One foul-weather day in February, Chef Paul got hung up off-Cape and texted her that he was so sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to get over the bridge till tomorrow. She texted a gracious note back, but being the mysterious patron of Wellfleet wasn’t as much fun anymore. Maybe Wellfleet had been the wrong choice. It sure felt that way today, the eighth consecutive day of gray skies and raw temperatures.
“Can we eat early?” Ophelia said, coming into the massive living room, Teeny in her arms. “I’m starving.”
“Sure, honey,” Melissa said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. On the TV, Judge Judy chastised a thirty-two-year-old son who refused to leave his parents’ house. “Can you see what’s in the freezer?”
Phee peered in. “Salmon, steak, chicken, green beans. All frozen solid.”
“That doesn’t sound very good, does it?”
“Nope. Where’s Chef Paul?”
“Stuck off-Cape,” Melissa said, burping. This heartburn was agonizing. She chomped on a Tums. “We’ll have to make something ourselves.”
Where was the frozen pizza with the rising crust from the Dollar General, huh? Yearning for the processed deliciousness of her youth made Melissa’s stomach growl. The baby kicked as if agreeing. In a few more months, she’d have this baby to feed as well. Visions of organic carrot mush being flung at her filled her head. She really needed to hire a nanny ASAP, but the thought of looking through applications—and having another person living here—made her weary.
At five fifteen on the dot, Bradley walked in. Habit had Melissa get up from the couch to greet him. He took off his coat and draped it over the back of a counter stool, swung his bag onto another one, taking up too much room. Would it kill him to hang up his coat in the huge front hall closet, as she had asked him a dozen times?
“Hello, babe,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“Whoo!” he said. “Busy day! I had five clients.”
Five entire hours of work? Gosh golly. She wondered how he spent the rest of his workday.
“And how are you, beautiful woman with my baby in her stomach?” he said, putting his arms around her.
“Ew,” said Ophelia.
“I have to agree,” Melissa said with a forced smile. “Ew.” He could do better. She waited.
Instead, he opened the wine fridge and took out two bottles of white. Studied them like they were the Bible, then opened one and poured himself a hefty glass, leaving the other bottle on the counter.
“I thought you gave up drinking while I was pregnant,” she said, scooping Teeny up into her arms and kissing the dog’s head.
“Did I say that?” he asked. “I don’t remember.” He sipped the wine without meeting her eyes.
“You did,” Melissa said.
“Early Alzheimer’s,” Ophelia whispered loudly. Melissa smiled. This, too, was new . . . Ophelia on her side, ever since she’d found out about the baby. She was still moody, but something had shifted between them. It was still fresh, but it was there, growing like the baby inside her. The thought made her eyes tear up.
Bradley sat at the counter with his wine, now taking up three stools—one for his briefcase, one for his coat, one for his body. “When are we having dinner?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Depends on what you make.”
“What happened to Chef Paul?” Bradley asked.
“What happened to Chef Paul?” Ophelia echoed in a whine. Yes. Solidarity.
“He got caught off-Cape because of the weather,” Melissa said.
“Hon, you should’ve called me. I could’ve picked something up on my way home.”
“Or you could cook, Brad,” Ophelia said. “Your wife is pregnant, in case you missed it. Though I don’t know how you could miss it. No offense, Melissa.”
He muttered something under his breath. “What did you say?” Melissa snapped.
He looked right at her. “Lillie cooked even more when she was pregnant. Nesting, they call it.”
“And I’m sure everything was delicious,” Melissa said.
“It really was,” he said, missing the sarcasm in her voice. He picked up his phone and started scrolling. “I miss her cooking. We should go out for some good Portuguese food sometime.”
“Passive-aggressive much?” Ophelia said. She took an apple from the bowl and headed back to her room.
“I don’t think you truly understand what that term means, Ophelia,” Bradley said, not noticing that she wasn’t here anymore. Too focused on his phone. So much for #girldad.