The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 26: AUGUST 20, 2012 AND AUGUST 20, 1995

“Sophie!”

Jesse’s voice is insistent, which is somewhat justified since I assured him that I would be ready to go fifteen minutes ago. But I’m taking my time tonight. After all, it’s not every day a girl turns forty, and I’m pulling out all the stops; I’m not naïve enough to believe that we’re headed out for a quiet dinner, and I want to look as well-preserved as possible.

“Sophie!” The bathroom door opens, and Jesse appears. “Wow,” he says, taking in my form-fitting black sheath dress. “You look fantastic.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, and pulls me in for a kiss.

“Good luck, my friend,” I tell him. “I’ve got some serious body armor under here. You’re not getting through it without help.”

Jesse laughs. “That’s probably just as well. We’re going to be late for our reservation.” He catches sight of the journal with the watermark cover on the vanity. “I didn’t know you still had that,” he says.

“I was feeling nostalgic,” I say. “It’s my fortieth birthday, after all. You’re a terrible liar, by the way. Do you want to tell me what they’ve planned?”

“It’s just a little party,” he says.

“Head count?”

“Not sure,” he says, evasively.

I shake my head. “You are putty in Lil’s hands,” I say.

“True,” he says. “And if you let on that I spilled the beans, there will be serious consequences for all concerned.”

“At least we’re not in costumes this time,” I grumble, thinking back to the Baxter Just Wanna Have Fun Eighties Dance Party Gala this past spring and the sight of Jesse, strangely hot in his matching spandex suit and platform shoes. “How did she get you to wear that outfit, anyway?” Of all the things I’ve seen Lil pull out of the hat in the past fifteen or so years, Jesse in an ABBA costume is one of the most astonishing. Not even her life-saving investment in his business fully explains it.

He shrugs uncomfortably. “She called in an old favor,” he says.

“Must have been some favor,” I say, carefully.

Jesse declines to elaborate. “Let’s not keep your fans waiting,” he says.

Jesse calls a taxi while I give some final instructions to Dulcie. Six months after hiring her as our nanny, I can hardly remember what misguided philosophy persuaded us that daycare was a viable option. “Go on,” she says, making a shooing motion with her hands. “Have fun. We’ll be fine.” She turns to the boys. “Who wants to build a pillow fort?” The boys shriek in unison and sprint for the playroom without a backward glance. Jesse helps me into my coat. “Are you ready?” he says, holding out a hand.



“Are you ready to order?” asks the waiter. He addresses me in English, having determined early in our acquaintance that the table will be liberated more quickly if we stick to my native tongue. He’s not contemptuous, though, being an ex-pat himself, Australian possibly. Zoe, who made the reservation for me, assured me that this little wine bar, a haven for English-speakers in Paris, is perfect for a date with destiny. In the event that destiny fails to unfold in the way I intend, Zoe has promised to take me dancing later.

I’ve been sitting here for half an hour already, nursing a glass of red wine and Waiting for Will. In the thirty-two excruciating minutes that have elapsed, I’ve descended from Frank Capra-land to Samuel Beckett territory, recording the entire psychological journey in my journal for posterity. I’ve moved on from my initial reticence to use A.J.’s gift to preserve in writing my feelings for Will; perhaps someday I’ll become a writer and draw inspiration from this sordid episode, and thank A.J. in the acknowledgments. I’ve been told that young writers come to Paris to do exactly this: sit alone in restaurants and wallow in red wine and sorrow. I should feel romantic and free of confining social norms, but actually, I feel like a loser.

This is exactly what Zoe has anticipated, I know, although she’s been gentle with me in the way that people are careful around the very ill: she neither wants to raise nor dash my most desperate hopes. Uncharacteristically, she hasn’t probed me for an account of what transpired on Abernathy Road this year, and I haven’t been forthcoming. I know that if I try to explain my relationship with Will, I’ll sound like a deluded, broken creature and Will, a manipulative cad. So I’ve simply told her that Will and I had a brief but intense fling, which we mutually agreed was ill-advised while we lived under the same roof, but that we agreed to meet up in the summer to consider our options once we’d had a chance to get some distance from the situation. That Zoe has accepted, seemingly without question, my heavily edited tale, tells me how little I’ve actually managed to conceal from her.

