“What do you mean?” he asks.
She shrugs, searching for words to describe her sense that being single—being different at all—is an obstacle to friendships, at least female friendships. Since elementary school, she has been keenly aware that girls look to befriend girls exactly like them, or at least who they aspire to be. “I don’t know,” she says, admiring the artful array of tomato, basil, garlic, and onion, broiled to the perfect golden hue. “I think people make assumptions. . . you know . . . that single mothers need the money . . . or that they might be ... more opportunistic.”
She looks up and sees Nick make a face, indicating that he does not agree with her theory, or at least does not share this belief. Then he says, “Were you married . . . at one time?”
She shakes her head as she swallows her first bite of bruschetta, commenting on the perfect flavor, the fresh ingredients.
He gives her a regretful look. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have asked that. . . It’s none of my business,” he says.
Then he drops his eyes to his plate as if to reassure her that there will be no further questions. She knows she has her out and for a second she follows her usual instinct to remain close-lipped on her personal life. But then she takes a long sip of wine and chooses her words carefully. “No. I’ve never been married. Charlie’s father was never in the picture . . . His name was Lion—which should tell you something.” She smiles, giving him permission to do the same.
“He was an artist. A talented artist,” she continues. “I thought I was in love. He told me he was—and I believed him. And then . . . well, it didn’t work out.” She laughs nervously. “More accurately, he disappeared right after I got pregnant. So he never saw his son. As far as I know, he doesn’t know he has a son. Although, sometimes I find that very hard to believe. That none of his friends has ever seen me with a child. A child that has his curly hair. His diamond-shaped face.”
It is more than she has ever said on the subject, and she feels drained by revealing so much of her life—but also relieved. She can leel Nick’s eyes on her, and somehow finds the courage to look up and meet his gaze.
“Do you know where he is now?” he asks.
She sips her wine again and says, “I heard he moved out west. . . But I’ve never tried to find him . . . I’m sure I could, though . . . I’m sure he has exhibits . . . But I just. . . don’t see the point. I’ve always believed that it was better for Charlie this way.”
“That must have been hard,” he says softly. There is warmth and understanding in his eyes, but no pity whatsoever.
“It was,” she admits.
“Is it still?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” she says, holding his gaze, thinking of the night of the accident, how terrified and alone she felt, even with Jason. “But not at this moment.”
He smiles another glorious, broad smile that makes her heart race, and says, “I’m really glad to hear that.” Then he glances at his watch and suggests that they order dinner.
“Don’t you have to go?” she protests mildly.
“Not yet,” he says, motioning for Tony and telling her how much she’s going to love the spinach ravioli.
15
Tessa
I am hanging Franks navy peacoat and Ruby’s fluffy pink shawl on the coatrack in the mudroom when Nick comes flying through the side door as if eager to shave a few seconds off his two-hour delay. We have not spoken all day, other than an exchange of three messages. The first from me, asking him what time he would be home. The second, a voice mail from him, telling me he’d be home in time to put the kids to bed. And the third, a text informing me he’d be later than expected. Fortunately, I did not make any promises to Ruby and Frank, having long since learned that that is a risky proposition.
“I’m really sorry I’m late,” Nick says earnestly, kissing me hello, his lips landing to the left of my mouth. He tries again, our closed mouths meeting this time, and in this instant, I have the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t working when he sent me that final text message.