“Sweetheart, she was barking at a goddamn alligator. I tried to save her.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.”
“You seem to not be getting over a lot lately—how I wash the dishes, how I fold the towels, how yoga’s just not my thing, the way I cook mac and cheese.”
I blush, hiding back in the doorway shadows. I should go back to the kitchen and warn Philip that they might need a few minutes.
Then I hear sniffing. Oh gosh, she’s crying.
I ache for them. Philip and I are far from perfect, but as a couple, we’re in sync. Only my parents and a handful of my friends have our type of marriage. I’ve thought about Henry and Ginger on and off since their wedding reception. I’ve hoped they could eventually find their way to one another.
“Ginger...” His voice is gentle, husky. Sad.
“Are we ever going to get it together, Henry?”
“Sure—it’s a new year...”
“But is this going to be the year we finally feel good enough aboutusto bring one of these sweet bundles into the world?”
“Sure...”
“Oh, come on!”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
Heathcliff starts grunting, nosing Ginger’s chest, rooting around for a breast.
“Just in time!” I say, entering with false cheerfulness. I gently take Heathcliff from Ginger, warm bottle in hand. Flustered, she turns away to dab her eyes, and I pretend not to notice. Henry sighs, thrusts his hands into his pockets and turns toward the window, his expression miserable and defeated.
21
Soon after dinner, August calls to let me know he made reservations for tomorrow evening at a swanky restaurant in Sloane Square. I look it up quickly on my phone. Geesh. The champagne is thirty-five pounds a glass. Inspector Hall is lucrative.
After tucking Heathcliff in bed for the night, I walk downstairs for a cup of tea. I’d like to enjoy tomorrow, and I’m determined to get a good night’s sleep. I take my time steeping the tea, savoring the chamomile steam.
“Do you think sleep will be any better tonight?” I ask as Ms. Fernsby walks through the room.
She smiles a little mischievously. “I hope you don’t mind, but I picked you up something that I thought could help you with the anxiety.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
“I’m just one woman helping out another. Come on. It’s upstairs.”
I follow her up. It’s probably a new essential oil diffuser.Several widow blogs recommend essential oils for insomnia. Maybe Ms. Fernsby bought me some lavender or eucalyptus scents. I’ve heard they’re particularly good for restfulness.
I follow her into her neat and cozy bedroom. I admire the floral wallpaper and busy rose-patterned bedspread, perfectly mimicking the roses she plants and prunes outside. A bulky antique chest sits at the bottom of the bed, and I wonder how many centuries it’s been in the Routledge family.
A paperback novel lies half-open on the nightstand. It’s one of Ms. Fernsby’s many bodice-rippers. A woman with a gown slipping off her shoulders makes out with a half-dressed man—Emma and her Scottish duke.
Ms. Fernsby opens the top drawer in an old maple dresser and pulls out an unwrapped package.
“Oh...” My face burns.
“I know. I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, but my own Magic Wand has given me so much comfort over the years and helped me drift off on many a sleepless night.”
I take the package, smiling but tongue-tied. It’s a classic. Long electric cord, silicon knob. A glorious grandmother’s vibrator.
Quite literally.
