Chapter 3 #2
Henry clears his throat and opens the folder in front of him.
“So, I looked at the will, and everything’s pretty straightforward.
My only worry is Mirabel. Maybe a week before the accident, Philip called me up about a strange trust he by chance found out about.
He said it was something Mirabel set up for Heathcliff, but she was acting weird—didn’t want Ted or anyone else to know about it.
I’ll need to chase that down, make sure everything’s airtight for Heathcliff as we close up the estate.
Would you care if I call up Miss Mirabel? ”
“Good luck with that.” I tell him about how she’s been trying to get in touch with me. Then I’m about to tell him about that
night, the message I got from Philip. But I’d missed it because I’d been out on the doorstep with Heathcliff looking at a
blood moon. I’d missed my husband’s last fucking call. But the words won’t come.
“What else happened, Lizzie?”
I swallow and tell him.
He nods slowly.
We’re quiet for a minute, staring at the hapless buck and fish.
“Listen, I’ll deal with Mirabel. I’ll talk to her lawyer and figure this out. It’s likely nothing, but these things—trusts,
inheritances—can have a way of staying goddamn frozen for decades if they’re not handled right. I only met her a handful of
times, but from the stories Philip’s told me and from you, Miss Mirabel Wells sounds like a piece of work. You’ve got enough
on your plate.”
He plops the folder onto the coffee table in front of us and relaxes.
We’re sitting rather close.
“Are you taking care of yourself?” I notice sunspots on his upper cheeks, his warm brown eye color.
“I guess so. It’s just—there’s this absence. It’s always there.” The lump in my throat swells and I play with the jet necklace.
“His fucking loafers are still by the front door.”
Because I can’t think of Philip’s loafers, I lean into Henry.
I flashback to Ginger wriggling away from him.
But I like this smell. It’s vaguely earthy, like he’s been outdoors working in a garden.
He kind of stiffens, but I feel him breathing hard.
We sit like that, frozen in a strange spell where thoughts and words won’t work.
Gingerly, he puts his hand, warm, calloused, on my cheek.
I lean closer, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth.
“Lizzie . . .” he mutters as my mouth brushes his beard.
Bonnie stands up loudly, and we both jump away from each other.
“God, what am I doing?” I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified at myself.
He’s blushing deeply, as shocked as I am.
“I have to go,” I say, hurrying from the den, snapping on my helmet and grabbing my mini-backpack.
“Lizzie . . .” He’s following me. Bonnie runs after us to the front door, sensing the tension.
But I’m out the door and on my bike.
“Lizzie! Come back!”
But I pedal away fast.
I’m shaking. My heart pounds; tears roll down my cheeks. I hear him call after me again, but don’t look back.
The evening has cooled off and night settles in, stars glittering above.
I need to talk to my priest.
I’ve sinned.
Philip has only been gone for one month, and I almost kissed his best friend.
“Lizzie? Oh gosh, what’s wrong? Is it Heathcliff?” Chloe asks, alarmed as she opens the front door. She’s wearing yoga pants
and a coffee-stained T-shirt. She’s always been remarkably cool for a priest, but it’s strange to see her without her collar.
“No . . .” I mumble breathlessly, unsnapping my helmet. “I need Confession.”
“We’re Episcopalian, not Catholic. We’re not as into that.”
Her wife, Abby, walks heavily down the stairs, red-eyed, patting their newborn son’s back gently. She’s not wearing a shirt,
and one side of her nursing bra is open, an enlarged, irritated areola on display. Abby nods wearily to me as she walks into
the den, as if it’s perfectly normal for a neurotic parishioner to show up on their doorstep at this time of night.
“I just really need Confession now. I sinned big-time. I almost kissed Philip’s best friend.”
Chloe’s mouth twitches.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. Just come in.”
“You’re going to let me confess, right?”
“We’re going to talk.”
“But shouldn’t we pray or something? I mean I need Confession!”
She smiles gently as she ushers me along. “We’re going to go on the back porch and have a glass of wine.”
“Glass of wine?”
“Let’s appeal to all the spirits.”
Soon I’m sitting on the cushioned wicker couch in the screened back porch surrounded by potted plants. Abby’s beautiful, brightly
colored handcrafted pots glow in the citronella candlelight. Chloe appears with two small glasses of chilled Pinot Noir and
a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes. She sets them on the coffee table and sits beside me. She brushes the pink-dyed streak
of her thick, curly dark hair from her face.