I order the duck with marmalade sauce and another glass of wine, and then rashly call the waiter back to add a starter. I’ve saved up for this birthday party, working at my mother’s side to deliver one picture-perfect wedding after another all summer for a parade of young women blissfully content with conventional social norms and their place in them; I can afford a few leaves of lettuce and some goat cheese. And although my hope that Will might still walk through the door is flickering out, and being replaced minute by awful minute with the sure knowledge that I will be alone forever, I can’t make a spectacle of myself by sobbing or rending my clothes or running out into the street, because Zoe is dropping by at nine to pick me up. So I continue drinking and torture myself by remembering the last conversation I had with Will.

I hadn’t been around much; I’d been going home every weekend since my dad’s funeral and logging long hours at the library to make up for the weeks I’d missed. Still, I’d managed to write all of my exams on schedule and submit my honors paper with a couple of weeks to spare. And now I was surrounded by cardboard boxes, at various stages of assembly, preparing to move home to Port Alice for the summer. I’d originally planned to stay in the house and get a job temping downtown, but my mother had wedding bookings every weekend all summer and was so shattered by my dad’s death that she could barely get out of bed, let alone run her wedding factory at full production. I’d agreed to help her get through the season, provided that I could take the last two weeks of August off to visit Zoe in Paris.

I was acutely conscious of Will’s comings and goings: I knew when he was in the bathroom or the kitchen; I knew the sound of his footsteps on the stairs; I could distinguish from all the other doors in the house the distinctive creak his bedroom hinge made when it opened or closed; I knew that he hadn’t had any overnight guests. But I didn’t seek him out. It was painful to make small talk with him, and I was too exhausted to attempt anything more. Oddly, my relationship with A.J. had altered in unspoken ways as well. Since the awful day that he drove me home to Port Alice, we’d become friends; it wasn’t like any other friendship I’d ever had, in the sense that I didn’t know much about what made A.J. tick, but I thought there was a good chance that we might stay in touch after graduation, maybe grab a coffee or a beer once in a while. We’d do things side-by-side, like watching television in the evenings and sharing the paper in the mornings, mostly in comfortable silence. I’d discovered many things over the course of my year long experiment in male anthropology, and one of them was this: there’s more white space in the lives of boys and men, and many exchanges of significance happen there.

I heard Will’s bedroom door open, and listened to him take a few steps. Was he going to the bathroom, or down the stairs? But the footsteps came closer and he appeared in the doorway, movie star handsome in ripped jeans and a white tee-shirt.

“Hey,” he said.

I sat back on my heels. “Hey,” I replied.

“You’re packing up?” I nodded. “When are you leaving?”

“In the morning. My brother rented a van and we’re going up together.”

“I thought you were going to keep your room here for the summer.”

“I was,” I said. “But my mom needs me home and realistically, I won’t get back here very often. And Zoe will be back in the fall, so we’ll get a place again.” I couldn’t resist asking, “Why? Will you miss me?”

“Of course,” he said lightly. “Good roommates are hard to come by.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned in against the door frame. I waited. “I know I made you a promise,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten. But I’d like to request an extension.”

“Well,” I said, “You have to have a good reason to get an extension. It can’t just be that you’d rather stick hot needles in your eyes than have an awkwardly personal conversation.”

“Yeah,” he said, not meeting my eye, “I get it. So here it is. I had a lot of fun with you over Reading Week. But everything about this situation is too intense and I can’t figure out how I feel about it. So what I’m proposing is that we both get a little distance and postpone the analysis.”

This is heady stuff and I’m careful to keep my tone even. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“You’re going to Paris in August, right?” I nodded. “I’m traveling this summer too. What if we made a date to meet there?”

“In Paris?”

