“How do you know?”
“Your hair, your clothes. You have style.” She was wearing a pair of overalls over a black T-shirt, her nails were painted blue, and her hair was in two clumped ponytails, the curls making them look like shower scrunchies. “You have opinions, you’re clearly smart and you’re well-spoken. You have a lot going for you.”
“Melissa just likes to tell me what I do wrong. And that jerk in there . . . he talks at me and never even listens when I try to say something, you know what I mean?”
“I absolutely do.” I paused, sad for this kid, so at the mercy of the whims of her self-centered aunt. “When I was a kid, my parents got a divorce, and my sister went to live with my mother. I stayed with my dad. It was hard, not being able to have the family I wanted.”
Ophelia gave a reluctant nod. “My mom’s an addict. I only met my bio-dad twice. My grandparents were taking care of me back in Ohio, but my grandma got sick. I got shipped off to Melissa, and the one great grown-up was Dennis, and then he died.”
I covered her hand with mine. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“I mean, it’s stupid to complain. Melissa’s loaded and I live in a big house and all that. It’s pretty here, and I love some things about it. All the crabs and birds and stuff. The skies.”
I smiled. “The skies are the best.”
She gave me a tentative smile back. “Yeah. They are. Oh, crap, here comes Bridiot right now.”
Bridiot. My heart swelled with love for Ophelia.
“You might not want to say that to his face,” I said, glancing back at the grocery store. He was waiting to cross the street, bag in hand, and I was pleased to see a meat-juice stain on his shirt. “He loves to lecture.”
“I know, I know. Respect your elders.” She stood up. “Can’t wait to see his latest Instagram post that’ll tell the world how close we are.” She sighed. “Well. Nice seeing you, Mrs. . . . um . . .”
“Lillie.”
“Lillie.” She blushed again.
“Call me anytime, Ophelia. We can get coffee or ice cream.”
“I doubt they’d let me.”
True. “Well. You have my number. Maybe if we just ran into each other again. I go to the library most Saturday mornings.”
Her face lit up. “Okay, cool! Thanks. It was nice talking to you. Oh, I got the book, too! Thanks for that. I really liked it.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Hope to see you around.” I got up and went to my car, not willing to see my ex for the second time in an hour. As I drove toward home, I called my dad and invited him over for dinner. “Filet mignon, Daddy,” I said.
“I’m actually at your house right now. Cleaned out your gutters,” he said, and I smiled even as my eyes filled with tears. Dear old Dad. The one thing in my life that never changed. You wanted a girl dad, you had one right there. The real thing, and long before it was a hashtag.
CHAPTER 17
Melissa
Ever since they’d come back from France, Melissa had been feeling a bit peaked, as her mother used to say. She felt achy. Bloated. Premenstrual, even though she rarely had the kind of cramps and suffering other women detailed, which she credited to clean eating and yoga (and the pill). She’d probably caught something on the plane, which wasn’t fair, since they’d flown Virgin Atlantic first-class. You’d think they could do better.
She looked at herself in the mirror of her bathroom. Bradley had left a big smeary fingerprint on it. She should just have him use a guest bathroom. That would preserve the romance of marriage, wouldn’t it? Yes. She didn’t need him watching her flossing or shaving her legs, and she didn’t want to know that he had a huge bowel movement every morning, often requiring the plunger.
Wait. She squinted, then pulled out the extension mirror to the 10x magnification side. Was that a pimple? How could she have a pimple? She hadn’t had a pimple since she was twelve!
It was a pimple. She grabbed her phone and called Shui Spa in Provincetown. “Hello, this is Melissa Fairchild. I need an appointment urgently, I’m afraid. A facial.”
“Melissa! How was the wedding?” cooed Ian, the receptionist.
“It was beautiful,” she said, stifling the blood pressure surge that accompanied any memory of her wedding day. All the guests had talked and talked about Lillie, even though Hannah had smoothly informed them it was a performance artist, part of the quirky Cape Cod landscape. Everyone knew it was the evil first wife. “Ian, can you be my angel and get me in today? I’m also dying for a mineral soak.”
“For you? Of course! Come in at two o’clock, okay? And I want to see pictures!”
The pictures of the ceremony were not ready yet, since they had to be photoshopped to erase Lillie.
The truth was, the wedding hadn’t been perfect at all. Her reception gown had been so tight that her breasts hurt (but looked incredible; she had to give Candice credit). She hadn’t even wanted the gorgeous food she’d paid for, but then again, every bride said they didn’t eat much at their wedding. The cake was fantastic, though. She’d even had a second bite, which was so unlike her.
Oh, on the surface, it was still probably the most splendid wedding anyone would ever go to. The ceremony had lasted only fifteen minutes, after all, and Hannah had steered people to the patio for cocktails, where the “performance artist” wasn’t so obvious.
But still.
Paris had been utterly magical, though, and Bradley had been a perfect husband. They ate and strolled. Paris was for lovers, and Bradley had finally mastered cunnilingus. How had Lillie borne it for twenty years? Oh. Right. She’d been a virgin when they met. Bradley had told Melissa. So Lillie didn’t know any better.
Melissa brought gifts for Ophelia, Lucia the housekeeper, the yard service man whose name she couldn’t remember and a few friends at yoga. Future friends, she thought. The presents would help. She’d even bought a beautiful bottle of perfume for Hannah.
But then they’d come home to an awful stench in their bedroom. One of the wedding guests had dropped a shrimp behind the bed, and the smell was so bad, Melissa had thrown up. Bradley had, too. Of course, Melissa had expected people to wander through the house, and she’d wanted them to see how splendid and tasteful and gorgeous it was. But for Pete’s sake! You drop a shrimp and don’t even notice it? Then the jet lag hit her hard, and she slept late for the next week, missing every early yoga class she’d booked.
That pimple. Could it have been from French food? All that cheese? But she’d been to Paris with Dennis twice and that had never happened.
Oh, well. Her aesthetician would take care of that. She probably just needed to change skin care products.
She went downstairs, and there was Bradley, sitting in the living room, Teeny on his lap, snoring. “Oh! You’re home. Is everything all right, honey?” she asked.
He put Teeny aside, rose and came over to kiss her. It must’ve been her imagination, but she swore she could still smell skunk in this room. “I canceled my afternoon patients because I missed you too much,” he said, hugging her against him. The pimple on her chin pressed against his shirt, and it throbbed. “Ophelia’s still in school. Shall we take advantage of that and make love on the kitchen table?”
She almost rolled her eyes. Why did men think that a woman lying on a hard slab of wood was enjoyable? Dennis had loved that particular naughty scenario, too, going so far as to make her pretend to be a Spanish-speaking chef. But she didn’t have to earn her keep anymore, did she? “I have an appointment I can’t miss,” she said, her tone frosty. “I wish you’d called to inform me of your whims”—word of the day!—“before you left.” Yes. Let him remember who was in charge.
Brad’s face fell. “You’re right, babe. I’ll call next time. And we can always hit the sheets later tonight.”