CHAPTER TEN
JULIA
THE MORNING UNFOLDED without incident.
I guided the Big Ange into Palm Crest Academy's drop-off queue, South Florida's October sun already warming the leather seats as the sound of my daughters bickering filled the back.
"Love you, Mama!" Ellie announced, already halfway out the door the second I clicked off the safety locks, her backpack swinging behind her.
"Love you more, Ella-Bella," I called after her.
Aria took her time, fussing with her headband like it was a crown. Just before sliding out, she turned and blew me a kiss. I caught it and blew one back. She shut the door a little harder than necessary before hurrying to catch up with her sister.
I checked my mirrors and caught sight of Latoya's gleaming black Range Rover a few spaces behind me in line, her tinted window rolled down just far enough for her to wave at me and a few other moms with the languid grace of royalty acknowledging peasants.
I suppressed a laugh because I knew the deliberately prolonged gesture was aimed at the platinum-blonde mom in the sporty car behind her, who'd snubbed us both at last month's fundraiser.
My girls had already disappeared into the stream of uniforms, so I pulled away, giving Mrs. Carmichael, crossing guard extraordinaire and unofficial guardian of carpool, a smile and wave.
From there, it was a quick run to Publix, where the air-conditioning hit like a wall of relief after the humid October heat I'd fought across the parking lot and had me considering adding some powder under my tits.
I navigated the polished aisles past pyramids of gleaming produce, tossing romaine hearts and plump cherry tomatoes into my cart alongside a bag of Honeycrisp apples that would last exactly three days in our household.
In the snack aisle, I lingered over the blue packaging of Double Stuffed Oreos, my midnight weakness, and the salted caramel chocolate bars I kept hidden behind the quinoa before grabbing both.
I turned into the next aisle, the front right wheel of my cart making an irritating squeak-thump with every rotation.
"Julia?"
The sound of my name froze my fingers mid-reach. I glanced over and nearly tripped into my cart. Elena Dawson.
Her hair was different. Shorter and lighter now, a honey-blonde bob she was rocking, framing her face in a way that made her blue eyes seem larger, more vulnerable, nut it was unmistakably her, standing a few feet away with a shopping basket hooked over one forearm.
"Elena. Hey!" I greeted with automatic brightness, fixing a smile onto my face while my mind raced.
What else was I supposed to say? Oh, hey! Heard about your shitty husband. If you're interested, Carmen has a shovel, and I have a boat. You remember Carmen, right?
She blinked before breaking into a smile that didn't quite reach the puffy skin beneath her eyes.
"You are gorgeous as ever. Haven't aged a bit."
"Says you," I replied, noticing the faint tremor in her hands as she clutched the basket.
She scoffed, the sound hollow. "It's the makeup. I spend so much time crying, I'm surprised I don't resemble a raccoon on meth. My bathroom counter looks like a Sephora exploded."
My mouth opened, ready with the polite, sugar-coated Oh, you look fine, but I stopped myself. That wasn't me.
"Yeah," I agreed gently instead. "You look like hell, but you also got yourself out of bed and out into the world. That counts for something."
Her lips parted, a laugh that was half bitter, half grateful slipping free. "Thanks for that. And thanks for not running the other way like having an asshole for a husband is contagious."
"Wait. What do you mean?" My brows pulled together. "Someone did that?"
"A few," she admitted, her eyes dropping to the speckled linoleum as though she were embarrassed to even say it aloud. The weight of it sat heavily on her face, sharper than the concealer could hide beneath the harsh grocery-store lighting.
"Well, fuck those bitc..." I caught myself as a woman in a pressed linen dress rounded the corner with a little girl sporting matching pigtails. "Ladies."
The woman gave me the kind of scandalized look reserved for people who discussed politics at dinner. I offered her a polite smile, all teeth and no warmth, until they disappeared around the corner.
Then I turned back to Elena. "Like I was saying, fuck them."
"I am prone to agree." She shifted the basket to her other arm. "I have to get back to my parents'. I left the baby with my mom so I could get a breather, and she's been texting every seven minutes like I'm going to go plunge myself into the depths of South Beach or something."
A flicker of real worry slid through me. I wasn't going to be the person who last saw this woman alive and ignored the signs. Another tragedy everyone claimed they'd seen coming after it was too late to do anything about it.
"I don't know how to phrase this nicely..." I lowered my voice until it was barely above a whisper. "Are you having thoughts?"
Her expression changed. She shook her head with such deliberate control that the movement seemed rehearsed.
"No. I got cheated on. It isn't the end of the world. My babies need their mama, and right now, I need mine." Her shoulders lifted in a small, tired shrug that made her collarbones jut beneath her thin blouse. "I'll be staying with her for a while. I can't be at the house anymore."
She hesitated.
"Would you like to exchange numbers? I'd love to actually talk and maybe catch up somewhere other than between the cookies and crackers of aisle eleven."