“Right. We could go on a date, have dinner maybe. See how we feel without all the pressure.”

In fact, Will’s plan to meet in the most romantic city in the world for a scheduled dinner to discuss the possibility of a future together seems inescapably fraught with pressure, but I’m not going to tell him that. I’m in. “August twentieth,” I said. “It’s my birthday.”

“August twentieth it is,” he said. “We’ll have dinner at Willi’s Wine Bar. Zoe knows it. Get her to make a reservation at seven.”

“You’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

And now here I am, in Willi’s Wine Bar in Paris. I look at my watch again. Seven forty-five. I know now that Will isn’t coming. I wonder, briefly, if he ever intended to, but I push the thought away. I couldn’t have been so mistaken in him. I might eventually believe that Will never loved me, but I won’t believe that he intended this humiliation. My salad arrives and I’m just about to ask the waiter to cancel the rest of my order and bring me my bill when a voice that isn’t Will’s says, “Hi Sophie.”

I look up. “Hi A.J.,” I say. His hair is longer than it was in April, and it’s curlier than I would have guessed. He looks determined, in freshly pressed khakis and a blue dress shirt, open at the neck, and holding a bunch of orange tulips. Everything about his arrival is unexpected. A.J. never mentioned that he was coming to Paris this summer. And it’s such an odd coincidence that he should turn up, tonight of all nights.

I’m about to ask him what he’s doing here, when he hands me the tulips and says, “Can I join you?”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.” I stand up, come around the table and give him an awkward hug. “It’s great to see you.” I check behind him. “Are you here with someone?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “I’m here to see you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Are these for me?” He nods. I bury my nose in the flowers to buy myself a few seconds, knowing perfectly well that tulips don’t smell like much of anything. My brain feels sluggish, though, and I’m having trouble keeping up.

“It’s your birthday,” he says. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

“Ah,” says the waiter, “Here he is. You shouldn’t keep a beautiful woman waiting like that, mate. You’ll have to make it up to her.” He fill’s A.J.’s glass and hands him a menu.

“Do you have steak frites?”

“Of course,” says the waiter.

“I’ll have that,” says A.J., handing back the menu.

“A man who knows what he wants,” says the waiter.

“That I do,” says A.J., looking at me.

“How long are you in Paris?” I ask, leaping into the silence that has followed his last remark.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “I have a job starting in a couple of weeks, so I’ll probably stay as long as I can afford to and then fly back standby. I thought I’d make it for the full two weeks, but I got in this morning and I’ve already way overspent my daily budget. The town is crazy expensive.”

“I know,” I say, happy to be back on safer ground. “I’ve been sleeping on Zoe’s floor and cooking at her place, and I’m still going through money like mad. Where are you staying?”

“On the Left Bank,” he says. “Not too far.”

“Congratulations on your job,” I say. “What is it?”

His face lights up. “It’s amazing. It’s for a little company that’s building photovoltaic systems.” He sees my bemused expression and hastens to add, “That convert solar energy into electricity. They’re experimenting with new types of batteries that store the energy. It’s an incredible area. If we can make the technology more cost effective, everyone will want to adopt it.” His face falls. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be boring.”

“You’re not boring,” I say, and I mean it. “Where is it?”

“About five subway stops from Lil’s house,” he says. “I’m going to stick around for another year or so.”

“That’s great,” I say. “It’ll be nice to have you in town.”

The waiter arrives with our meals. “Another bottle?” he asks.

I shake my head, but A.J. says, “A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, please.”

“Very good, sir,” says the waiter.

“A.J.,” I whisper, “We can’t afford that.”

“It’s Lil’s birthday present to you,” he says. “Actually, she’s picking up dinner.” I open my mouth to ask a question, but A.J. holds up a hand. “It’s a long story,” he says. “And I promise I’ll tell it to you someday. But not tonight, OK?”

