We looked at each other for a minute. “You’re welcome,” I forced myself to say. “Take care of yourself.”
When she left, I held my head in my hands. What was I going to say to Dylan if she kept the baby? And what if she didn’t? I’d know, and no one else. The last thing I wanted was to share a secret with my ex-husband’s new wife. No, the last thing I wanted was for him to have a baby with Melissa and screw up my son’s life even more.
My stomach growled, and crap, I had no food in the house. I left my office—Carol had gone home already—and locked up. I got in my car and drove to Stop & Shop in Orleans, the biggest grocery store on the Outer Cape. I’d get some . . . I don’t know. Sushi. A half gallon of ice cream. A Boston coffee cake. I blasted U2 and forced myself to sing along to keep thoughts of her out of my mind. “In the name of love!” I bellowed at the stoplight in front of Eastham’s town green. “What more in the name of love!” I didn’t have it hard. MLK had it hard, and it would be good to remember that kind of thing. I cruised around the rotary—God bless the off-season—and pulled into the store’s parking lot.
The second I got inside, a gorgeous smell hit me. Oh, mommy. Their rotisserie chicken. I don’t know how they did it, but Stop & Shop had the best rotisserie chicken, and it was cheap, too. I wasn’t starving anymore. I was desperate. I got the biggest chicken I could find, inhaled through the plastic lid and nearly swooned. At the self-checkout I added a bag of peanut M&M’s, sharable size, ran my credit card and stuffed the M&M’s in my purse. Didn’t even use a bag for the chicken, just carried it out to my car. As I got in, it started to rain.
By the time I got back home, the chicken would be cold, its skin puckered from the steam under the plastic lid. No time like the present. I popped off the plastic top, pulled off a drumstick, and my God, it was so good. I closed my eyes, groaning in satisfaction. Oh, that fatty skin! The rain picked up, drumming on the roof of my car, and it was damn cozy in here, water streaming down the windshield. I tore a chunk of breast meat off and stuffed that in my mouth, too, my fingers greasy, some juicy deliciousness running down my chin. Did I have a napkin? I did not. A tissue? Nope. The sleeve it was. Another incredibly satisfying chunk of breast meat. Try not to choke to death, Lillie. I managed to chew a little bit more, then tore off the other drumstick.
Someone knocked on my window, and I jumped, screamed and nearly dropped my precious chicken.
It was Ben Hallowell. There was a very slight smile on his face.
I turned on the car and rolled down the window. “What?” I said, mouth still full.
“Just taking in the sights,” he said. “Nothing like a woman tearing apart a carcass in a parking lot.”
“The Cape is considering me for a tourism ad.”
He gave a gruff laugh. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“I’m just hungry.” I tore off another hunk. “Want some?”
“You know, I’ll pass,” he said. I shrugged and shoved it into my mouth. Oh, yes. Eating it hot had been the right decision.
“How are you doing these days?” he asked. Though it was raining, he didn’t seem to mind. Then again, he was a fisherman.
“Good! What could possibly be wrong?” I answered.
“How’s your son?”
“Great. So happy his father married Anne Boleyn.”
Ben drummed his fingers on the roof of my car. “Hey, since we’re both here, you want to go to the Ho and get something to eat? They have forks and everything.”
The Land Ho! was a stone’s throw from here, and they did have the best chowder in these parts. I hesitated. I could go back to my house, eat ice cream and then hide treats around the house and time Zeus to see how fast he could find them (don’t judge me, it was fun). I could obsess over Bralissa and their unborn child. Or I could hang out with Ben, who, though as chatty as a barnacle, wasn’t a bad person.
“I need to call my dad and ask him to feed my dog,” I said.
“Let me do that. You enjoy your dinner,” he said, raising an eyebrow. He stepped away and made the call. I took his advice and had a few more bites of chicken. I could still have clam chowder, I thought. Maybe a hot dog. And definitely dessert. If the Ho had apple pie, I’d get that. Their pie was killer.
“Your dad said he’ll get a pizza and watch TV at your house until you come home,” Ben said, coming back to my car.
“Okay. Get in, sir.” I moved my bag to the back seat. There were Zeus’s nose prints all over the passenger windows, since my dog liked to sit in the front, but Ben wouldn’t care.
Ben got in, and I handed him my decimated chicken. “Mm-mm,” he said.
I laughed a little. “Shut up. It’s been a day.”
As we pulled out of the parking lot, it occurred to me that the last time Ben and I had driven together, I’d wound up in a coma with several torn organs.
Had it really been that long? Twenty-four years? Crikey.
Since it was the off-season, we got a table easily, in the back near the jukebox. I went to the ladies’ room, washed my greasy hands and chin and joined Ben. The Ho was famous for being famous—it wasn’t anything superspecial in the culinary world, but you’d never have a bad meal here, either. The tables were small and covered in red-and-white-checked tablecloths. Newspapers hung from a wire that separated the bar from the restaurant. Signs from local businesses hung from the ceiling, and Cape-oriented license plates from various states were hung everywhere. NAUSET. CPECOD. CAPE01. WHYDAH. EXIT 12. PTOWN. It was a tourist place in the summer, a townie bar in the off-season.
“What can I get you?” asked our server, a girl of about twenty.
Ben nodded at me, still looking at the menu.
“Um . . . a cup of chowder, side of onion rings, and a Devil’s Purse, please,” I said. I liked drinking local beer, when I did drink beer, which was about twice a year. Usually with Brad, Dylan and Charles when we went to Fenway. There was a great Irish pub near the ballpark, and we’d go to a game every fall. Brad’s father had season tickets. Vanessa would join us at the restaurant, since she hated watching sports, and we always had such fun. Such easy laughter, light teasing, affection.
This was the first year we wouldn’t be doing that. Would Brad think about it? Would he miss it? Would he take his new wife and new child there?
One thing was certain—I’d never go to Fenway with the three generations of Fairchild men again. Shit. My throat was tight.
“A Reuben and a Guinness,” Ben said. “Side of fries. Thanks.”
We sat there, not talking, just watching the rest of the customers and staff. Several generations of the Smith family were at a big table in the back, laughing and teasing like a normal family. I waved, and they waved back, and Harlow reminded me that the book I’d ordered was in. The Sox had been rained out, and caber tossing was on ESPN, which was wicked pissah. Our beers arrived, and we sipped, still not talking. Someone came up to the jukebox, and a second later, Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You” came on.
“Nice song,” I said.
“Mm.”
As I said, chatty as a barnacle.
“How’s your daughter?” I asked. “What’s her name again?”
“Reese. She’s good.”
“How old is she now?”
“Twenty-three. Same age as I was when she was born.”
“Wow, Ben. You’re old.”
He grinned.
“Is she in school, or does she have a job?”
He sipped his beer.
“Come on, Ben, you’re the one who wanted to eat together.”
“She’s in medical school. Tulane.”
“Wow. Good for her!”
“Yeah.” He took another sip of beer. “How does Dylan like college?”
I thought a minute. Most of his texts were checking up on me, and me checking up on him. We FaceTimed once or twice a week. “Well, aside from Brad and me, I think he’s good. He loves football, of course, and he’s taking mostly core classes. Not sure what he wants to do yet. I think he might have a girlfriend. A girl invited him for Thanksgiving, so . . .” So he wouldn’t be home this year for the first time in his life.
“Hard when they go away.”