by Darien Gee
He peers at her driveway. “Do you want to open your garage door? I can bring them right in.”
“How many packages are there?”
Jamie is already heading back out into the rain. “About ten.”
Hannah goes through the house and opens the garage door. Jamie is already there, the UPS truck almost touching the eaves. He brings out the first box and walks it into the garage, placing it by the door to the house. “Here’s the first one.”
Hannah looks at the addresses which have been scrawled across the top of the box with a fat permanent marker.
From: P. de Brisay, 540 North State Street, #843, Chicago, IL 60610.
To: Hannah Wang, 11248 First Avenue, Avalon, IL 61798.
Hannah stares at the box. She thought Philippe was going to wait until the season was over in June before sending back her things, but apparently that’s too long. Hannah shouldn’t be surprised—once Philippe makes up his mind, he’s impatient to get it over with, to move on—but she wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing her own name again, suddenly separate and disconnected from his. It’s amazing how someone can cut you out of their life by simply taking their name back.
She hasn’t been Hannah Wang in years, not since she married Philippe. Her father had been against her changing her name, even her agent was against it, but Hannah wanted to change her name. She loved how Philippe would chant, “Hannah de Brisay, Hannah de Brisay,” with so much pride and joy. He practically sang it out to everyone in the first-class cabin when they were on their honeymoon, he was so proud.
“Are you okay?” Jamie is ferrying in boxes of different sizes and shapes, miscellaneous cardboard boxes that Philippe picked up from Costco or at the back of some warehouse.
Hannah doesn’t say anything but tugs at a single strip of flimsy packing tape that holds the flaps together. It comes off easily, making her marvel at the fact that the box didn’t burst open during transit.
Inside is a jumble of her things from the apartment. Clothes, books, toiletries. The lid for her shampoo is loose, and it’s leaked all over everything, even the cashmere throw Philippe gave her for Christmas. Hannah tries to scoop some of the shampoo back into the bottle, but finally gives up and drops the whole thing back into the box.
Jamie wrinkles his nose. “Wow, that’s too bad. People don’t always pack things well and things can open along the way. Smells nice, though.”
Hannah smiles at him gratefully, touched that he noticed. That’s exactly why she bought the shampoo, a milk and rose variety from Fresh. But Philippe didn’t care.
“Thanks, Jamie. Do I need to sign anything?”
“Nope. Sender didn’t request confirmation.”
Hannah feels a twinge of rejection again that Philippe couldn’t even be bothered to make sure she got everything. “Oh. Well, okay.” She surveys the other boxes and dreads opening them. Maybe she shouldn’t. She can’t even remember what she had in that apartment. Maybe she should just donate everything sight unseen and move on.
“So.” Jamie casts his eyes around the almost bare garage. There aren’t any tools or lawn equipment, none of the usual things that you might find. Philippe was never one for manual labor, nor would he risk his hands, which are insured by the CSO. They have a gardener who comes twice a month. “Are you renting this place?”
“No, we bought it.” Hannah closes up the box and pushes it away.
“Oh. Right. Your husband is a musician, too?”
“He’s a violinist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. We’re separated, though. We’re getting a divorce.” She opens up another box and sees a jumble of sweaters.
Jamie doesn’t look surprised, his face sympathetic as he points his chin to the empty spaces around them. “I figured. It doesn’t look like there’s a man around here. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. He’s sleeping with the violist.” That was totally unnecessary—Hannah wants to clap a hand over her mouth. But then she thinks, I don’t care. I’m glad he knows. She nudges another box with the edge of her ballet flat, wonders what’s inside.
Jamie grimaces, makes a face. “He must be mad. I’d take a cellist over a violist any day.” He says this with so much authority that Hannah smiles, charmed. There’s a flash of lightning followed almost immediately by another rumble of thunder.
Jamie glances outside. “I should go. You’re my last delivery—they want us to head back because of the weather. There’s major flooding in Laquin but Barrett is hit the worst.” Barrett and Laquin are small towns neighboring Avalon.
