Drew, almost never stubborn and rarely unfair, returned fifteen minutes later. He drew me in and held me. We made no concession, reached no agreement. But the argument had ended.
“I hate fighting with you.” He looked so forlorn, I almost laughed out loud. Having been married, I knew that fighting came with the territory.
I hugged him back and reassured him that a fight was just a fight and I wasn’t even mad. I simply didn’t want to move. He kissed me gently, thumbing my jaw and bringing goose bumps to my arms. The kiss deepened, our mouths parting. So easily ready, willing, and panting for him, I could feel him respond in kind.
Gently, he pulled away. “The kids are upstairs.”
My hand danced along his belly, teasingly. “Later.”
He groaned, looking upward. “You know, I could find a woman without kids,” he muttered.
“I think you tried that for ten years,” I replied, raising my eyebrows.
He laughed. “Touché.”
In the end, we decided that if Drew still felt strongly about it at the end of the year, we’d put the house on the market. We’d find a house that would have all the things I loved about my house and one close to my parents. I secretly hoped that by the end of the year, the ghost of Greg would be eradicated, and the house would feel more like home to Drew. To that end, I insisted, he had to stop renting the brownstone, or at least sublet it.
We spent a Saturday cleaning out Greg’s study. I boxed up all of his files, his computer, and his paperwork. I hesitated with his brown leather journal, thumbing through the worn pages. They were dog-eared from nights of close examination when he had first left, as I looked for clues hidden in the shorthand scribbling. I stopped at the page with the poem.
I carry your heart with me.
I carry it in my heart.
C!
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up into Drew’s bright blue eyes and saw no fear, no jealousy, just compassion.
“What do you think happened to Greg?” I asked. I must have asked him that question a hundred times, but he always answered differently, a variation on the theme of Who the hell knows?
“I don’t know. I really don’t. But since Detective Reynolds came up with that car, all I can think is that was him at the bottom of Lake Onondaga. With Melissa Richards. It’s the only thing that makes any sense, you know?”
I nodded. I had thought the same thing, but never said it aloud. “Do you think he was dating Melissa Richards? And if so, then who was Karen?”
He joined me on the floor of the study, sitting cross-legged next to me. “Could he have had two mistresses?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t know he had one.” I paged carefully through the leather journal. “How would you feel if I kept this? If I didn’t put it into storage?”
He thought for a moment and finally shrugged. “It’s part of you. I don’t believe you’ll ever close the door on that life. I wouldn’t want you to; it made you who you are. It eventually brought us together. I think you’ll always wonder and question. And I’m okay with that.”
I loved that most about Drew. We had no secrets. Talking was the cornerstone of our relationship. I knew all of his clients, all of his buyers, and all the galleries he frequented. Since I’d resigned from my job, he knew my days in excruciating detail. And they all involved activities with the kids. He asked my advice on things and valued my opinions. Our evenings were filled with music and chatter, and after the kids were put to bed, the television rarely went on. I loved the candidness of our relationship, so different from the eggshell environment I had my last year with Greg, where every question turned into an inquisition, every answer testy. I tried not to compare, but it was impossible. Even in our best days, Greg and I had rarely talked as frequently and with the same intensity as Drew and I did. It was a depth to life I never knew existed.
“I still wonder every day,” I said, running my hand over the soft leather cover.
“I know. I know you do. Me, too, you know? Not for the same reasons, of course.”
“What are your reasons?” I asked.