“Oh, right. And on the bird, there was a wing/the prettiest wing that you ever did see . . .”
After two rounds of the song—I did better the second time, according to Jonah—we pull into the parking lot of Sam’s building. It’s a nondescript two-story office building with cream stucco and blue-tinted windows. Sam’s company shares the second floor with an insurance agency, a mortgage broker, and an escrow firm. Jonah and I alight from the minivan and head for the entrance. He carries his paper sack containing his spring egg hunt bounty and Marco the monkey. I let him push the button for the elevator, and he smiles when he hears the ding and the elevator doors slide open.
“Modern technology,” he says, and I laugh.
We alight onto the second floor and head for the door at the far end of the hallway. Sam’s building reminds me of the dentist’s office we frequent, with tired gray carpeting and wood-paneled doors. At Davenport and Gregson, I twist the knob and enter the modest office space. There is no reception area, just one long space with two offices and a conference room on one side and desks and drafting tables on the other side. A young man . . . well, younger than me by a decade—sits at the first desk, typing into his computer. I recognize him as Henry Beecham, the bookkeeper for my husband’s firm. He looks up and smiles when he sees Jonah. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose, then holds up his hand for a high five.
“Hey, my man,” he says. “How’s it going?”
Jonah complies with the high five, then proceeds to regale Henry with the story of his egg hunt and Marco. Henry looks genuinely interested, listens intently, and asks questions. I like Henry. He’s worked for Sam for almost a year, and I hope he stays.
“How’s it going, Mrs. D?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you much lately.”
I nod. It’s true. I rarely visit Sam at work nowadays. Not since the blog. I used to bring him lunch or stop by after shopping, always bestowing upon him a little insignificant gift, like the Sriracha boxers I’d found at Target, or the “365 Ways with Duct Tape” calendar I’d happened upon at Barnes and Noble, just to let him know I was thinking about him. But my free time has become rare. I know Sam understands.
“Is he here?” I ask, and Henry nods and jerks a thumb toward Sam’s office.
“You want an egg?” Jonah asks. “I got lots. I’m saving the cookies-and-cream for Eden, and the peanut butters for Daddy, but I got some Butterfingers and some chocolates.” He looks up at me questioningly. “You like the chocolate ones, Mommy, but is it okay if I give Henry one?”
I nod. “Of course. I don’t need that much chocolate. I’m bulging too much these days.” I pat my stomach to prove the point, but Henry scoffs.
“You look fantastic,” he says. “But I will take a chocolate egg, if you’re sure.”
Jonah’s head bobs up and down. “How about two? ’Cause one is never enough.”
“Mrs. Davenport.” I hear my name and look up to see Sam’s assistant staring at me from a few feet away.
“Hi, Greta. I’ve told you, please call me Rachel.” She looks uncertain, uncomfortable. Sam told me that when she came to work for him, she refused to call him Sam. “Mr. Davenport” this and “Mr. Davenport” that. Almost drove him crazy until she finally agreed to call him Samuel. For some reason, that bothered me, although I couldn’t figure out why.
“Rachel,” she says, looking at the carpet. “This is a surprise.”
“Jonah won the spring egg hunt at the school and wanted to bring Sam his winnings.”
“I got ten eggs for Daddy that are his favorite,” Jonah says proudly.
Greta bends down to smile at Jonah. “Let me guess. Peanut butter.”
“Yeah!” Jonah exclaims. “How did you know?”
“I’m his assistant,” she says. “I know everything there is to know about your daddy.”
She is talking to Jonah on his level and being effusive in a manner that five-year-olds respond to, but something about the way she says that—I know everything there is to know about your daddy—rubs me the wrong way. She stands and winks at me.
“Obviously not everything,” she whispers.
Somewhat mollified, I follow Jonah to Sam’s office. Greta falls in step beside me.
“He is so adorable,” she says, giving Jonah an adoring look.
I nod in agreement. “He is.” I smell vanilla and peaches on her. “Is that Chanel? Coco?”
Greta blushes. “It is. You’re good.”
“It’s lovely,” I tell her.
“Thank you.”
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Jonah shouts. He runs into Sam’s office and rushes to him. Sam stands behind his desk and glances over at me. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but think Sam looks alarmed, as if he’s been caught at something. A fraction of a second later, the look of alarm is replaced by an expression of sheer joy as he wraps his arms around his son and lifts him into the air.
I stand at the office door and gaze at them, my two men. I glance back at Greta. She watches them intently, but when she feels my gaze upon her, she immediately looks away, takes her seat at her desk, and busies herself with some paperwork.
Sam crosses the office and looks at me, puzzled. I shrug.
“He couldn’t wait,” I say.
“I’ve got ten whole peanut butter eggs for you, Daddy,” Jonah says, still suspended in Sam’s arms.
“Ten?” Sam asks, feigning incredulity.
“I found forty-seven! And I get to keep Marco. Oh, this is Marco.”
“Nice to meet you, Marco,” Sam says.
“He says it’s nice to meet you, too,” Jonah tells Sam.
Sam kisses my cheek. Awkwardly. I know I haven’t been here in a while, but Sam’s demeanor feels stilted.
“Sorry about tonight,” he says, and I realize he feels bad about working late on a Friday.
“It’s no problem. We’ll do it another night. Ruth’s always available, as you know.”
Sam puts Jonah down, and he immediately reaches into the bag, pulls out eggs one by one, inspects their wrappers, and sets aside the peanut butters. I check my watch.
“Okay, my guy, we have to go. We have to pick up your sister.”
“Can’t be late for Eden,” Jonah says. “Or she’ll make Mommy pay.”
Sam and I exchange a look, then both of us chuckle. He kisses me again, chastely, on the cheek. “See you later?”
I nod. “I’ll save you some of Ruth’s lasagna.” I feel his eyes on me the whole way out.
FORTY-TWO
RUTH
The lasagna took an hour to make.