lingerie shop in the mall. Of course six months later, she left
him
for a fat, balding dentist. I figure she was picturing free veneers. Vindication, but not enough to take away the bitterness.
Darcy pauses a second. She gathers a breath and I see her brace herself for what she’s going to say. I brace myself, too,
and wish a meteor would land in my yard to distract her. Or perhaps she could suddenly be hailed by the mother ship.
No such luck.
“It’s hard for me to imagine Rick as the man who cheated on you.”
“I would never have thought it of him either.”
Now why did I have to go and say that? It was catty and sort of sounded like I was warning her. I see by the wariness flickering
across her eyes that she’s not sure what to make of my remark. I know I have to undo what I said. “Look, Darcy, Rick’s not
the same guy he was five years ago when we divorced.” There. That’s my concession and that’s all she’s getting.
It seems to be enough for her because she smiles.
All right, then. She likes the book. Respects me for writing it. Anything else? Please say no. Please say no.
“Just one more thing…”
Shoot.
“I get the feeling sometimes that…”
I frown, sensing this is not easy for her to say. And fully supporting her need to just drop it. But she’s not feeling my
support, or something, because she forges ahead, heedless of my “Let it go, babe” vibes. “I get the feeling that you don’t
differentiate between the woman Rick cheated with and me.”
My jaw goes slack. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. That’s the most ridiculous . . .
Darcy takes one step down and pauses again. “And, Claire. I would never be the other woman. I wouldn’t have before I was a
Christian, and certainly wouldn’t now.” She draws a short breath and looks me squarely in the eye. “I didn’t take Rick away
from you. And I would really like to be your friend.”
Is it my imagination, or did the whole earth stop spinning?
5
A mid-thirties-ish, overweight woman without makeup isn’t a pretty sight to behold. Especially when she’s frowning into my
bathroom mirror like I am and every wrinkle (which are really war wounds as far as I’m concerned) reminds me that I’m not
getting any younger. Or nicer, apparently.
I stare at the woman I’ve become. The reflection accuses me, mocks me, and worse still, reminds me of all the weight I’ve
gained over the past five years.
Darcy’s little parting remark left me speechless. And that doesn’t happen often. I’m notorious for the quippy comeback. Now
my wings are clipped, the wind has left my sails, and more than anything I wish I could rewind a couple of hours and never
answer that doorbell in the first place.
Of course her accusation or observation or whatever that was supposed to be is completely and utterly ridiculous.
She looks nothing whatsoever like Gina, the adulterous model, so how could I mix them up? I feel a twinge inside my gut. And
that annoys me. The last thing I want to do is soul-search about this. Darcy is Darcy. Sweet, wholesome, put-together like
something out of
Vogue.
Not Gina. But married to Rick.
Luckily, the phone rings, and I have no choice but to stop thinking about this and answer.
Mom.
“Hi, honey. Good news. The realtor just called and says we have a bite on the house.”
Great. How about twisting the knife just to add a little something to my day? “That was quick. You sure you priced it high
enough?”
“Yes. Anyway. The man is coming to take a look on Monday, and I need to clear out the attic.”
I inwardly groan, because I know she didn’t call simply to give me an update on the work ahead of
her.
She’s just mapped out my day. My first free Saturday in weeks, now that the manuscript is on my editor’s desk. The day I was
going to clean my house, read a book, relax. Possibly take a bubble bath. I see this vision vanish before me like a puff of
smoke.
“I have to get
him
for a fat, balding dentist. I figure she was picturing free veneers. Vindication, but not enough to take away the bitterness.
Darcy pauses a second. She gathers a breath and I see her brace herself for what she’s going to say. I brace myself, too,
and wish a meteor would land in my yard to distract her. Or perhaps she could suddenly be hailed by the mother ship.
No such luck.
“It’s hard for me to imagine Rick as the man who cheated on you.”
“I would never have thought it of him either.”
Now why did I have to go and say that? It was catty and sort of sounded like I was warning her. I see by the wariness flickering
across her eyes that she’s not sure what to make of my remark. I know I have to undo what I said. “Look, Darcy, Rick’s not
the same guy he was five years ago when we divorced.” There. That’s my concession and that’s all she’s getting.
It seems to be enough for her because she smiles.
All right, then. She likes the book. Respects me for writing it. Anything else? Please say no. Please say no.
“Just one more thing…”
Shoot.
“I get the feeling sometimes that…”
I frown, sensing this is not easy for her to say. And fully supporting her need to just drop it. But she’s not feeling my
support, or something, because she forges ahead, heedless of my “Let it go, babe” vibes. “I get the feeling that you don’t
differentiate between the woman Rick cheated with and me.”
My jaw goes slack. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. That’s the most ridiculous . . .
Darcy takes one step down and pauses again. “And, Claire. I would never be the other woman. I wouldn’t have before I was a
Christian, and certainly wouldn’t now.” She draws a short breath and looks me squarely in the eye. “I didn’t take Rick away
from you. And I would really like to be your friend.”
Is it my imagination, or did the whole earth stop spinning?
5
A mid-thirties-ish, overweight woman without makeup isn’t a pretty sight to behold. Especially when she’s frowning into my
bathroom mirror like I am and every wrinkle (which are really war wounds as far as I’m concerned) reminds me that I’m not
getting any younger. Or nicer, apparently.
I stare at the woman I’ve become. The reflection accuses me, mocks me, and worse still, reminds me of all the weight I’ve
gained over the past five years.
Darcy’s little parting remark left me speechless. And that doesn’t happen often. I’m notorious for the quippy comeback. Now
my wings are clipped, the wind has left my sails, and more than anything I wish I could rewind a couple of hours and never
answer that doorbell in the first place.
Of course her accusation or observation or whatever that was supposed to be is completely and utterly ridiculous.
She looks nothing whatsoever like Gina, the adulterous model, so how could I mix them up? I feel a twinge inside my gut. And
that annoys me. The last thing I want to do is soul-search about this. Darcy is Darcy. Sweet, wholesome, put-together like
something out of
Vogue.
Not Gina. But married to Rick.
Luckily, the phone rings, and I have no choice but to stop thinking about this and answer.
Mom.
“Hi, honey. Good news. The realtor just called and says we have a bite on the house.”
Great. How about twisting the knife just to add a little something to my day? “That was quick. You sure you priced it high
enough?”
“Yes. Anyway. The man is coming to take a look on Monday, and I need to clear out the attic.”
I inwardly groan, because I know she didn’t call simply to give me an update on the work ahead of
her.
She’s just mapped out my day. My first free Saturday in weeks, now that the manuscript is on my editor’s desk. The day I was
going to clean my house, read a book, relax. Possibly take a bubble bath. I see this vision vanish before me like a puff of
smoke.
“I have to get
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