My curiosity is raging, but this seems a small favor to ask, considering that A.J. has saved me from the worst birthday of my existence. So I tuck into my dinner while A.J. tells me about the cast of characters from his summer internship at the water filtration plant, and I, in return, tell him about the Bridezilla sisters, their equally awful mother and the two weddings that ate my July. The food is wonderful and so is the champagne, and when the waiter comes back with the dessert menus, I’m ready to tackle the profiteroles. But A.J. says, “Let’s walk for a bit. I’ve got another plan.”

“I’m supposed to meet Zoe here at nine,” I say.

“I called her,” he said. “She’s going to meet us for dessert.”

“OK,” I say. I should put a stronger effort into putting the pieces of this evening together, but my head is cloudy with unshed tears and I’m exhausted from whipsawing between despair and something that feels more like hope. For once in my life, I think I might just let things unfold around me. Out on the street, A.J. holds out his arm and I take it. We walk through the Palais Royale gardens and past the Louvre and down to the Seine. “We cross here,” he says, pointing to the Pont des Arts. “Not much farther, I promise.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, and I don’t. I’m more than a little tipsy, but A.J.’s arm is steady and the night air is warm and silky. Given how horribly the evening started, I’m frankly thrilled to be doing anything other than sobbing on Zoe’s floor. Walking across the Seine arm-in-arm with an attractive male acquaintance may not be my perfect world scenario, but it’s a long way from the worst case. “I never asked you,” I say. “Why did you take a year off school?”

A.J. looks surprised, but he says, “My mom got sick, really sick, with cancer. My family thought…we weren’t sure what was going to happen. And I was too far away to see her as much as I wanted to. I could have transferred schools, but I decided to work for a year instead.”

“Oh,” I say. “That sounds awful.”

“It was,” he says. “But we were lucky. She beat the cancer and now she’s fine. And I got some work experience too, which probably made me more employable than the other million engineers that I graduated with.” We’re on the other side of the river now, and A.J. turns onto a narrow street. “Just one more block,” he says.

“This must be some dessert,” I say, as we stop outside an ancient grey building festooned with trailing geraniums in window boxes. Plumes of cigarette smoke and gales of throaty laughter ring out from the café tables on the sidewalk, and the bright blue signs declare that we have arrived at Café Laurent.

“She’s here,” shouts a voice I recognize, and Zoe springs up from one of the tables and wraps me in a hug. “Surprise!”

“Happy birthday, my dear Sophie,” says another voice, and when I extricate myself from Zoe’s embrace, I see Lil, smoking a cigarette from a long black holder and regarding her surroundings with the bearing of a queen surveying her lands and subjects. She grins at me, and then says to A.J. “Do be a darling and tell the waiter that our party has arrived, won’t you?”

“He didn’t show?” Zoe whispers in my ear.

I shake my head, and then ask very casually, “Lil, you haven’t heard from Will lately, have you? We thought he might be in Paris this weekend.”

“I spoke to him this morning, as a matter of fact,” she says. “He’s on Mykonos with a group of friends, no doubt getting into all kinds of trouble. Too bad! He would have been a fine addition to our merry band. He said to wish you a happy birthday, though.”

“Thanks for the message,” I manage. “Are the toilets in the back?” I saunter to the rear of the restaurant, blinking rapidly, and barricade myself inside a toilet stall for a few minutes, until I feel more composed. In one way, I suppose I should feel grateful for definitive information that Lil has just handed me. I won’t be able to persuade myself that Will forgot, or got the date wrong; he decided not to come, unlike the three people sitting and waiting for me outside. And I am not going to make them sorry that they went to all this trouble to give me a perfect birthday.

I return to the table at the same moment that A.J. appears with a waiter bearing a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to drink any more champagne,” I say.

“It’s always a good idea to drink more champagne,” says Lil. “You just need to soak it up with some dessert.” And on cue, another waiter appears with a tower of cream puffs held together with spun sugar and impaled with lit sparklers. Zoe leads the other patrons in a round of ‘Bonne Anniversaire’, and I take a bow to general cheering.

“Now,” says Zoe, swallowing a mouthful of whipped cream, “Are we still going dancing?”

