“I don’t know, let’s see.” Jack took out his phone and she was abashed to see him open the Stalkerville app, the one she’d talked him into using. “Let’s take a peek,” he said, waiting for it to load. “Here we go. He’s at work and, look!” He pressed the “call” button on his phone and held it up for Melody to see as the screen said “Walker” and the phone rang and rang. He banged the phone onto the counter. Melody picked it up. “What are you doing?” Jack said.
“I’m deleting this. If you want to tell Walker something, you should go find him. This thing?” She raised the phone and shook it a little. “It’s not telling you what you need to know. It’s one tiny part of the story; it’s bullshit.” She typed in a few commands, and the app was gone. Jack was looking past her lowered head and out the window, watching the pedestrians walking down the street on a heart-wrenchingly perfect spring day. He’d never felt so alone in his entire life. Handing him back his phone, Melody realized that Jack’s scattered, slightly unfocused gaze, his too-long hair, and his wrinkled shirt—it all added up to heartbreak. He wasn’t mad or blithe; he was empty. She sat with him for a while, wishing she could erase the look on his face, a world of comeuppance and regret.
“Mel?” he finally said. “Nora just needs to know you love her as much and exactly as you did before. She needs to know she’s not alone.”
“I know,” Melody said.
CHAPTER FORTY
It was the day before Mother’s Day and Stephanie was still wearing her down vest. May in New York City was fickle. On Friday she hadn’t needed any kind of overcoat, but Saturday dawned cloudy and cold, more autumnal than springlike. Still, there were bunches of pink and purple and blue sweet peas at the farmers’ market and she splurged and bought four bouquets for herself. She’d scatter them around the house and their heady scent would permeate every room.
Vinnie and Matilda were coming over to her house for lunch. The day when she’d answered Leo’s phone, she’d quickly ended the call with Matilda, saying Leo was out. She didn’t forget about the call—or the poor girl who’d been in the car with Leo—but there was so much else for her to contend with; weeks later, she’d called back, out of duty more than anything else.
Stephanie knew she wasn’t responsible for Leo’s mess, but as Matilda nervously and somewhat disjointedly explained why she was calling, Stephanie realized she might be able to help. One of her favorite clients, Olivia Russell, was a hugely successful journalist who had written extensively about artificial limbs, especially the challenges facing Gulf War veterans. Olivia had lost a leg herself when she was young. She knew everyone and how to work every program and now ran a nonprofit that helped amputees navigate the expensive and complicated world of artificial limbs. Stephanie offered to broker an introduction. Matilda asked if she could bring her friend Vinnie. So they were all coming for lunch: Vinnie, Matilda, and Olivia, who’d already agreed to help Matilda as a favor to Stephanie. Then Stephanie’s job would be done.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” the farmer who took her money said. She assumed he was a farmer anyway; he was scruffy and already sun weathered. His fingers were thick and blunt and dirt stained, and he was wearing a bright blue baseball cap that said SHEPHERD FARMS ORGANIC in orange script on the front. It took Stephanie a minute to realize he was addressing her.
“Oh, thanks,” she said. With her height, she was carrying the pregnancy well but at six months her bulge was prominent, unmistakable.
“You have other kids at home?”
“Nope. First and last,” she said, employing the emotionally neutered tone that she’d learned usually shut down baby conversation, shifting her bags of spring potatoes and asparagus and strawberries into the crook of one elbow so she could carry the vibrant flowers in one hand, like a spring bride.
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” the farmer said, grinning. “Then the kid starts walking and talking. Soon he won’t sit in your lap anymore and before you know it”—he gestured toward her middle—“you’re cooking number two.”
“Hmmmm,” she said noncommittally, holding a palm out for her change.
She’d listened to her pregnant friends complain for years about the invasiveness a protruding belly engendered, how even in New York where you could stand inches away from someone’s face on the subway secure in the tacit but universal agreement that nobody (sane) would engage with you, ever, all bets were off when you were pregnant.