8
Grace
Usually as I drove across the thin strip of Beavertail Road that links the south part of Conanicut Island with the north, I was at peace. With Mackerel Beach on my left and Sheffield Cove on my right, it was hard not to be. Right now the beaches were stuffed with swimmers and skin divers. Windsurfers tore across the sparkling green water at the mouth of the cove, and boats nodded good evening to one another. Still, as I drove the short distance home from a delivery, I wasn’t at peace. My mind was too full even to spare a thought for the healthy baby girl I’d delivered three hours before.
The mystery of Neva’s baby was driving me crazy. I hated secrets at the best of times, but this one would do me in. I was going over it all in my head yet again as I pulled onto the grass in front of our stone-and-shingle beachfront home, next to Robert’s car. Odd. It wasn’t even five thirty; Robert was never home at this hour.
My phone vibrated on the way to the door. I located it in my bag and shouldered it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Oh, um … hi, Grace, it’s Molly. Is this a bad time?”
Molly. I did a quick calculation in my head. She wasn’t due for another month. Not a labor call. “Not at all, Molly. You okay, darling?”
“Yes, I think so, but … I just wanted to check … I’ve been getting really thirsty lately. Like, almost a gallon and a half of water today thirsty. I know I’m probably being paranoid, but I thought I’d check if this was normal. I mean … my baby’s not dehydrated or anything, is it?”
Molly Harris was twenty-two, and it was her first pregnancy. She was a natural neurotic, and I received a call most days about something. Once, she’d accidentally eaten some unpasteurized cheese. Another day, she’d thought her bladder leakage was her water breaking. But I was happy to take her calls. Molly had lost her mother to cancer shortly before she became pregnant, and I liked to think I’d become something of a mother figure to her.
I fished for my keys in my bag. “Absolutely not. It’s completely normal for thirst to skyrocket during your third trimester. Your body has created about forty percent more blood to provide nutrition and oxygen to your baby, and all that extra blood uses up a lot of water.” I found my keys and inserted them into the lock, but when I turned, found it already unlocked.
“Oh, okay. Jimmy told me I was being silly. I’m so sorry to bother you, Grace.”
“Do I sound bothered? Call anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”
I hung up and pushed open the door. The scent of something hearty hit me. It smelled like food, but it couldn’t be. Robert hadn’t cooked a proper meal in thirty years, save for some grilled cheese sandwiches and instant noodles when I was called out on a delivery. I took a step toward the kitchen, stopping short as Robert appeared in the doorway.
“Hi,” he said. He grinned like there was nothing strange about him being home at this hour. “How was your day?”
I stared at him. He had a glass of red wine in his hand. My floral apron was knotted around his waist, and behind him, steam fogged up the stainless steel backsplash. “Is everything okay, Rob?”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“Then … what are you doing here?”
“A man can’t surprise his wife with dinner anymore?”
“A man can,” I said, “but he rarely does.”
He handed me a glass of wine and kissed my cheek. But I still didn’t get it. “Seriously? You cooked?”
“Reheated,” he admitted. “Meatballs from Isabella’s. Consider it an apology. For these last few weeks. I’ve been a beast.”
“Weeks?”
Robert winced. “Months?”
“More like yea—”
He cut me off with a poke in the ribs. I laughed. “What’s brought this on?”
“More layoffs. Today I lost half my team.”
“Oh, no.”
“There’ll be more too. Projects are on hold. We’re having to cut our margins to win new work. We’re going to offshore a bunch of jobs.”
We strolled side by side to the kitchen, where a pot of pasta was boiling over. I turned it off and looked at him. Behind the wrinkles and the salt-and-pepper hair, I could still see that handsome boy I’d married. I could also see Neva in him. The high, angular cheekbones, the flying saucer eyes and straight nose.
“Is your job safe?”
Robert tried determinedly to separate a clump of overcooked spaghetti. “Finance is a cost center, so no. But since I’m doing the calculations for severance pay, I’m probably okay this month.”
“Well, we’ll be all right, whatever happens,” I said. “We have each other, we have our health.”
He cracked a weary smile. “Yeah. The important stuff.”
“At least I’ve got a recession-proof job,” I said. “People will continue to have babies. If it paid better, I’d tell you to shove the job and take up golf.”
“Don’t worry about golf. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We can’t afford to have both of our jobs in jeopardy.”