Chapter 1—Christa #3
I almost tell her. The impulse is strong enough that I pull out the stool beside the workbench and sit down.
For most of my life, Charla has been the person I call when something happens.
Good news, bad news, ridiculous news, or news requiring a bottle of wine and several hours of complaining all went to my sister.
I’ve kept Jai from her for six weeks. Charla loves me but will think I’m crazy to give up the Meade name.
She cares about the social trappings in a way I’ll never understand.
More importantly, once I tell her I’m divorcing Tate, the decision becomes real in a way private consultations and copied bank statements haven’t managed.
“Christa?” Her voice softens.
I look at the open drawer from the sideboard. “I’m thinking about leaving Tate.”
The silence lasts long enough that I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Charla?”
“I’m here.” Her voice sounds different now, maybe shocked. “You’re divorcing him?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You just said leaving.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Those are usually related.”
“I know.” She pauses before asking, “What happened?”
The answer should be simple. There wasn’t one spectacular fight. Tate didn’t come home drunk and smash the wedding china. I didn’t discover lipstick on his collar or a second phone hidden in his desk.
We became two people occupying an expensive house while Tate gradually learned to assign every disappointment in the marriage to me.
“He doesn’t love me anymore.”
Charla responds immediately. “You don’t know that.”
“I live with him.”
“Men get distant. Tate works too much.” Her words come faster now, as though she can talk me back into the marriage if she finds the correct argument.
“It’s more than work.”
“Did he do something?”
I look at the sideboard in front of me. One drawer is open because I removed the brass pull this morning. The finish along the top is badly damaged, while the structure beneath it remains sound. In a few weeks, it’ll be beautiful again.
I refuse to make the obvious comparison. “He didn’t do one thing.” I adjust the task lamp over the drawer.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t make a permanent decision while you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.” I run one finger along the edge of the drawer, checking the spot I worked on before lunch.
That might be the saddest part. I’m tired. I’m disappointed. I’m angry often enough that I’ve learned to contain it. I think I finished grieving this marriage while I was still living inside it.
Charla’s next words come more carefully. “Have you told Dad?”
“No.”
“Does Tate know?”
“No.”
She hesitates. “Does anyone know?”
“My attorney.”
Another silence follows, shorter this time. “You have an attorney?”
“I’ve met with her twice.”
“Christa, that’s planning a divorce.” Charla sounds alarmed now.
She’s right. I lean back on the stool and look around my studio.
Half a dozen pieces are waiting in various stages of restoration.
A nineteenth-century writing table sits near the windows with its finish removed.
Two dining chairs from an estate in Connecticut wait for new caning.
The walnut sideboard will probably take another month.
I’ve made plans for all of them. Apparently, I’ve made one for myself too. “I haven’t authorized her to file.”
“Then don’t.” The sharpness in Charla’s voice surprises me.
I straighten. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been married to Tate for five years. You shouldn’t throw that away because things are difficult.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“That’s what divorce is.” She sounds impatient with me now, an edge I didn’t expect.
I stare at the sideboard instead of answering immediately. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. Obviously.”
“It doesn’t sound obvious.”
“I’m trying to keep you from doing something you’ll regret.” Charla pauses before adding, “You loved Tate, and his family is important.”
“Tate thinks our fertility problems are mine.” I watch the dust floating in the task light as I wait for her response.
For once, Charla has nothing immediate to say.
“He refuses to get tested,” I say. “Dr. Levine has recommended it three times. Last night, he suggested we stop trying until I figure out what’s wrong with me.”
“Oh.” The word comes quietly.
“Yes.”
“Maybe he didn’t mean it that way.”
I laugh without humor. “Trust me. He absolutely did. He even reminded me he comes from a randy line of important men who seem to favor XX sperm.” I giggle at that.
She doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke. “You’ve both been under a lot of pressure.” Charla sounds more cautious now.
“I’m aware.”
“I’m trying to help, Christa.”
“I know.” That isn’t entirely true, but I don’t want to fight with my sister too.
Her tone softens. “You always do this.”
I turn away from the sideboard. “Do what?”
“You decide you’re done, then you’re done. You don’t give people much room to fix things.”
A laugh almost escapes. If she knew how much room I’ve given Tate, she wouldn’t say that. “I’ve been trying to fix this for years.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how bad it is.”
“Then he hasn’t been paying attention.”
“Christa.” My name stretches into the warning tone she perfected when we were teenagers.
“I have to work.”
She sighs heavily. “You just got there.”
I don’t apologize or explain. Charla can be as exhausting as Tate in her own way. “I know.”
“You called me from the car.”
I smile despite myself. “You called me.”
“That’s irrelevant.” I can imagine her waving her hand in that dismissive way she has.
I let out a deep breath to center myself. “I love you.”
Charla’s exasperation eases. “I love you too. I still think you should wait.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know that too.”
She lets out a long exhale. “Fine. I have to go anyway. I need to pick up the dress.”
“For Simon.”
“For me,” she corrects.
“Of course.” My tone is gently mocking.
That insistence is back. “He’s going to love it.”
“I’m sure he will, but it’s more important that you do.”
“I’ll never understand how you caught Tate when you’re so clueless about the things that matter, sis.” Charla hangs up after telling me she’ll call tomorrow.
I set my phone beside the task lamp and pull the sideboard drawer closer.
For several minutes, I work because I’ve always been good at that.
Damaged veneer doesn’t sulk. Old glue doesn’t blame me for failing to produce a child.
Wood has the courtesy to reveal what’s wrong with it if I know where to look.
My phone lights again. For one ridiculous second, I expect Charla.
It’s Tate.
Tate: Dinner with Dad tomorrow. Seven. Don’t be late.
No mention of the conversation in our kitchen. No question about where I am. No apology.
I read the message twice before opening my contacts and finding Jai. My thumb hovers over the call button for a few seconds, then I press it.
She answers on the third ring. “Did you forget something?”
“No.” I look at the half-restored sideboard, then at the framed photograph of Tate and me that’s been sitting face-down on the shelf behind my workbench for eleven days. “I’ve decided.”
Jai gives me a moment before asking, “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to finish the review.”
“What then?”
I look at Tate’s message again. “File.”
The word hurts less than I expected.
Tate doesn’t know it yet, but I’m leaving him.