A few days later, the inevitable happened. I saw Brad.
I was at the Wellfleet Marketplace, where the prices were high and the food was great. I’d just come from Tasha’s delivery of a healthy baby boy, which, despite Carline’s dire warnings, had gone beautifully. But I was wicked tired, since the baby had been born at 4:00 a.m. and I’d left the hospital at nine. I had no food in the house and didn’t feel like fighting the throngs at Stop & Shop in Orleans. Wellfleet Marketplace was a store where you could get really good food, a book, a card, a candle, socks and wine. I figured I’d hit the deli for a massive grinder, grab some chocolate and wine and head home.
As I was perusing the red wine for the cheapest brand, I heard my ex-husband’s voice. I froze, bottle in hand, something like fear gripping me in a wave of cold. Back from Paris, apparently. I hoped it had rained nonstop.
“Oh, you’re more than welcome,” Brad said in this new plummy tone. “We’re so glad to help the community. Obviously, we care so much about the wetlands and promoting green technology.”
Right. They lived in a six-thousand-square-foot house because it was good for the environment. But first things first—I didn’t want to be seen. For no good reason, I felt suddenly ashamed. The discarded woman, ten pounds heavier, frizzy hair coming out of a ponytail, dressed in ratty jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed my love of sharks. Granted, I’d had to go to the hospital at midnight and had grabbed the clothes closest to me, but . . . but Melissa wouldn’t be caught dead looking ratty. Or chubby. Or with frizzy hair.
I slunk down to the deli counter and darted behind it. “Hey, Lillie,” said Christopher, the owner’s son. I’d babysat him as a teenager.
“Shh, honey,” I said, though he was in his thirties now. I crouched down behind the meat case, clutching my wine bottle to my chest.
“Why are you hiding?” he whispered.
“My ex-husband is over there.” I gestured. “I don’t want to see him.”
“Got it. Want to go in the— Hey, Mr. Fairchild, how’s it going?”
I sat on the floor, pressing my back against the case as tightly as I could, knees to my chest. Christopher moved closer to me, offering me shelter. Please don’t let Brad see me, I prayed.
“Hello, young man.” Despite Brad having lived in Wellfleet for twenty years, he still barely knew a soul. “It’s Dr. Fairchild, by the way. No problem, of course. It’s just that PhDs don’t grow on trees, huh huh huh.” I rolled my eyes at the fake laugh. Such a pretentious ass.
“What can I get you today?” Christopher asked.
“Well, my wife and I are going to be grilling tonight. I don’t suppose you have some Wagyu fillets, do you?”
“We sure do. They’re thirty-nine ninety-nine each, though.”
“Oh, money is no object when it comes to a great meal, right? Huh huh huh. I’ll take four.”
One hundred and sixty dollars’ worth of beef for one meal. My jaw clenched.
“You got it,” said Christopher. “You’ll want to rub these with olive oil and salt a few hours before cooking them. Make sure they’re at room temperature before you throw them on the grill.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Brad said. “My wife is an amazing cook. We do have a chef come in, but on special occasions, we like to cook ourselves.” My teeth were clenched so hard they’d be dust soon. Stupid Brad. He just had to let the world know how rich he was now.
“Uh-huh,” said Christopher. I heard the sound of the case opening, the cool air and smell of raw meat wrapping around me.
“Yeah, it’s not a terrible life. Huh huh huh. And I’m not half-bad in the kitchen, either.”
I was suddenly on my feet.
“Jesus!” Brad said, taking a step back. “Lillie! What are you doing there?”
“You’re not half-bad in the kitchen?” I said, my voice possibly a tiny bit loud. “Really, Brad? Because when you were married to me, the best you could do was scrambled eggs!” I grabbed the fillet out of Christopher’s hand and threw it at Brad. “Enjoy, Chef!”
The fillet, wet and red, hit him in the face, stuck a moment, then dropped. Brad caught it automatically. I took another one and pitched that, too, getting him in the head before it plopped on the floor. Red meat juice dripped down his face.
“How dare you?” he said. “Get control of yourself, Lillie, before I call the police!”
“Bite me,” I said, reaching for a third fillet.
“Those are wicked expensive,” Christopher murmured. “Keep that in mind.”
I seemed to be making a scene. Cameras were out, waiting.
Shit. I put the fillet back in Christopher’s hand. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“You’re paying for these!” Brad snapped, putting the chunk of meat he’d caught on the counter. “They’re ruined now.” With great, pained dignity, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He carried a handkerchief now, of course. It was patterned in blue and red checks and I bet it cost a bundle.
Christopher retrieved the fallen fillet, came back behind the counter and rinsed it while Brad and I glared at each other.
“I feel sorry for you,” Brad whispered. “You’re alone and pathetic.”
“I feel sorry for you,” I said, not whispering. “You’re phony and materialistic. You’re a kept man. A gigolo, and not a very good one at that.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Christopher said, handing me a plastic-wrapped package. “Two filet mignons, on the house, Lillie. You were the best babysitter I ever had.” He grinned.
“Thanks, honey.” I washed my meaty hands, took my eighty dollars’ worth of meat and walked past Brad to the front of the store, head held high.
“How are you, Lillie?” asked Harlow Smith, who owned the bookstore. “You look wonderful.”
A few other people said hello, told me I looked good, nice to see me, as I stood in line, waiting to pay for my wine. There was Luna, holding the daughter I’d helped come into this world, and she waved the baby’s chubby hand at me. Because this was my town, and I’d earned my place here. My ex-husband was a mainland nobody as far as we townies were concerned. Carrie, a middle-aged woman who’d worked the checkout for as long as I could remember, put a chocolate bar in my bag with a wink.
“No charge,” she said. “Your husband’s an asshole.”
“Ex-husband,” I said, managing a smile.
It helped. But Brad knew where to hit, so to speak, and my heart was sore and angry just the same.
I walked across the street to the town hall parking lot. There, sitting at an empty picnic table in front of Hatch’s Fish Market, was Ophelia. Her face perked up when she saw me.
“Hi!” she said, then blushed.
“Hi, Ophelia. How are you?”
“Good, I guess. Waiting for what’s-his-name. He made me come with him. Hashtag girl-dad. Gross.”
“It is gross.” I sat down across from her. “How’s it going?”
She shrugged.
“Sucky, then?”
“Kind of. I don’t know. I miss my real . . . well, my other stepfather.”
“You were going to say dad, weren’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes. “He wasn’t actually my dad. But it felt that way.”
“I’m so sorry.” I set my bag on the table. “What was he like?”
“He was just . . . nice. He was so excited when I came to live with them. We’d go out sometimes without Melissa, and he’d buy me a hot dog from a cart. Street meat, he called it. He told me about his patients and the grossest injuries and stuff. It was cool. He didn’t care if my manners weren’t perfect or if I didn’t make my bed.” She wiped her eyes.
“He sounds like a great guy,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Then again, you seem like a great kid, so it makes sense that you’d get along.”
“How do you know I’m a great kid?” she asked, adolescent sulk creeping into her voice.
“Well, you’re your own person. That’s obvious.”