“Of course you are,” says Lil. “It’s Paris! Life begins after dark! In fact, there used to be a famous nightclub on this very site, Le Tabou. The Existentialists adored it. They were quite the party goers; not nearly as dreary as history suggests. I’m going to bed, but you should make the most of the evening.”

“Where are you staying?” I ask.

“Here,” says Lil. “Hotel d’Aubusson is attached to the café. I always stay here. You’re staying here too.”

“I’m staying here?”

“You and Jesse both have rooms here for the next four nights. Yours is a double, so Zoe can stay too, if you want a roommate. I’ve got a big agenda planned starting at eleven tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.” I process the rest of Lil’s last statement. “What did you call A.J.?”

“Jesse. He doesn’t like being called A.J., apparently. Well, who can blame him? It’s a ridiculous name for anyone over the age of ten. I don’t know why he didn’t mention it earlier.”

“Oh,” I say, turning to A.J. “Do you want me to call you Jesse?”

He smiles shyly. “I’ll understand if it’s too weird for you to make the switch, but I prefer it. A.J. was just a camp nickname that followed me to university. The important people in my life call me Jesse. I’d like it if you did too.”

“Surprise!” The room erupts as Jesse and I make our entrance. There must be a hundred people here, some of whom I haven’t seen in ages.

“Smile,” Jesse murmurs, and I oblige.

Zoe bounds over. “Were you surprised?”

“Absolutely,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It was Lil’s idea,” says Zoe modestly. “You know how she loves a surprise.”

“That I do,” I say. “Where is she?”

Zoe looks around. “I don’t know. She was here a minute ago.”

The speakers crackle to life and Lil appears on the stage with a microphone in her hand. “Good evening, friends. Welcome to Sophie’s fortieth birthday party! Come on up, birthday girl.” Amid general cheering, I am pushed up to the stage, where Lil beams at me.

“Sophie and I have been friends for many years and it is a great honor to be able to celebrate with her tonight. I’m sure you’ll all agree with me that she makes forty look fabulous.” Riotous applause ensues, including a few wolf whistles that I recognize as Jesse’s. “As you may know, Sophie is a big eighties fan, so we have another surprise for her. Please welcome our special guests, The Legwarmers, to the stage!”

Chelsea Moss and her band appear from the wings; Lil hands over the microphone and we climb down as the first set begins.

“You’re completely ungovernable,” I tell her.

“You’re not the first to say so,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Happy birthday, my dear.” She glances over my shoulder. “Perfect timing,” she says. “I wanted to have a chat with Jesse. Entertain the guest of honor for me, Will.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Will. “Care to dance?”

“Is it a good idea to dance with your boss?” I ask.

He looks surprised, laughs a little. “Is that what I am to you now?”

“Don’t underestimate it,” I say, smiling. “You’re the best boss I’ve ever had. I’m glad I accepted your offer to come to the Foundation, Will. It’s been amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says. “But for tonight, why don’t we call it a dance with an old friend, instead?”

“Is that what I am to you now?”

“I like to think so.” Will pulls me onto the dance floor and we move together, stiffly at first, more like seventh-graders than grown-ups with a history. “Are you having a good birthday?”

“Better than the one I had in Paris,” I say. “Although you weren’t there for that one, as I recall.”

“Ouch. I was hoping I’d been forgiven by now.”

“I’d have considered it if you’d ever offered an apology or an explanation,” I say mildly.

Will steps back and sighs. “You still want one?”

“You bet. And I’m the birthday girl, so I get my wish. Cough it up.”

He waits, and then says, “I lost my nerve.”

“What?”

“I was planning to come and meet you. But I chickened out. I knew what you wanted from me, but I didn’t think I could deliver. And then I got an offer to go to Greece, so I ran.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish it were a better story. I’m not proud of it. But that’s what happened. And I’m sorry.”

“OK,” I say.

“OK, what?”

“I accept your explanation. And I accept your apology. We can stop talking about it now.”