“What happened, Lizzie?”
Through tears I tell her everything, blow by blow.
I feel a little guilty—I mean, she has a squalling newborn.
She doesn’t need a middle-aged woman weeping on her back porch.
But Chloe doesn’t seem to mind. She listens carefully, hands me a Kleenex box, and I wipe my nose and wail: “There was no excuse—we hadn’t even been drin . . . king. I’m a wid-hoe!”
Chloe smiles kindly. “Lizzie . . .”
“Victoria would never have done this!”
“Victoria? I’m a little lost.”
“Never mind. I just did a very bad thing, and I’ll never forgive myself. What would Philip think?”
“He’d be laughing his ass off.”
“What?”
“Oh, I knew the man—he had the best sense of humor, and he’d think it’s hilarious that you almost kissed his best friend.
Henry Lawton, you said? You know what—he did some work for a friend of mine. Nice guy. And he’s cute. Philip wouldn’t be mad.”
“But we just put him to rest . . .”
“Breathe, my friend. Do you remember that meditation sabbatical I took in Tibet last year?”
“Yes.”
She leads me through a few breathing techniques she learned.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Remarkably, it works. I cool down by the second. Even though I’m still convinced I did a bad thing, I’m feeling less panicky
about it. Breaths are miracles.
Soon I’m calm enough to take a sip of the wine.
Chloe clasps my hands in hers. “Oh, Lizzie. This is a time to be kind to yourself.”
“But . . .”
“This is a time where you don’t feel guilty about almost kissing Philip’s friend. You do the easy yoga workout. Splurge on a pedicure. Take Heathcliff to a movie, or, better yet, on a trip!”
“I thought you were going to talk to me about Jesus and absolve me of the near-kiss.”
“Everyone has such high expectations of me.”
She sighs and takes a long sip of wine. “Gosh, this tastes good. You know, I gave up wine to show solidarity with Abby during
the pregnancy. Now, as we take shifts with Asher, it’s mostly coffee for me . . . and trashy detective novels. Speaking of . . .”
She starts skimming through her Audible app on her phone. “Have you read A.D. Hemmings? Because I can’t put his Blood Oath down.”
“Ummm . . . I think I’ve seen the paperbacks in airports.”
“Total airport reads. Misogynistic, Hemingway-like style where women only exist for his macho Welsh detective, Chadwick Hall. But
you need to read him. Here, I have a free Audible book to gift, and I’ll send it to you.”
“So we’re not talking about Jesus.”
“No, Lizzie . . . in fact . . . ” She finishes off her wine, and I can tell she’s not used to it. I remember that week after
birthing Heathcliff when I hadn’t had a drink in nine months, and I’d felt a little tipsy after one glass.
“Listen to this: ‘He slowly undressed her, marveling at her wonderfully sculpted legs.’”
“That’s so James Bond-ish.”
“I know! So bad it’s good. I mean, I know I bat for the other team, but part of me wants to throw tomatoes at this guy Hemmings and
the other part of me wants to have wild, objectifying sex with him. I can’t get enough. Wait . . . listen here . . . ‘Her
lacy black bra cupped her size-double-D firm breasts perfectly. She smelled so wonderful, like rose-scented soap . . .’”
“What woman actually wears that? He’s describing a Victoria Secret commercial.”
“I know! And what’s worse is that this sex scene is with his new younger partner, Emilia Wren. They’ve been chasing the Cardiff Strangler all day. She fell into a gutter two hours earlier in the pursuit. I’m sure she wouldn’t have worn this scratchy, sexy bra for a workday like that and that
she’d smell like roses. But here . . .” Chloe types something on her phone. “I just sent you a copy of the book. Take some
time to breathe, enjoy a light guilty-pleasure read, and think about taking a trip with that cute son of yours.”
We talk a little longer, my guilt and grief waning in Chloe’s company. When I finally leave, riding my bike back through the
quiet neighborhood streets home, I see a missed call and text from Henry. I finally look at it as I walk my bike to my garage.
Henry: Did you get home alright?
I send a thumbs-up, my stomach lurching all over again.
Henry: Let’s talk tomorrow. Please.
I don’t respond.