“Well, we’ve already picked out your guest room,” Nellie said. “You’ll have to come visit all the time.”
“And likewise. I’ll show you around my town. Have you ever been to Boston?”
Nellie had just taken a forkful of couscous, so she shook her head and swallowed as quickly as possible. “I haven’t traveled much. Only to a few states in the South.”
She didn’t elaborate or explain that she’d only driven through them when she left Florida for New York. The thousand-mile trip had taken two days; she’d wanted to put her hometown behind her as quickly as possible.
Maureen spoke fluent French, Nellie recalled, and guest-taught at the Sorbonne a few years ago.
“Nellie just got her first passport,” Richard said. “I can’t wait to show her Europe.”
Nellie smiled at him gratefully.
They chatted a bit about the wedding—Maureen mentioned that she loved to swim and couldn’t wait to take a dip in the ocean—then, after the waiter cleared their plates, Maureen and Richard declined dessert, so Nellie pretended she was too full for the blood-orange mousse she secretly craved. Richard had just stood up to pull back Nellie’s chair when she exclaimed, “Oh, Maureen, I nearly forgot. I have something for you.”
It had been an impulse buy. Nellie had been walking through the Union Square market the previous week when she saw a vendor displaying jewelry. A necklace had caught her eye. Its light purple and blue glass beads were suspended by gossamer-thin silver wire, so they appeared to be floating. The clasp was fashioned to look like a butterfly. She couldn’t imagine anyone not feeling joy when it was fastened around her neck.
Richard had asked if Maureen could be Nellie’s maid of honor, and even though she would’ve preferred Samantha, she’d said yes. Because the wedding was so small, Maureen was going to be their only attendant. Maureen was planning to wear a violet dress. The necklace would look perfect against it.
The artist had nestled the necklace into a fluffy cotton bed in a brown cardboard box (recycled, she’d explained) and tied a bow around it with a ropy string. Nellie hoped Maureen would like it and also hoped Richard would understand it was more than a necklace. It was a gesture that meant Nellie wanted to be close to his sister, too.
She reached into her purse for the small box. Two of the corners were slightly bent and the bow had wilted.
Maureen carefully unwrapped the present. “It’s charming.” She lifted it up to show Richard.
“I thought you could wear it at the wedding,” Nellie said.
Maureen immediately put it on, despite the fact that it clashed with her gold earrings. “How thoughtful.”
Richard squeezed Nellie’s hand. “Sweet.”
But Nellie dipped her head so they wouldn’t see the blush staining her cheeks. She knew the truth. The necklace that had looked craftsy and pretty just last week suddenly appeared flimsy and a little childish around Maureen’s neck.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I hurry across town, ignoring the man who tries to shove a flyer into my hand. My legs feel shaky, but I press on toward the entrance to Central Park.
I make it to the next crosswalk just as the light blinks red, and I stand on the corner, breathing hard. Maureen is probably at the restaurant by now. Richard would have ordered a nice wine; savory bread would be placed on the table. Perhaps the three of them are clinking glasses, toasting to the future. Under the table, Richard’s hand might be squeezing his fiancée’s. His hands always felt so strong when they were on me.
The light turns and I bolt across the street.
We went to Sfoglia many times together—until one night when we abruptly stopped.
I remember that evening so vividly. It was snowing and I’d marveled at the way the fat white flakes had transformed the city, dusting the streets, erasing the rough edges and grime. Richard would be coming from the office and had asked me to meet him at the restaurant. I’d stared out the taxi window, smiling as I caught sight of a little boy in a striped hat sticking out his tongue to catch a taste of winter. I’d felt a yearning tug in my chest; Dr. Hoffman still couldn’t pinpoint why I hadn’t been able to get pregnant, and I had just scheduled another round of tests.
Richard had called as my taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant. “I’m running a few minutes late.”
“Okay. I guess you’re worth waiting for.”
I heard his deep chuckle, then I paid the driver and exited the cab. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, absorbing the energy. I always looked forward to meeting Richard in the city.
I made my way to the bar, where there was one open stool. I ordered a mineral water and eavesdropped on the conversations around me.
“He’s going to call,” the young woman to my right reassured her friend.
“What if he doesn’t?” her friend asked.
“Well, you know what they say: The best way to get over one guy is to get under another.”
The women burst into laughter.
I hadn’t seen my girlfriends much lately; it had made me miss them. They still worked full-time, and on the weekends, when they went out and commiserated about the men they were seeing, I was always with Richard.
After a few minutes, the bartender set a glass of white wine down in front of me. “Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”
I looked over and saw a man lift his cocktail in my direction. I remember raising the wineglass with my left hand, hoping he’d see my wedding ring, and taking a tiny sip before pushing it away.
“Not a fan of Pinot Grigio?” a voice asked a few moments later. The guy was short but muscular, with curly hair. The opposite of Richard.
“No, it’s good . . . thanks. I’m just waiting for my husband.” I took another sip to remove any potential sting from my rebuff.
“If you were my wife, I wouldn’t keep you waiting in a bar. You never know who might hit on you.”
I laughed, still holding on to the glass of wine.
I glanced at the door and locked eyes with Richard. I saw him take it all in—the man, the wine, my high-pitched, nervous giggle—then he came toward me.
“Honey!” I cried, standing up.
“I thought you’d be at the table. I hope they’re still holding it for us.”
The curly-haired man melted away as Richard signaled the hostess.
“Do you want to take your glass of wine with you?” she asked.
I shook my head mutely.
“I wasn’t really drinking it,” I whispered to Richard as we walked to the table.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t respond.
I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t even realize I’ve stepped into traffic until someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. A second later a delivery truck speeds past, blaring its horn.
I wait on the corner for another moment, until the light turns green. I imagine Richard ordering the squid ink pasta for his new love, telling her she has to try it. I see him half rise when she excuses herself to go to the restroom. I wonder if Maureen will lean toward Richard with an approving nod that says, She’s better than your last one.
On the night when the stranger bought me a glass of wine and I’d taken a few sips to avoid being rude, our meal had been ruined. The restaurant was so charming, with its exposed brick wall and intimate rooms, but Richard barely talked to me. I tried to make conversation, to comment on the food, to ask him about his day, but after a while, I stopped.
When he finally spoke, after I’d pushed away my plate of half-eaten pasta, his words felt like a hard pinch.
“That guy in college, the one who got you pregnant. Are you still in touch with him?”
“What?” I gasped. “Richard, no . . . I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“What else haven’t you told me?”
“I don’t—nothing!” I stuttered.
His tone was incongruous with our elegant surroundings and the smiling server approaching with the dessert menu. “Who was that guy you were flirting with at the bar?”
My cheeks heated up at the fresh accusation. I realized his words had been taken in by the couple at the next table, and they were now looking at us.