“Fair enough,” Sam says. “Fifteen weeks.”
“Fifteen weeks?” she says. “Are we talking about a marriage or a newborn?”
“My wife and I celebrate each week,” he says. “It’s a tradition.”
“Sounds intense,” she says. “And a little needy.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Is marriage something you can see for yourself?”
She laughs. “That was a truly expert attempt to turn the attention back to me, Doctor. Your grad school professors would be proud.” She pauses. “No, marriage is not something I can see for myself. Committing to one person forever? Why would anyone want to do that?”
Sam hesitates. “It does have its challenges, I suppose.”
Oh, I get it. It’s a technique. He’s trying to show he relates to her, on a personal level, to build her trust and encourage her to commit to the work. Smart.
“How long did it take you to know your wife was the one?” the French Girl asks.
“I proposed after six months,” he says.
She scoffs. “That was ballsy.”
“Why, thank you.”
“So it happened for you, then. The when-you-know, you-know.”
“Yes.” He pauses and I realize I’m holding my breath. “I suppose.”
“Oh?” she murmurs. “You sound unsure.”
“You said it yourself—committing to one person has its challenges.”
“What are the challenges of your marriage?” she asks.
A series of loud knocks obscures his response. At first I think it’s someone downstairs in his waiting room, pounding on his door, but then a doorbell rings, and I realize it’s not coming from downstairs but from up here. Someone’s at the front door.
Annoyed, I slide the rug over the vent and steal out of the room.
“Well, hello, neighbor!” It’s her, the Pigeon, standing on the porch. I wipe my palms on my jeans and open the door. “Did you hear?” she says. “We’re expecting a storm.”
Of course I’ve heard. I’m not Amish, I watch the news. It’s the type of weather event local meteorologists like Irv Weinstein live for, and he’s been yelling about it at six p.m. for the last two evenings. Franklin Sheehy, Chestnut Hill’s trusty and long-employed police chief, was on the news this morning, explaining the importance of staying off the road and stocking up on groceries and bottled water. Storm Gilda, they’re calling it, and only an idiot wouldn’t have printed a list of emergency supplies to have on hand in a Category 2 storm expected to create a lot of mayhem and difficult travel conditions. “A storm in the middle of October,” the Pigeon says. “That’s unheard of.”
“Climate change,” I say, impatient.
“Exactly. I’ve been thinking about organizing a march. You know what Drew said when I told him that? ‘If there’s one thing that’s going to stop climate change, it’s a march of ten stay-at-home moms in Chestnut Hill, New York.’ Idiot. Anyway—” She smiles and holds up a Pyrex dish, like we’re on an episode of Desperate Housewives. “I made too much veggie chili and couldn’t bear to throw it out. You like chili?”
“Are there people who don’t?” I ask, taking it from her. “That was nice, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And cool eyeglasses,” she says. “Where’d you get those?”
I touch them—the bright blue frames I dug out of one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes, a perfect match to my prescription. They belonged to the woman who died here, and I liked them. “The city,” I say. “Way back when.”
“They look great,” she says, and then gestures at the two rocking chairs on the porch. “You should bring this all inside. Winds are going to be bad.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask Sam to do it when he’s finished.” I hold up the tray. “Thanks again.”
I go inside and place the dish in the refrigerator. Before heading down the hall to the vent, I pause, and then change my mind and turn toward the stairs. I think I’ve had all I can take of that French girl for one day.
Chapter 13
Sam lies on the bed, his laptop growing warm on his stomach, and rewinds the video again. “Bottom of the fifth, and you know what that means,” a fuzzy version of his dad announces from the screen.
“Why yes I do, Dad,” Sam replies, mouthing the rest along with Ted. “It’s time for trivia with our friends Keyote and Frank Key.” Keyote and Frank Key, the Frederick Keys’ two mascots: a coyote that looks like a regular dog and literally a white guy in colonial attire who someone felt was necessary to bring on a few years ago.