gray couch. Bonnie’s bed lies near a small, white-painted brick fireplace. I’m mildly
disturbed by the taxidermized buck head and largemouth bass mounted above the mantel, but, well—I eat meat and fish. I’d just
rather not think about how it all gets to my plate.
Henry sits beside me on the couch and opens his laptop. He wears middle age well and looks essentially the same as he did
fifteen years ago. If anything, the few grays in his wavy dark hair and short beard make him look even better.
We talk about Philip as we sit together. He points to the mounted bass, telling me about the upstate lake where he and Philip
caught it.
But our mutual loss hangs between us like an anvil. Weighty and unpleasant.
“I can’t even imagine, Lizzie . . .” he says, voice gravelly with emotion. “I think about him every day. I cried big tears
when I heard about the accident. He was crazy about you. Every fishing trip, every lunch—he’d talk so much about you and that poor little hurricane of yours. You two were
his world.”
I stare at Bonnie, gnawing on a chew toy from her bed, and then I’m blinking away tears.
We both have to move away from this.