“Oh, wait,” Hannah says, jumping up. She hurries into the house where she wraps a couple of potato croquettes, still warm from the pan. She returns to the garage and hands them to him. “I just made them.”
Jamie accepts them gratefully. “Wow, these look amazing. Thanks—I was starving. I skipped my break because I wanted to finish my route early.” His eyes dart outside, where the sky is dark and menacing. “I know this may not be great timing for you, but would you be interested in going out sometime? Not like a date, because you’re still married, but maybe for dinner or something? Do you like Italian?”
Oh, Hannah would love to go out to dinner with him. Jamie is tall and handsome and incredibly sweet. It doesn’t hurt that he has a great body, either, which is easy to see in his trim UPS uniform. And it’s clear that he likes her. Hannah misses that part the most—having someone to dote on her, someone who thinks she’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.
“Thanks, but I probably shouldn’t …” Her voice trails off, disappointed.
“Right.” Jamie is quick to nod, embarrassed.
Hannah bites her lip, frustrated. God, she wants to. She wants to go out with Jamie, wants to know more about him, wants to see what they have in common. But it’s too soon, isn’t it? She should probably finalize the divorce, have a period of aloneness, of independence. “It’s just that everything is so messy with my husband right now …” She stops.
How much more aloneness does Hannah really need? How exactly is she supposed to quantify that? Is it like a period of mourning? Because the more she thinks about it, the more she’s noticing something else entirely. She’s spent a good part of her life being alone, maybe not physically, but emotionally, and she’s not interested in living like that anymore. Her marriage is over, her professional playing career is over. And while there has been so much sorrow around these losses, there is something new in its place.
Freedom.
Freedom to make mistakes, freedom to live life messily. That’s what Madeline and Julia said, right? Life is messy. Their friendship, like a breath of fresh air, has swept away the cobwebs from the dark corners of her life, has shown her that while aloneness may have its place, friendship—and love—offer so much more.
“Well, I just thought I’d ask.” Jamie runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and Hannah loves how it makes him even more handsome. He smiles politely then turns to leave.
“Wait,” she says. She reaches out and touches his arm, lightly, and isn’t prepared for the sudden flash of heat that runs through her, causing her body to tingle.
Wow.
“Not a date yet, but maybe we can meet for ice cream sometime,” she proposes. “How about next week?” She’s had enough of the fancy dinners and elaborate dates—she wants to do something fun for a change. Something that doesn’t require a lot of planning or coordination, or having to have her hair done or a special outfit picked out. She’s been wanting to go to the ice cream parlor near her house and she likes the idea of sitting with Jamie in a place filled with the wild cacophony of school-aged kids, sharing a sundae or ice cream float.
“Ice cream?” Jamie says this with such a look of amusement on his face that she can’t help but laugh. “Okay. But you have to stay on your side of the booth.” He says this playfully but Hannah hears the flirtatious undertones, can see that he’s already trying to figure out how to woo her. She prays he isn’t the kind of guy who will smash her heart into
a million little pieces, because she can already feel herself falling for him. Or maybe it’s too late and she already has, and she just needs to let it go.
Hannah is full to bursting, radiating a happiness she hasn’t felt in a long time. She presses her lips together to keep her smile in check. “I’ll try my best.”
Jamie grins back, pulls the hood back on his head. “Great,” he says. “I’ll call you next week. Stay dry, Hannah.”
“You too. Bye, Jamie.”
She watches him dash into the rain and into his truck. The brake lights flash, and then he’s gone.
“Well, it’s official.” Tom walks in the front door, drenched to the skin, and drops a box into a corner. “They let me go.”
“Oh, Tom.” Livvy hurries over. They knew this was coming. The company cut 150 sales reps from across the country since abandoning plans to release their latest drug, some pain pill that obviously didn’t work or had too many side effects. “Like death,” Tom had snorted bitterly when the firings first started.