“Excellent,” says Will. “Because I find these conversations very awkward.”

“I’ve got one more awkward conversation in my arsenal tonight,” I say. “But don’t worry; it’s not for you.”

“Lucky me,” he says, and spins me around. Now that we’re both more relaxed, he pulls me a bit closer. And because it’s dark in this corner of the dance floor, I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I let myself remember how it felt to love him, and the terrible hole it left when I knew he would never love me back. But I remember other things too: who healed me; who offered me friendship and understanding, and later, when he knew I was ready, love; who assembled IKEA furniture for our first apartment; who let my mother plan our wedding down to the last Martha Stewart bow; who told me I was beautiful when I was nine-months pregnant and wild with hormones; who gave my sons their warm brown eyes; and I know that I don’t regret Paris. In the end, I don’t regret Paris at all.

The set ends, and we step apart. “It’s good to have you back in my life, Will,” I say. “I missed you.”

Will gives me a kiss on the forehead. “Thanks,” he says. “Me too.”

I find Lil and Jesse off in a quiet corner of the room. “No business tonight,” I tell them. “It’s a party.” I dispatch Jesse in search of drinks.

“I know you think you hate surprises,” Lil says. “And if I’d asked you, you would have said no, so you left me with no choice. I know you don’t really hate them, anyway. Remember how much fun we had in Paris?”

“Actually, that trip’s been on my mind lately,” I say. “And I wanted to ask you a question about it.”

Lil looks wary. “Yes?”

“Why didn’t Will come to Paris? I think you know. I want you to tell me.”

She regards me evenly for a moment, and then says, “He didn’t come to Paris because I offered him a rental house on Mykonos.”

“Why?” I ask. It’s strange to feel so calm, knowing that Lil saw my heart so clearly and still thwarted its desire. I should be furious at her betrayal, but I’m more curious than angry. “Didn’t you think I was good enough for him?”

She shakes her head. “You know me better than that,” she says. “I thought you were far too good for him, and I still do. I gave him a choice, and he made it. Which, I might add, cleared the way for the one who deserved you all along.”

I’m not quite ready to let her off the hook. “Do you always get what you want?” I ask, and there’s an edge in my voice that isn’t entirely nice.

“No,” she says. “I don’t. If I did, I’d have what you have.”

I blink back unexpected tears, reach for her hand and squeeze, and see the relief pass across her face. And I think of all the gifts Lil has given me over the years – parties and clothes and fancy dinners and hotel rooms in Paris, to be sure, but also joy and fellowship and an interest in the minutiae of my existence that can only spring from love.

Lil’s interest in me has always been a puzzle, but I’ve never doubted her affection or loyalty. Maybe, as she once told me, I remind her of her younger self. Maybe I’m the daughter she never had. With love, it’s not the why that matters. It’s the how. It’s the millions of ways we reach out and connect with the people we love and try to make them happy and protect them from harm. All of Lil’s gifts to me have been expressions of love, but now I see, more than ever before, that my life with Jesse is a gift too.

“I never thanked you properly for helping Jesse out with his business,” I say.

“It was a good business decision,” she says. “And I negotiated excellent terms for myself. I own a piece of a well-run, profitable and socially responsible corporation, and I got you to come to the Foundation, which is also working out every bit as well as I knew it would.”

“You know, Lil,” I say, “I’d already made up my mind to come. The investment was just an added bonus.”

“And I was already planning to invest in Jesse’s company, regardless of whether or not you took the job.” My surprise must show in my face, because she raises her eyebrows in an expression of pure mischief. “Do you think your affairs are the only ones I meddle in?” She touches my cheek. “Go have fun at your party. Release the past. Embrace the present. You have a very nice date. Go dance with him.”



Jesse holds me close and we shuffle in a slow circle as the Legwarmers belt out a few classic rock ballads.

“Chelsea’s band is pretty amazing,” I say.

“They are,” he says. “Lil knows how to pick them.”

