“Really?” I sit up straighter. “Where? When?”
“Now, before you get all worked up,” she says. “I don’t even know if the romantic part is going to happen. I’m not sure how I feel about it.” She smiles. “He’s made it clear how he feels about it, but I’m not sure yet. But here’s the thing.” Her eyes are bright. “He’s an investor, Kitty. He invests in small businesses. Puts up the cash to get a business started, and helps it become a success.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, that . . . it certainly has potential, Frieda.”
“But I didn’t want to put you at risk,” she says. “I was afraid to say anything, because I know it’s a risk. A business risk, a personal risk. It’s everything, and it wasn’t fair to ask you to tag along with that. But if you want out . . .” She looks away. “Well. That would make it easier. It would be my responsibility. My risk.”
“Where did you meet this man?”
“At my brother Rob’s house, if you can believe that—at Donny’s birthday party. He’s the father of one of Donny’s school friends. Divorced. But took his kid to a birthday party on a Sunday afternoon. Isn’t that great?”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s swell. What’s his name?”
“Jim Brooks. He’s . . .” She seems suddenly shy, which is unlike Frieda; I find it rather endearing. “He’s a good man, Kitty. A very smart man, a successful man, but also a truly good man. I never . . .” She looks up and smiles. “Meeting someone now, at thirty-eight . . . I never thought that would happen to me. I thought that chapter was closed.”
But how could it be? She is still as lovely as ever. Yes, there are lines around her eyes. There are strands of gray in her dark hair. But she still carries herself like a queen, just the same as she did back in high school. What smart, successful, good man wouldn’t take notice?
The only reason it hasn’t happened earlier, I tell myself, is because of chance. Up until now, pure chance had not put her in the right place at the right time.
Chance has not done that for me, either. Not in this world, anyway.
I put my hand on hers. “I’m happy for you,” I say. “Whether it turns out to be just business or something more. Either way, it sounds like a good thing.” I drain my wineglass; so much for that resolution.
She smiles. “It could be a good thing, Kitty. It could be.” She removes her wallet from her purse and starts to put a few bills on the table, but the waiter catches her eye and shakes his head, gesturing to her to put her money away. “Odd,” she says, frowning and tucking the bills back into her wallet. She turns back to me. “A good thing . . .” she repeats thoughtfully.
“But you’re not going anywhere, right?” I hear the pleading in my voice. “This man, this Jim Brooks—he lives here, he has a child here. Even if . . . even if we didn’t stay in business together anymore, we’d still be as close as we are now. Wouldn’t we?”
She shakes her head good-naturedly. “Now, what about those dreams of yours? In that world, who goes off and has another life? Who deserts who?” She laughs. “Don’t worry, my darling,” she says, squeezing my hand. “My heart will always be yours.” She finishes her drink. “But I’ve got a big heart,” she goes on. “There’s room to share.”
Chapter 29
The master bedroom on Springfield Street is dark when I wake up. I don’t know what day it is, or how much time has passed. I’m no longer dressed in the gray slacks and sweater I had on when I laid down here. Instead, I’m wearing a burgundy skirt and a white blouse. This tells me that at some point, I must have risen and gone about my life. I laugh, thinking of this. Because this isn’t really a life. This is all imaginary.
I go to the living room. Lars is seated on the tweed sofa, reading One Fish, Two Fish, all three children huddled around him. It’s dark outside; light snow is falling. I wonder if I’ve slept through dinner. Not the dinner that I missed in the last dream, of course; this would have to be some other dinner at some other time. Who knows how time flows here? It could be the next day, or two weeks from now, or the following month. This thought makes me laugh recklessly, and when Lars looks up at me, I ask, “What day is it?”
He glances at his watch. “Do you mean what time? It’s seven o’clock, love.”
“No.” I giggle. “I mean, what day?” I perch on the arm of the sofa, next to Missy. “I can’t keep track of days when I’m sleeping,” I tell him. “I wake up, and I barely know where I am.”
“Katharyn.” He lays the book on the coffee table and gently pushes Mitch aside, making room for me next to him. I sit between Lars and Mitch, with Missy next to Mitch, and Michael on Lars’s other side. It occurs to me that we would paint a delightful family picture.
“You’re overwrought, love,” Lars says softly to me.
“Daddy, what does ‘overwrought’ mean?” Mitch asks.
“Worried,” I tell him. “Daddy thinks Mama is worried, is all.”
“What are you worried about?”
I laugh again. “Nothing, sweetheart. Not a thing. Because there is nothing here to worry about. Nothing at all.”
“Mama doesn’t think we’re real,” says a quiet voice from Lars’s other side.
“What?” Lars asks sharply. “What did you say, Michael?”
We all look at Michael. “She thinks she’s making us up,” he says, tapping his forehead. “Inside her brain.”
I am stunned into silence. The last person in this house I ever would have expected to understand me—he’s hit the nail on the head.
“That’s enough,” Lars says, rising. “It’s time to get ready for bed, everyone.”
And so I find myself in the bedtime hustle: baths for all, pajamas for Mitch and Michael, nightie and hair brushing for Missy. She is remarkably patient with this last chore, despite her mop of curls. Remembering how tortured I felt as a child when my mother attempted to detangle my own crazy head of hair, I try my best to go easy on my daughter.
Lars and I apparently switch off the girl-boy thing, because tonight I get Missy for tucking in. She settles under her covers, her eyes large, looking at the snow falling outside her window. “Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?”
I shrug. “Depends on how much we get overnight.”
And will I be here to know the difference? It’s impossible to be sure of that, one way or the other. I find myself saddened by that bit of actuality.
We read Cinderella—her favorite, she tells me—and then after hugs, kisses, and two songs, I press the covers around her chin and bid her good night. “Sleep well, Princess Claire,” I say softly.
Missy opens her eyes wide. “I haven’t used that name in a long time, Mama.”
“No.” I shake my head. “But you’ll always be a princess to me.”