Livvy wants to hug him but he’s sopping wet. Plus he doesn’t really look like he wants to be touched. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer?”
“I’d like some coffee, actually.” Tom peels off his clothes right there in the entryway until he’s clad in only boxers and socks. “They should have just sent an email. It was completely pointless to make us drive out in this storm to give us the ax in person.”
Livvy tosses him a fleece throw from the back of the sofa and scoops up his clothes. “I’ll put some coffee on. And Mrs. Lowry stopped by to give us a loaf of that Amish Friendship Bread. Can you believe it?”
Tom wraps the throw around himself then pads into the living room. “Did you have it tested for poison?”
“Tom.” But Livvy is smiling, having had her own suspicions as well. “I actually invited her in and we each had a slice. You’ll like it.”
“Maybe she’s in cahoots with Julia.”
Livvy doesn’t say anything. In the past she appreciated the small jabs at Julia, at Tom’s attempts to stay loyal to his wife. But now she feels remorse at hearing Julia’s name, at their inability to make things right again. It’s no longer vengeful or funny, just sad.
Tom picks up the remote but then puts it back down and settles onto the couch. He look around, gives a shiver. “We need a fireplace.”
Livvy goes to the thermostat and turns the dial. “I’ll turn up the heat.” The lack of a fireplace in the house is the one thing that bothers Livvy. The house is relatively new and has everything else, but the real estate agent said the previous owner had run out of money before they could put a fireplace in, and Livvy and Tom couldn’t afford to put one in, either. She longs for the sound of a fire crackling and popping, the smell of wood burning. S’mores. That’s really what it is. She wishes they could make s’mores in their living room, as silly as that might sound.
In the kitchen Livvy hums as she cuts several fat slices of the bread and puts them on a plate. She makes a pot of coffee and chooses a container of nonfat yogurt for herself then gets one for Tom, in case he’d like one, too. She’s read about how husbands will sometimes gain sympathy weight, and she hopes that won’t happen to him. Both of his parents are a little on the heavy side. She puts everything on a breakfast tray with a nice cloth napkin and carries it out to him.
“You’re in an awfully good mood for someone who just became the primary breadwinner,” Tom notes as she puts the tray down in front of him.
Huh. She hadn’t thought of that. Still, it’s not like they were blind-sided by the news. “I guess I figure there are worse things that could happen.” She breaks off a corner of the bread and pops it in her mouth. Mmm. She could eat this all day.
“We could lose the house, Livvy.” Tom is serious. He adds some cream to his coffee.
“I know.” The thought’s occurred to her several times over the past month. “Maybe we should sell.”
Tom stops stirring his coffee. “You’d sell the house? I thought you loved this house.”
She does. Lack of fireplace aside, it’s her dream home. It was a stretch for them to get it in the first place and it’s mortgaged to the hilt, but she wanted it so they got it. She always pictured it filled with family and laughter, but it’s still just the two of them and all this extra space only serves to echo their loneliness. The truth is that they would probably do fine in a smaller place, even with the baby coming. Livvy has no idea what they’ll get for the house but prices have appreciated since they bought it, even if it is a buyer’s market right now. There are a lot of nice features and they’ve done a good job of keeping up the place. “If we can sell it we can pay off the mortgage and maybe look at something more affordable. It can still be nice.” The idea of having a smaller, more manageable mortgage payment is very appealing. And there’s nothing wrong with having a smaller house. It’ll be cozier for all of them.
Tom nods in agreement, sipping his coffee slowly. “If we want to do this, we should probably do it sooner rather than later. I don’t want to get behind on our mortgage payments and lose the house altogether.” Livvy sees his eyes dart toward the garage, probably remembering what happened with the BMW.
“Do you think we’ll have a problem selling the place?”
Tom shrugs. “I don’t know. But we’ll probably have better luck selling it than me trying to find a job in this economy. Nobody’s hiring.” He takes a bite of the Amish Friendship Bread, his eyes registering surprise. “Hey, this isn’t so bad.”
