I poured coffee into the mug Sophie had made Andrew for Father’s Day, a dark blue painted disaster, and carried it down the hall. As I passed Sophie’s room, I caught a glimpse of her white antique rocker, remembered how when she was born Andrew would sit and rock her for hours, change diapers without even making a face, gaze at her with adoration when she made her soft little grunts and coos. He’d come home from work with milkshakes or fresh bread from the bakery, slather it in butter and feed me pieces. He was so happy back then.
I padded into our bedroom, set the coffee on the night table. He didn’t stir, so I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth with the water running slowly. I flicked my gaze around, checked where my makeup bag was on the counter. A few times I came home after errands and found my bag in the wrong place, the contents out of order, my clothes shifted around in the drawer as though he’d been searching for something. When I cautiously asked if it was him doing this, he’d accused me of being paranoid. Now I kept careful track of everything.
“Lindsey?” His voice startled me. I dropped my toothbrush, splashing water onto the mirror. I grabbed a cloth, wiped at it.
“Yeah,” I said. “Coffee is on the night table.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
“Watching TV.” I walked out, let him tug me down beside him in bed. His body was warm, his chest muscles hard under my cheek. He pressed his lips against my forehead and slid his hand down my arm, gently circled my wrist, stroking the tender skin.
“Your wrist okay?”
“Yeah. Sophie found my bracelet.”
“You shouldn’t have pulled away so fast like that. I could have really hurt you.” His voice is raspy from sleep, but there’s another tone. One I know well. Remorse.
“I know. I’ll be more careful.” He hadn’t meant to grab me that hard when I started walking away, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Just like when he knocked over the hand-blown glass vase my grandmother had given me for our wedding, or dropped the ceramic owl I’d had since I was a little girl and always kept perched on my dresser. He glued it all back together, piece by piece, spent hours with a magnifying glass and tweezers, but I could still see every crack.
The sound of Sophie’s cartoons drifted through the open door. She was watching Caillou, would be absorbed for a little while longer before she came looking for us.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “You’re drinking a lot lately.”
“I’m fine. I’m just under a lot of stress because of the north island project.”
“Maybe you can slow down a little and not take on so much at once.”
“How can I do that when I’m supporting you and your family? Your parents are carrying a lot of debt and I promised your dad I’d have work for him for years.”
I looked up at him, surprised. He’d encouraged my parents to buy a new car and renovate their house. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Of course. I mean, we’d be all right if I shut down the company. I have my trust payments, but what about your dad and brother? There’s not much work out there.…”
I felt unsettled, panicky. He’d never spoken about shutting down the company before. I thought he could pick smaller projects, lay off some of the new guys. My father was almost fifty and had a bad shoulder. No one else would give him a job as a foreman.
“Maybe you can hire someone to help you. Then you’ll have more free time.”
“That’ll ruin my business. People in the industry have always thought I was just some rich kid who had everything easy. If I hire someone, I’ll be proving them right.” He looked upset, and I felt like I’d let him down. Of course he didn’t want to risk his reputation.
He tugged on my hair, tilted my head. “You’re worrying about nothing, I swear.” He held my gaze, his expression serious. “I’ll cut back, okay?”
“You always say that, but—”
“I will, Lindsey. This time I will.”
I rested my head against his side. He hummed a few bars of a tune, his deep voice vibrating his chest. You know our love was meant to be … I recognized the song by Chicago. It was on our wedding CD. Andrew had an uncanny knack for remembering lyrics, could quote a verse for every occasion. He knew what song was playing in the restaurant on our first date, what songs we made love to, what was playing in his truck when he picked me up.
He stopped singing. I tensed, waiting. What was wrong now?
“It must be hard for you, now that Sophie’s at school,” he said.
“The house is really quiet.” I wanted to say more, but it was too hard to talk, all my emotions building in my throat, the relief of having my best friend back—the sweet Andrew, the loving Andrew. This was my husband. Not the man who gripped my wrist like he wanted to snap it.
“Remember how I said we were working near a farm this week? The owner has a border collie with a litter of puppies. We should get one.”