a nice bouquet. Don’t spend more than twenty-five bucks, or it’ll look like you’re trying too hard, and no carnations.”
Once the phone call was over, Kelly turned on the light and looked proudly at the baby’s room. The rocker was white-painted wood with red-and-white-striped cushions. The dresser was already filled with washed and folded outfits—socks and overalls and little hats and scarves that she’d been buying and squirreling away long before she got pregnant, before she’d even met Steve. Not in a crazy Miss Havisham way, but just an adorable sunhat here, a pair of perfect denim Oshkosh overalls there. So she’d be ready. So it would all be right.
Kelly kicked off her shoes and ran her toes over the Peter Rabbit rug, sighing in satisfaction as Lemon licked her hand.
New friends. Kelly shut her eyes, Ayinde’s living room still hanging like a vision behind her lids, and rocked. She’d had friends in high school and in college, but ever since Steve, she’d fallen out of touch with her girlfriends. They were still doing the single-in-the-city thing—happy hours and blind-date horror stories, blowing their paychecks on makeup and shoes. Kelly was just in a different place now. A better place. No more worrying about whether a guy would call or if she’d sit home alone on a Saturday night. She rocked back and forth, sighing in contentment, thinking about Steve and whether he’d ever get to meet Richard Towne and whether he’d make a fool of himself if he did. Steve had occasionally been known to go off the deep end, to hang on to a handshake past the point where the other person was clearly uncomfortable, to talk too long or too loudly about gay marriage or the flat tax or any one of the dozens of topics on which he held a strong opinion.
She didn’t like to think about it, but the truth was that she’d met her husband on the rebound, after the guy she’d dated her sophomore and junior years had broken up with her. His name was Scott Schiff. She’d been desperately in love with him, and she thought he’d been in love with her, too. Then one night she’d gone to his apartment and tried to sit down on his bed, and he’d jumped up as soon as her bottom had hit the quilt. Oh, dear, she thought, as her heart sank. Not good.
He paced across the room, rubbing his hands together like they were cold, and she’d known what he was saying without really hearing a word of it. “Fine!” she had said, cutting off his speech about how he cared for her a great deal but didn’t think they’d have a long-term future together. He made their relationship sound like she was a bond he didn’t want to risk his capital on. “It’s fine!”
She knew why he was ending it. She’d seen the look on his face when they pulled up outside the O’Hara family house for her mother’s funeral. She caught the way his nostrils had flared at the sight of the ancient van in the driveway, the frayed carpet on the stairs, the single bathroom on the second floor that all eight kids had shared. His parents’ walls were hung with original watercolors; the walls at Casa O’Hara were decorated with framed eight-by-
tens of each child’s high school graduation portrait and—oh, how she’d kicked herself for not getting Maureen to take it down—a huge crucifix with a buff Savior in a skimpy loincloth with gaudy drops of blood painted onto His hands. Scott was a major catch, four years older than Kelly, getting his MBA at Wharton. She hadn’t lied, not exactly, when she’d told him she’d grown up on the shore. It was technically true, but, clearly, he imagined something more along the lines of the six-bedroom summer cottage his parents owned in Newport instead of this shabby house in a crummy working-class town on the Jersey shore. She guessed she should have been grateful that he stayed with her for even a minute once her mother was in the ground.
“Are you okay?” Scott asked, as she bounded off his bed.
“I’m
Once the phone call was over, Kelly turned on the light and looked proudly at the baby’s room. The rocker was white-painted wood with red-and-white-striped cushions. The dresser was already filled with washed and folded outfits—socks and overalls and little hats and scarves that she’d been buying and squirreling away long before she got pregnant, before she’d even met Steve. Not in a crazy Miss Havisham way, but just an adorable sunhat here, a pair of perfect denim Oshkosh overalls there. So she’d be ready. So it would all be right.
Kelly kicked off her shoes and ran her toes over the Peter Rabbit rug, sighing in satisfaction as Lemon licked her hand.
New friends. Kelly shut her eyes, Ayinde’s living room still hanging like a vision behind her lids, and rocked. She’d had friends in high school and in college, but ever since Steve, she’d fallen out of touch with her girlfriends. They were still doing the single-in-the-city thing—happy hours and blind-date horror stories, blowing their paychecks on makeup and shoes. Kelly was just in a different place now. A better place. No more worrying about whether a guy would call or if she’d sit home alone on a Saturday night. She rocked back and forth, sighing in contentment, thinking about Steve and whether he’d ever get to meet Richard Towne and whether he’d make a fool of himself if he did. Steve had occasionally been known to go off the deep end, to hang on to a handshake past the point where the other person was clearly uncomfortable, to talk too long or too loudly about gay marriage or the flat tax or any one of the dozens of topics on which he held a strong opinion.
She didn’t like to think about it, but the truth was that she’d met her husband on the rebound, after the guy she’d dated her sophomore and junior years had broken up with her. His name was Scott Schiff. She’d been desperately in love with him, and she thought he’d been in love with her, too. Then one night she’d gone to his apartment and tried to sit down on his bed, and he’d jumped up as soon as her bottom had hit the quilt. Oh, dear, she thought, as her heart sank. Not good.
He paced across the room, rubbing his hands together like they were cold, and she’d known what he was saying without really hearing a word of it. “Fine!” she had said, cutting off his speech about how he cared for her a great deal but didn’t think they’d have a long-term future together. He made their relationship sound like she was a bond he didn’t want to risk his capital on. “It’s fine!”
She knew why he was ending it. She’d seen the look on his face when they pulled up outside the O’Hara family house for her mother’s funeral. She caught the way his nostrils had flared at the sight of the ancient van in the driveway, the frayed carpet on the stairs, the single bathroom on the second floor that all eight kids had shared. His parents’ walls were hung with original watercolors; the walls at Casa O’Hara were decorated with framed eight-by-
tens of each child’s high school graduation portrait and—oh, how she’d kicked herself for not getting Maureen to take it down—a huge crucifix with a buff Savior in a skimpy loincloth with gaudy drops of blood painted onto His hands. Scott was a major catch, four years older than Kelly, getting his MBA at Wharton. She hadn’t lied, not exactly, when she’d told him she’d grown up on the shore. It was technically true, but, clearly, he imagined something more along the lines of the six-bedroom summer cottage his parents owned in Newport instead of this shabby house in a crummy working-class town on the Jersey shore. She guessed she should have been grateful that he stayed with her for even a minute once her mother was in the ground.
“Are you okay?” Scott asked, as she bounded off his bed.
“I’m
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