for my life isn’t what I want?”
She leaned back, putting distance between us. It was only a few inches, but it felt like the Panama Canal, and guilt washed over me, fast and hard. “Yes, Hilary, I have,” she said, her voice quiet.
And hurt.
“Ma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ll stay out of your business.” She picked up her purse, sat it back on her lap and turned to face the road again. As still and cold as the bronze statue of Red Auberach sitting miles and miles behind us in Faneuil Hall.
seven
“So how’s it going?”
I was curled up in the double bed at the motel with my phone pressed to my ear, Nick’s deep, husky voice about the only comfort I had. Okay, Nick’s voice and the four-pack of wine coolers I’d picked up at the convenience store across the street from the motel. I’d been hoping for something harder, but had to settle for a quartet of bottles called Seabreeze Delight.
“It’s not. We’re not getting along at all.”
“You’re stuck together all day in a car. Heck, even you and I would fight.”
“We don’t fight,” I said, suddenly missing Nick so bad, I wanted to cry. I wriggled my hips against the mattress’s lumps, trying to find a position that didn’t require Pilates to feel restful. Wishing he was here, wishing I could hit Rewind and go back to where everything had been perfect.
“Yeah, Hil, we do fight,” he said softly. “We just don’t yell.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but didn’t. Because I knew that would open up that can of worms I didn’twant to open, that set of capital-letter subjects I avoided like the plague—MARRIAGE, PERMANENCE, WHERE OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS GOING.
And why I kept a toothbrush at his apartment but not a change of clothes.
“How’s work?” I asked.
“You’re changing the subject.” He sighed. “Okay, fine. We’ll talk about work. You know what I’m building right now? A set of cabinets for a playroom.”
“Great. Sounds interesting. Who for? What kind of wood?”
“The cabinets are for a family, Hil. Two parents, two kids. I’m down in their basement, measuring the space, installing the shelves, and seeing people who took a risk. Who made the leap.” How did he manage to do that? Turn every single question and conversation back to the same subject? The man was a broken record. “Nick, there are a gazillion people in the world who get married every day. And a half a gazillion who get divorced. Then they fight over those same cabinets like two Rottweilers in a butcher shop.”
“When did you become such a pessimist?”
I let out a gust. “It’s called being realistic, Nick.”
“Sure it is. When you walk into Ernie’s on a Friday night and you’re out of beef, and thirty people want burgers, and the keg of Bud goes flat, do you shut the place down? Close the doors? Give up?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then why are you giving up on us before we’ve even started?”
I didn’t say anything for a while. He was right. Nights like that happened at Ernie’s all the time. We ran out of the special just when a party of ten came in, expecting to find that exactthing on the menu. A delivery driver got lost, and an expected shipment arrived late. The air-conditioning broke down on the hottest night on record in Boston.
I’d learned to take it all in stride. To improvise. Because shutting the doors meant losing money. In the long run, that hurt Ernie’s more than figuring out some way to make everyone happy.
“And when I find a knot in a piece of wood that’s supposed to be perfect,” Nick went on, “I work around it. I see it as part of the design. A touch of something unique. I work with what I have, Hilary. I don’t give up just because it’s not perfect.”
“ You gave up on us once.”
The phone line crackled, tension cutting across the miles. Nick drew in a breath, let it out again. “That was a long time ago. Things are different
She leaned back, putting distance between us. It was only a few inches, but it felt like the Panama Canal, and guilt washed over me, fast and hard. “Yes, Hilary, I have,” she said, her voice quiet.
And hurt.
“Ma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ll stay out of your business.” She picked up her purse, sat it back on her lap and turned to face the road again. As still and cold as the bronze statue of Red Auberach sitting miles and miles behind us in Faneuil Hall.
seven
“So how’s it going?”
I was curled up in the double bed at the motel with my phone pressed to my ear, Nick’s deep, husky voice about the only comfort I had. Okay, Nick’s voice and the four-pack of wine coolers I’d picked up at the convenience store across the street from the motel. I’d been hoping for something harder, but had to settle for a quartet of bottles called Seabreeze Delight.
“It’s not. We’re not getting along at all.”
“You’re stuck together all day in a car. Heck, even you and I would fight.”
“We don’t fight,” I said, suddenly missing Nick so bad, I wanted to cry. I wriggled my hips against the mattress’s lumps, trying to find a position that didn’t require Pilates to feel restful. Wishing he was here, wishing I could hit Rewind and go back to where everything had been perfect.
“Yeah, Hil, we do fight,” he said softly. “We just don’t yell.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but didn’t. Because I knew that would open up that can of worms I didn’twant to open, that set of capital-letter subjects I avoided like the plague—MARRIAGE, PERMANENCE, WHERE OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS GOING.
And why I kept a toothbrush at his apartment but not a change of clothes.
“How’s work?” I asked.
“You’re changing the subject.” He sighed. “Okay, fine. We’ll talk about work. You know what I’m building right now? A set of cabinets for a playroom.”
“Great. Sounds interesting. Who for? What kind of wood?”
“The cabinets are for a family, Hil. Two parents, two kids. I’m down in their basement, measuring the space, installing the shelves, and seeing people who took a risk. Who made the leap.” How did he manage to do that? Turn every single question and conversation back to the same subject? The man was a broken record. “Nick, there are a gazillion people in the world who get married every day. And a half a gazillion who get divorced. Then they fight over those same cabinets like two Rottweilers in a butcher shop.”
“When did you become such a pessimist?”
I let out a gust. “It’s called being realistic, Nick.”
“Sure it is. When you walk into Ernie’s on a Friday night and you’re out of beef, and thirty people want burgers, and the keg of Bud goes flat, do you shut the place down? Close the doors? Give up?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then why are you giving up on us before we’ve even started?”
I didn’t say anything for a while. He was right. Nights like that happened at Ernie’s all the time. We ran out of the special just when a party of ten came in, expecting to find that exactthing on the menu. A delivery driver got lost, and an expected shipment arrived late. The air-conditioning broke down on the hottest night on record in Boston.
I’d learned to take it all in stride. To improvise. Because shutting the doors meant losing money. In the long run, that hurt Ernie’s more than figuring out some way to make everyone happy.
“And when I find a knot in a piece of wood that’s supposed to be perfect,” Nick went on, “I work around it. I see it as part of the design. A touch of something unique. I work with what I have, Hilary. I don’t give up just because it’s not perfect.”
“ You gave up on us once.”
The phone line crackled, tension cutting across the miles. Nick drew in a breath, let it out again. “That was a long time ago. Things are different
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