“Sure. Leave a few on our counter, too.”
Natalie stacks up the flyers and hands one to me to tape in the window. “It’ll be a great course, held over in the Epicurean kitchen classroom. Tuition includes all supplies and food.”
I skim the flyer. French Cuisine Classics! Learn the techniques of French cooking in this sixteen-week intensive course. All levels welcome. Tuesdays 7:00-9:00 p.m.
“I have the registration forms too.” Natalie digs into her bag and produces another stack of papers. “If either one of you wants to take one.”
“I will.” I’m almost surprised when the words come out.
Natalie hands me the form. “You’ll love the course, really.”
After she leaves, Allie asks, “You’re going to do it?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Nah.” Her red curls flop as she shakes her head. “I’m not much for cooking.”
“Neither am I.”
I guess that’s the point, though. If you don’t know something, you find out about it. And if you can’t do something, you learn how. Especially if it’s something that intimidates or scares you.
Dean isn’t home when I return to our apartment, but his briefcase is by the door. I remember that he was going to play football this evening, so I leave the flyer on the front table next to a pile of mail and put a frozen lasagna in the microwave.
I head out to tend to my balcony garden. A few blooms still flourish in the late summer sun, but the plants are starting to wither a bit. I clip off dead flowers, sweep up the leaves, and water the plants.
Dean comes back, dirty but cheerful because his team won the game. I’m glad when he comes over to kiss me—even with things all weird and tense between us, he still kisses me often and strokes my hair, and I still rub his lower back in passing and hug him around the waist. While we try to pretend everything is okay.
He heads off for a quick shower before dinner while I set the table.
“How was your day?” he asks, pulling a clean T-shirt over his head as he comes out of the bedroom.
“Good. Worked at the bookstore for a few hours.” My stomach twists suddenly as I take the flyer from the front table. “A woman from a cookware store dropped this off. She asked if we could put it in the window.”
Dean glances at the paper. “Classic French cuisine?”
“I… I was thinking of registering for it.” My heart thumps against my ribs.
“That’s a great idea,” Dean says.
“It is?”
“Sure.” He drops the flyer back onto the table. “Don’t you think so?”
“Well, yeah. Lord knows I’m a lousy cook.”
“So you’ll learn to be a good one.”
“It’s once a week for an entire semester,” I say.
“Sounds like you’ll learn a lot, then.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “So it’s okay if I register?”
“Of course it’s okay.” Dean looks at me with a hint of puzzlement. “You don’t need my permission to take a class, Liv. If you want to register, go ahead. I think it’s a great idea.”
I turn and head back into the kitchen. I wonder if I was secretly hoping he might talk me out of it, but now a spark of excitement lights inside me.
I could actually learn how to cook. The pressing need for that particular skill hits home when I take the burned, gummy-looking lasagna out of the microwave.
Surely I can do better than this.
Dean pauses in the kitchen doorway, shuffling through the pile of mail.
“Anything good?” I push a knife through the pasta.
He doesn’t respond. I glance at him. Concern gleams in his expression as his eyes meet mine.
“Dean?”
He moves closer to me and puts an envelope on the counter. My heart stutters. I recognize the looped handwriting, even though I haven’t seen it in ages.
I pick up the envelope and peer at the smudged postmark. Austin, Texas. That means nothing. She could have been passing through, probably en route to Mexico.
I’m surprised she remembered our address. I’m surprised she even has our address.
Dean settles his hand against the nape of my neck. “You want to open it?” he asks.
“Not really.”
We stand there for a few minutes. Unease simmers in my belly. Finally I rip open the flap, my fingers shaking. I unfold the single sheet of paper, and position it so Dean can read it too.
Liv,
Stella tells me you’re still married. I moved to Florida last year and am now traveling through the south. I could use the money you promised, so please send a cashier’s check care of the address below.
I let the letter fall to the counter and try to think. It’s been, what… three years? I’d been married to Dean for just a few months. We were living in Los Angeles—his last fellowship position before starting at King’s University.