“She was certainly right about you,” I say, and I step back so that I can see his face. “I know what the favor was, Jesse. I know what Lil did for you. I know about Paris.”

Other couples swirl around us but we don’t move. When he speaks, his words come out in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Sophie,” he says. “I should have told you a long time ago. I convinced myself that it didn’t matter, that we hadn’t taken away a real choice from you, but since Will came back…I wonder now. I may have misjudged him then. I didn’t think he was serious about you, and I wanted you more than I had ever wanted anything before or since, so I felt justified. But maybe he was serious. How could he not have been? How could he not have wanted to spend the rest of his life with you?”

I hold him close, and when I rest my cheek on his chest, it feels like home.



“Good birthday?” he asks.

“As good as forty could possibly be,” I say. “I’m shooting for less drama now that I’ve officially crossed over.”

He laughs. “No argument here,” he says.

“I put you through a lot,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Sophie,” he says, “It’s going to take a lot more than that to get rid of me. I’m in this for the long haul.”

“I never loved him the way I love you,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I was just waiting for you to figure it out.”

The room recedes as we complete another circle in time to the music. And then I look up at him and say, “You wanted me to tell you when.”

“When what?” he asks.

“When you could stop looking over your shoulder,” I say.

I reach up and put a hand on either side of his face and pull him down for a long, sweet kiss.

“Now,” I tell him.

His arms tighten around me, and I feel all the parts of my life knit together into a whole. And for one perfect moment, I think I know what it means to have it all.





Acknowledgments

Writing this book was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Without the generous support of a great many friends, I’m quite sure that the manuscript would be sitting in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet, instead of in your hands.

But happily for me (and hopefully for you), I am blessed with a village of enthusiastic readers who cheered me through the writing, submission, rejection and ultimately self-publication of my book. I am endlessly grateful to the following people:

To beta-readers Sara Angel, Danielle Botterell, Marie Campbell, Sari Diamond, Todd Ducharme, Leah Eichler, Rivi Frankle, Anne Hilton, Judith McCormack, Heather Morrison, Beth Parker, Laurie Pawlitza and Patricia Smith, for suffering through first, second and third drafts;

To Sara Angel, for answering endless questions, and for telling me at the beginning that I could write;

To Amy Ballon and Danielle Botterell, for mad organizational skills, strategic ego-boosting and coaching me through the process of self-publication;

To Marie Campbell, for pho noodles and early encouragement;

To Brianna Caryll, for living with courage and sending me letters;

To Todd Ducharme and Laurie Pawlitza, for reading my manuscript aloud on their porch and to various unsuspecting dinner guests;

To Leah Eichler, for pep talks and sheer grit;

To Sara Faherty, for long walks and home truths;

To Rivi Frankle, Jewish mom extraordinaire, for unreasonable confidence in my abilities;

To Judith McCormack, for comradeship in publishing anxiety;

To Beth Parker and Sarah Brohman, for careful and sensitive editing that made the book so much better;

To my excellent staff (in no way represented in this book), for making my life easier on a daily basis;

To my extraordinary boss, Mayo Moran (again, in no way represented in this book), for being a model of humane and compassionate leadership;

To my mother, Margo Hilton (not represented in this book), for teaching me to read, cook and write funny Christmas letters;

To my father, Jim Hilton (say it with me), for setting such a high bar, and in doing so, showing me what to look for in a marriage;

To Anne Hilton and Betsy Hilton (who, even if Sophie had sisters, would not appear in this book), for being such fine and funny sisters;

To my sons, Jack and Charlie, for being the whole point; and

To Rob, for steadiness, constancy and love, and for being the best thing that ever happened to me.





About the Author

Kate Hilton has worked in law, higher education, public relations, fundraising and publishing. She has an English degree from McGill University and a law degree from the University of Toronto. She holds down a day job, volunteers for community organizations, raises two boys, cooks, collects art, reads voraciously and likes her husband. In her free time, she writes. On good days, she thinks she might have it all. On bad days, she wants a nap.

www.katehilton.com