study, enjoying the sight of them bent toward the screen—Lucas light-haired like her, Max dark like Nathan—and wished she could let them be. Instead she entered, kicking away clutter and boy debris. In her sons’ world, computers, soccer balls, and dirty laundry coexisted quite happily. She was eternally grateful they had moved to a house with enough space to hide the boys’ messes.
“Good morning, honeys.” Juliette leaned down to kiss Lucas’s head. His hair, still damp from a shower, smelled sweetly grassy. She inhaled until he ducked away.
“Morning,” he muttered without looking up.
Juliette hugged her younger boy, who smelled far less sweet. “Mmm. Shower time, it’s getting late.”
“Can we have something special for breakfast?” Max bounced with enthusiasm in that way only young boys could.
“Could you clean this room before breakfast?” She pointed in turn at a crumpled sweatshirt, a bowl lined with dried flecks of the previous night’s chips, and mugs flaky with sugary remnants of something unhealthy.
“Will you make waffles if we do?” Max wiggled his eyebrows and gave a “Don’tcha love me?” grin.
Waffles.
She held back her sigh, dreading the extra time making the batter, dragging out the waffle iron, and, with a working woman’s guilt, heating the damned syrup.
“Okay—you clean, I’ll make waffles.” She pulled her robe tighter as she left and walked downstairs.
No whipped cream, though.
The number on the scale had crept up again that morning. She could hear her mother’s lecture on metabolism after forty.
She opened the front door to fine mist and damp newspapers. Four years after moving, Juliette still missed their Waltham paper delivery guy who’d wrap them in plastic at the slightest hint of wetness.
She lifted out yesterday’s mail still piled in the oversized bowl on the hall table and replaced it with the newspapers, where they could dry without getting wetness on the wooden top. Last night she and Nathan had both arrived home late, which meant rushing to prepare dinner, helping the boys with homework, and answering too many phone calls and emails. Email had overtaken postal deliveries in importance. Unless there was a package, she expected little but magazines and bills.
Emerson College alumni bulletin for her.
Contexts for Nathan. The magazine claimed it made sociology “interesting and relevant to anyone interested in how society operates,” so why did Juliette always pick up Vogue instead?
Junk mail for Nathan. Junk mail for her.
American Express bill.
Last in the pile was a hand-addressed letter forwarded from their Waltham address. The return address was Jamaica Plain. It had been sent to Nathan.
She recognized the last name.
Adagio.
Jesus Christ.
Tia Genevieve Adagio. Such a pretty name. She’d forced that name from Nathan. “Tell me her name!” she’d screamed. “Tell me, goddamn it! I’m sure she knows mine.”
Juliette almost crushed the envelope. She should give it to Nathan. Didn’t she trust him now? They were doing so well. The act of giving it to him would strengthen the confidence they’d regained. He’d open it in front of her. That was the right thing to do.
After closing her eyes and praying she’d find an innocent, forgivable reason for the contact (“I’m dying and must say good-bye!”), Juliette slit open the envelope.
Pictures slid out and then a letter. A somber little girl stared at Juliette.
Dear Nathan,
This is our daughter. Her adoptive parents send photos each year after her birthday (March 6). As you can see, she resembles you.
They named her Savannah (I know, it’s an awful name; in my mind she’s Honor—the name I gave her at birth), but they’re good people. Caroline and Peter Fitzgerald. She is a doctor; he has a software company. They live in Dover. (I know you will wonder. I do know you.) They will always love and care for her.
I expect our daughter will call me someday. At her birth, I arranged
“Good morning, honeys.” Juliette leaned down to kiss Lucas’s head. His hair, still damp from a shower, smelled sweetly grassy. She inhaled until he ducked away.
“Morning,” he muttered without looking up.
Juliette hugged her younger boy, who smelled far less sweet. “Mmm. Shower time, it’s getting late.”
“Can we have something special for breakfast?” Max bounced with enthusiasm in that way only young boys could.
“Could you clean this room before breakfast?” She pointed in turn at a crumpled sweatshirt, a bowl lined with dried flecks of the previous night’s chips, and mugs flaky with sugary remnants of something unhealthy.
“Will you make waffles if we do?” Max wiggled his eyebrows and gave a “Don’tcha love me?” grin.
Waffles.
She held back her sigh, dreading the extra time making the batter, dragging out the waffle iron, and, with a working woman’s guilt, heating the damned syrup.
“Okay—you clean, I’ll make waffles.” She pulled her robe tighter as she left and walked downstairs.
No whipped cream, though.
The number on the scale had crept up again that morning. She could hear her mother’s lecture on metabolism after forty.
She opened the front door to fine mist and damp newspapers. Four years after moving, Juliette still missed their Waltham paper delivery guy who’d wrap them in plastic at the slightest hint of wetness.
She lifted out yesterday’s mail still piled in the oversized bowl on the hall table and replaced it with the newspapers, where they could dry without getting wetness on the wooden top. Last night she and Nathan had both arrived home late, which meant rushing to prepare dinner, helping the boys with homework, and answering too many phone calls and emails. Email had overtaken postal deliveries in importance. Unless there was a package, she expected little but magazines and bills.
Emerson College alumni bulletin for her.
Contexts for Nathan. The magazine claimed it made sociology “interesting and relevant to anyone interested in how society operates,” so why did Juliette always pick up Vogue instead?
Junk mail for Nathan. Junk mail for her.
American Express bill.
Last in the pile was a hand-addressed letter forwarded from their Waltham address. The return address was Jamaica Plain. It had been sent to Nathan.
She recognized the last name.
Adagio.
Jesus Christ.
Tia Genevieve Adagio. Such a pretty name. She’d forced that name from Nathan. “Tell me her name!” she’d screamed. “Tell me, goddamn it! I’m sure she knows mine.”
Juliette almost crushed the envelope. She should give it to Nathan. Didn’t she trust him now? They were doing so well. The act of giving it to him would strengthen the confidence they’d regained. He’d open it in front of her. That was the right thing to do.
After closing her eyes and praying she’d find an innocent, forgivable reason for the contact (“I’m dying and must say good-bye!”), Juliette slit open the envelope.
Pictures slid out and then a letter. A somber little girl stared at Juliette.
Dear Nathan,
This is our daughter. Her adoptive parents send photos each year after her birthday (March 6). As you can see, she resembles you.
They named her Savannah (I know, it’s an awful name; in my mind she’s Honor—the name I gave her at birth), but they’re good people. Caroline and Peter Fitzgerald. She is a doctor; he has a software company. They live in Dover. (I know you will wonder. I do know you.) They will always love and care for her.
I expect our daughter will call me someday. At her birth, I arranged
Similar Books
