Heart pounding, I texted Dylan. Hope you had fun last night! How are you doing? I needed to touch base, to remind myself that I was still a mother, even if my days as a wife were numbered.
He didn’t answer immediately. As was true with all mothers, I pictured him in a car wreck hospital ditch, then told myself he was probably making out with Lydia, his girlfriend, and hopefully not impregnating her.
Finally, the dots waved, and I sagged in relief. Doing great! Thx! Be back for supper.
My son was safe. He would be home this evening. I still had him . . . for five more weeks. Four weeks and four days, actually.
I wandered through the house, constantly checking my phone for something, though I wasn’t even sure what that was. Cell reception was awful out here—one bar on a good day—so we used the Wi-Fi for communicating.
In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror—a forty-one-year-old woman with frizzy black hair and, today, circles under her eyes. Thought about calling someone—Beth, who’d been my best friend since third grade. But she was happily married, and for some reason, this stopped me. Wanda, but she was covering for me at work, obviously. Vanessa, who would surely be furious with her son for this nonsense.
So I didn’t call anyone. I just waited.
I would divorce him. Of course I would. I was a strong woman with standards, goddamn it, and this was a line in the sand I would not cross. I would not tolerate this. I was a badass, and he would rue the day he left me.
Unless he was really, really sorry.
Nope! No. I should be more like Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise. The tough one. No hesitation, no doubts, just strength. Then again, she drove off a cliff.
You can fix this, said Geena Davis. She was the dopey one in the movie, right? But sweet. Also, she got to sleep with a young Brad Pitt. This is worth saving! she said, flashing her dimples. You can win him back!
You would take that lying, cheating, weak excuse of a man back? Susan Sarandon asked.
Shit. Would I? At this moment, numb with shock, rage and terror, the answer was yes. My entire life was about to change without my consent, and I loved my life. This splitting apart felt like . . . like emotional rape. My future, my family, taken away against my will.
I could erase one day of Brad saying everything he’d said, because we had two decades of a good marriage. Nineteen years of good days. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was good. It was solid. We were parents of the same child. We loved each other. Right?
Time to cook. I checked the fridge—there was sea bass, courtesy of my dad, who’d given it to me last night at the restaurant. Only my father would hand off fish at a party. But he’d caught it that day, he said. I had some shrimp and mussels. I’d make caldeirada, a Portuguese fish stew, and a loaf of fresh bread to go with it.
Brad would rue the day he left my cooking, that was for sure. I’d never made a bad meal in my life. Onions from last year’s garden. Garlic, minced fine, making my fingertips smell like heaven. Tomatoes from the farmers’ market. Thyme from my own garden, so sweet smelling. Butter, of course. Olive oil, smoked paprika, red potatoes. Wine for the broth. I let it simmer, then covered it and turned off the flame. By the time I got home, the house would smell incredible.
To the office I went, on autopilot during the drive, because all of a sudden, I was there.
“Feeling better?” Wanda asked as I came in.
“Yep.” I smiled at her, then looked away quickly. She was very good at reading people. “Who’ve we got today, Carol?”
“Stephanie James. Terrible hot flashes. We compared notes. She hasn’t hit the chin hair stage yet, but when she does, she’s going to look like a nanny goat. What do you think, Lillie? Electrolysis or laser?” She jutted her chin at me so I could inspect, a pleasure I’d have to put off till later.
“And who else?” I asked.
“Rena Blake. And Annie Blanco.”
“Before you get to work, look at this picture,” Wanda said. She pulled out her phone. “Your godchild. I may be biased, but isn’t she beautiful?”
“Oh, wow. Wow!” Leila, Wanda’s daughter, was incredibly beautiful—her dad was from South Sudan, and she’d inherited his deep, rich, nearly black skin color. She’d also gotten Addo’s height, but her face was Wanda all over, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. In this photo, she was wearing an orange dress, and she had it, all right, that innate knowledge of photography and angles, light and posing. She’d just signed with Ford, at only fifteen, but had already booked New York Fashion Week, as long as she stayed on the honor roll. She and Dylan had played together when they were little, and Wanda had been very glad he’d watched out for her in high school.