"Yeah, sure." I pulled out my phone, the case warm from my back pocket, navigated to a new contact, and handed it to her. "You can text or call anytime. I'm a great person to vent to." I smiled, trying to coax one from her. "I also shit-talk for free."
That got another laugh out of her, even if it was thin as tissue paper. "Good to know."
We hugged briefly, the gesture catching me a little off guard.
I'd gone to high school with Elena, but we hadn't kept in touch afterward, only occasionally circling the same social spaces.
I could tell she needed it, though. There was a fragility to the way she held herself, like she'd spent so long keeping everything together that one more hard touch might crack something.
She stepped back and gave me a soft farewell before heading in the opposite direction. I pushed my squeaky cart forward, trying to refocus on my shopping and smiling absently at the woman offering cheese samples near the bakery.
Elena's words followed me all the way into the parking lot, clinging to me as I loaded grocery bags into the back of the Escalade.
“My babies need their mama, and right now, I need mine.”
If it were me, Mama would be my first call too.
She'd help me plan with the cold precision of a general before holding me while I sobbed.
But why the hell was I even entertaining the thought?
I trusted Ethan completely. These intrusive scenarios were just anxiety wearing a different mask, my mind borrowing another woman's nightmare and trying it on for size.
No, thank you.
I wasn't putting that shit into the universe.
I slid behind the wheel, shut the door, and pointed the SUV toward home while mentally mapping out the rest of my day.
I didn't work anymore. Not in the way I once had.
These days, I played when invited. When the Miami Symphony needed an extra hand for its spring series.
When a charity gala wanted a dramatic solo beneath the lights of some glittering ballroom.
I didn't need the relentless grind anymore. I'd earned my place on prestigious stages, and stepping back had been my choice, not a defeat. I was content with that. My life was full in other ways. Lunches with friends. Charity committees. My garden of tropical flowers that bloomed year-round.
There was always something to do.
Lately, I'd even been considering adopting a dog. A buddy for when the house felt too quiet. Someone to drag to the beach with me on mornings when the sand was still cool and the waves whispered instead of roared.
I reached home, and after unloading the groceries and tucking everything into its proper place, I headed upstairs and slipped down the hall toward my sanctuary.
My music-slash-art room. Paint-splattered smocks draped over tufted velvet chairs.
Sable brushes stood in mason jars, and my large easel sat between two smaller ones for when the girls felt like joining me.
Afternoon light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the turquoise ocean beyond shimmering beneath the sun. My dark blue violin, a 1920s German piece with mother-of-pearl inlay, waited on its polished rosewood stand.
I traced a finger along the smooth maple neck, the silver-wound strings cool beneath my touch, before lifting it beneath my chin. The bow, its horsehair freshly rosined, settled naturally into my right hand.
An extension of myself.
One pull across the strings, and the room filled with a sound as haunting as a forgotten lullaby. I started with Einaudi's Experience, the kind of piece that carried you somewhere else. Then I shifted into Meditation from Tha?s, my fingers moving across the fingerboard in practiced vibrato.
I'd performed it dozens of times on stages from Carnegie Hall to La Scala, but here, in the quiet, with only dust motes for an audience, it felt less like a performance and more like prayer.
The notes poured out of me. Eventually, they slipped into improvisation until it wasn't anyone else's music anymore.
It was mine.
Raw as an open wound.
When the final note disappeared, I let the silence settle around me, my fingertips still tingling with phantom vibrations. My gaze drifted toward the easels. My large one and the two smaller ones beside it, each smeared with the bold, messy colors of my girls' latest masterpieces.
Half-finished suns with lopsided rays. Oceans dotted with what might have been dolphins. Or mermaids. With those two, there was no telling. The shrill buzz of my phone shattered the moment.
I lowered the violin carefully onto its stand before pulling out my cell. "Hello?"
"I'm about to be at your front gates," Toya announced without preamble.
"Um. Okay?" I replied slowly, immediately suspicious.
"And get dressed."
I looked down at myself. "I am dressed. What are we doing?"
"We," she stretched the word for effect, "are going to surprise our wonderful husbands at work."
I went quiet."...So, do I need tennis shoes or heels?"
She laughed like I wasn't being completely serious. "Heels are good. Open up."
I buzzed the gates open through the app on my phone and made my way downstairs.
By the time I swung open the double doors, Toya was already halfway up the stone walkway, sunglasses on, flawless brown skin on display in a gorgeous red wrap dress.
Her long, dark hair was pressed so straight it caught the Miami sunlight like obsidian.
She lowered her sunglasses as she approached. "You look good."
"I know. So will my husband." I stepped aside to let her sweep into the house, then closed the doors behind her. "So why do I need to change?"
"Because we're aiming for better than good, Juju." She turned toward the stairs. "Now let's go. I need to see your closet."
I sighed and followed her upstairs. After our conversation yesterday, I had a pretty good idea what this was really about.