“Told you.” She takes another little piece for herself. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to wait ten days before she can bake her own bread. She could eat it morning, noon, and night.
Tom stares into his coffee mug. “I’ve been thinking I should sell my golf clubs, too.”
“Really?” Livvy stares at him. Tom loves golf.
“Yeah. Well, okay, maybe not my clubs, but I think I should let the golf membership go.” He gives her a sheepish grin. “I can only play a few months out of the year and there are lots of good muni courses around. I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.”
Livvy doesn’t know what to say.
“I figure that I won’t be playing much anyway. Any free time I have I want to spend with you and the baby.” Tom pats the space next to him.
Livvy scoots over and burrows into the crook of his arm. “Tom?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do you think …” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”
Tom looks at her and she knows he knows what she’s thinking. “Livvy,” he says. “I know you’ll be a good mother.”
She swallows. “Even after …”
“Even after what happened,” he finishes for her.
Tom wraps the blanket around them—all three of them, if you include their little bean in utero—and they continue to talk quietly and eat as the rain falls steadily against the house.
“Stupid mother—” Edie closes the lid of her laptop angrily.
Richard walks into the bedroom and frowns at Edie sitting up in bed. “You’re supposed to be lying down. As in completely horizontal.” Richard puts a tall glass of water next to the bed stand and picks up her laptop. “Drink.”
Water, water, everywhere. It’s pouring outside, a hazardous weather outlook according to NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, home of the National Weather Service. Rivers across the northern part of the state are flooding. Heavy thunderstorms are rolling through the area with nonstop rainfall. Residents of nearby towns have been evacuated and there’s reported damage to almost two hundred homes. Avalon, while wet, seems to have been spared.
“Since when did you become such a medical Nazi?” Edie grumbles, but she obediently takes a long sip of water.
“Since you were diagnosed with preeclampsia and the doctor put you on bed rest.” He folds back the covers and nudges her to lie down.
Edie sighs. “Oh, right.” She scoots down und
er the covers and lets her head fall back on the pillow.
Her last prenatal appointment with Dr. Briggs revealed hypertension and excess protein in her urine. Add to that the occasional dizziness and the nausea and vomiting (turned out it wasn’t morning sickness after all) and hello, preeclampsia. The only cure for preeclampsia is to have the baby, which is not a possibility since Edie still has twenty weeks to go. So Dr. Briggs has put Edie on bed rest until it’s time for the big day. As much as she’s dreading labor, being put on bed rest feels like a prison sentence.
“It’s not uncommon, unfortunately,” Dr. Briggs told her. “It happens with first pregnancies and women over forty.”
“But I’m thirty-six.”
Dr. Briggs lifted her shoulders as if to say, What can you do?
“Patrick hired another reporter,” Edie says as Richard plumps a pillow. “I just saw her byline. Lori Blair. What kind of name is that? She doesn’t even have a degree in journalism. She was a poli sci major from some community college. Her last job was working at the Avalon Book Nook.”
“How do you know?”
“I Googled her and found her on Facebook.” Edie pulls the covers up to her chin. “She’s also on mySpace and is a food reviewer on Yelp.”
Richard zips up her computer case and puts it to the side. “That’s being a bit obsessive, don’t you think?”
“She also self-published some book about how to bond with your dog.” Edie rolls her eyes. “It’s four ninety-nine. You can buy it on Amazon. Amazingly she got ten reviews from …”
“Edie.” Richard interrupts and gives her a look.
“What?”
“Stop stalking the new hires at the Gazette.”
Edie rolls over onto her left side, her back to him. “I’m not stalking. I just wanted to find out why he hired her. She’s not a freelancer. Her byline says Staff Reporter.”
“You didn’t want to be on staff,” he reminds her. “You wanted your freedom. And Patrick’s got to figure out some way to get the news out while you’re laid up, Edie.”
