The next evening, I ride my bike to Henry’s house to get my paperwork in order. After teaching my Jane Austen seminar, I fell asleep in my office, silky black sleep mask over my eyes. I dreamed that I died, and Mirabel and Ted got Heathcliff. She raised him in seersucker suits and bow ties, and he took tea every afternoon with her and Ted on the front porch. Batman costumes weren’t allowed in Mirabel’s home. It was horrifying.
I left a letter with Sandra to give to Dean McGregor excusing myself from an afternoon college admissions fair due to “bereavement issues.” My fusty neighbor, Edith, agreed to babysit Heathcliff for the evening, and I know I’ll hear from him about her “old lady” smell and how she knits in front of her “boring” murder mystery shows. I feel a little guilty. But he’ll survive.
Although Henry only lives a few miles from me, I’ve never been to his house. Warm air whips at my cheeks as I pedal. It’s that late-afternoon hour when neighbors start walking their dogs and twilight glows from above the treetops. I swapped my pencil skirt for black yoga pants and a loose black T-shirt. The jet necklace holds Philip’s lock of hair at my throat, and his bird urn rests safely in my mini-backpack. My helmet is bright lime green, but, well—I have to be practical. I still text, take antibiotics, sing Spice Girls songs in the shower, and watch Netflix.
As I ride, easing away from my street of 1930s-era bungalows to Henry’s “newer” neighborhood of sprawling midcenturies with large picture windows, I remember my few interactions with Henry. He joined us once or twice for a holiday dinner. I saw him coming and going throughout the years with Philip. I definitelyrememberthe first time I met Henry back in grad school, and I blush.
My coffee date with Philip had gone well. Then there was a second date. Then he called back to see if I wanted to spend an afternoon at the zoo. He just seemed too good to be true. Even after we kissed for the first time, in front of the monkey habitat, howler monkeys and toddlers screaming around us, I knew there had to be a catch. This great, laid-back guy couldn’t like me and only me.
When I called the next day to see if he wanted to catch a matinee, he said he’d love to but had a dentist appointment. Likely excuse. So around the time of said appointment, I camped outin my little green Corolla, half a block from his brick duplex. Sure enough, he was talking to a cute blonde woman about our age. She wore Daisy Dukes and held a Pekingese. My jealousy flared. All I could see in my head was this blonde and Philip getting busy on an antique ice box. At least I’m ahead of it this time.
I slammed my car door and marched down the street.
“Oh, hey, Lizzie,” Philip had said cheerily.
“Hey, I’m Ginger,” the woman said, showing big white teeth.
“Ginger?” I glared at Philip. Of course her name wasGinger.
He seemed confused. “It was a good dentist appointment, Lizzie. I’m still a member of the no-cavities club.”
Suddenly, a large dented red truck pulled loudly up to the curb, and a nice-looking guy with a beard and worn flannel shirt got out. He hauled a cooler from the truck bed.
“Good catch today,” he’d said, pulling the top off to reveal about fifteen bass on ice. Then he kissed Ginger’s cheek as she grimaced—“Eewwww. Pleaseshower. You reek of fish and muck.” Her Pekingese snarled at him.
Philip properly introduced me then to Henry, Ginger’s boyfriend.
I’d been beyond thrilled.
Now I step off the bike and walk it up the driveway around the same dented truck from fifteen years ago. I’m embarrassed I ever imagined Philip to be a cheater. As I take off the helmet and smooth my hair, Henry opens the door. A large yellow Lab bursts out, big paws on my chest, tail wagging wildly.
“Whoa, Bonnie!” Henry gently pulls her back by the collar. And then he greets me, welcoming me in as he restrains the friendly Bonnie. I feel a strange wash of shyness. I’ve never actually visited with Henry without Philip, and yet, my husband meant the world to both of us.
Inside, I look around the neatly furnished home. It’s been a few months since Ginger moved everything out, and I don’t see any photographs of her. According to Philip, they were a bad match from the start but kept trying to make it work until she ran off last year with her yoga instructor.
Henry leads me to the den, his cozy at-home office for when he’s not at the firm. Manila folders are stacked neatly on his desk and coffee table in front of a small gray couch. Bonnie’s bed lies near a small, white-painted brick fireplace. I’m mildly disturbed by the taxidermized buck head and largemouth bass mounted above the mantel, but, well—I eat meat and fish. I’d just rather not think about how it all gets to my plate.
Henry sits beside me on the couch and opens his laptop. He wears middle age well and looks essentially the same as he did fifteen years ago. If anything, the few grays in his wavy dark hair and short beard make him look even better.
We talk about Philip as we sit together. He points to the mounted bass, telling me about the upstate lake where he and Philip caught it.
But our mutual loss hangs between us like an anvil. Weighty and unpleasant.
“I can’t even imagine, Lizzie...” he says, voice gravelly with emotion. “I think about him every day. I cried big tears when I heard about the accident. He wascrazyabout you. Every fishing trip, every lunch—he’d talk so much about you and that poor little hurricane of yours. You two were his world.”
I stare at Bonnie, gnawing on a chew toy from her bed, and then I’m blinking away tears.
We both have to move away from this.
Henry clears his throat and opens the folder in front of him. “So, I looked at the will, and everything’s pretty straightforward. My only worry is Mirabel. Maybe a week before the accident, Philip called me up about a strange trust he by chancefound out about. He said it was something Mirabel set up for Heathcliff, but she was acting weird—didn’t want Ted or anyone else to know about it. I’ll need to chase that down, make sure everything’s airtight for Heathcliff as we close up the estate. Would you care if I call up Miss Mirabel?”
“Good luck with that.” I tell him about how she’s been trying to get in touch with me. Then I’m about to tell him about that night, the message I got from Philip. But I’d missed it because I’d been out on the doorstep with Heathcliff looking at a blood moon. I’d missed my husband’s last fucking call. But the words won’t come.
“What else happened, Lizzie?”
I swallow and tell him.
He nods slowly.
