The Wedding Tree by Robin Wells

against my leg as she reached into the bottom cabinet for a pan. Was the touch deliberate? It seemed like her body was grazing mine with increasing frequency, but maybe I was just more aware of it. I shifted away.
    â€œHow was your day?” she asked.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAny interesting cases?”
    â€œI really can’t talk about them.” More to the point, I didn’t want to.
    â€œYou used to talk about them with Christine.”
    â€œChristine was my wife.” The words came out a little too bluntly.
    The pans rattled as she extracted one. “Well, I know how to keep a confidence, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She carried the pan—or was it a pot? I didn’t really know the difference—to the sink and filled it with water. “Christine told me lots of things I never told anyone.”
    What kind of things?
Things about my cases, or more personal things about the two of us together? What kind of mind game was Jillian playing here?
    Irritation flashed through me, rapidly followed by a chaser of guilt. My thoughts drifted back to the woman next door. I wished I were standing in her kitchen right now. No history, no baggage, no awkward sense of subtle coercion—nothing but a slinky, Hollywood-style nightie standing between us.
    â€œIt’s been a long day, and I’m kind of fried,” I said. “I don’t much feel like talking.”
    She nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure your work exhausts you.”
    What exhausts me is dealing with you.
It was an unkind thought, but it was the truth.
    Somewhere along the way, it had become awkward, always having her around. And there were other things, things that weren’t her fault.
    Sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye, she looked so much like Christine that my heart would skip a beat. She was far from a dead ringer, but there were odd little physical similarities—the curve of her back when she knelt to talk to the girls, the shape of her calves, the way her toes perfectly slanted downward in her sandals. A year ago, these things were daggers to my heart. Now, they were just irrational annoyances.
    And lately, it had gotten worse. She’d grown out her hair, and two weeks ago, she’d turned up blond. And she’d lost weight, as if she were trying for Christine’s willowy frame. I wondered if she thought that by making herself look more like Christine, I’d find her more attractive.
    But then, maybe I was just imagining it all—which means I’m atotal ass. It’s possible I’m looking for reasons to resent her just because she’s similar to Christine, but not Christine. Close, but no cigar.
    I finished chopping the onion. I slid the cutting board toward her and put the knife in the sink, then washed my hands. “If you’ve got things covered here, I’ll go hang out with the girls.”
    â€œOh. Okay, sure.” Was I looking for it because I felt kind of guilty, or did her voice carry an undertone of disappointment?
    All I knew for sure was that the air seemed lighter in the foyer. I inhaled a deep lungful and headed toward the sound of my daughters’ laughter, the tightness in my chest melting with every step.
    There they were, the two halves of my heart—sprawled on the floral rug in the middle of the den, their blond heads close together, shoving stuffed animals into their Barbie Dreamhouse. I stood in the doorway and drank in the scene. Winnie the Pooh hung upside down out the third-floor window, a naked Barbie rode astride Eeyore through the dollhouse living room, and a teddy bear’s pink fur overflowed the kitchen’s door and windows.
    Zoey looked up at me with her big brown eyes, too serious for a five-year-old. “Hi, Daddy! We’re playin’ zoo.”
    â€œLooks more like
Animal House
,” I remarked.
    If Christine were here, she would have said something