She turns to me. “The extra dose should clear in three or four more hours, but you’ll be on morphine for the next few days. We need to stay ahead of the pain, because the doctor thinks that’s what made your heart race in the ICU.”
“Oh, fiddle!”
“We’ll talk about everything later.” Quinn’s voice is gentle, and so is her touch on my hand. “I have a meeting scheduled with your doctor to discuss your treatment plan. For now, just rest and get better. Lily is fine.”
My sense of urgency battles with debilitating fatigue. Fatigue is winning. “All right,” I say, “but Lily needs to know.” My eyes are already closing, and I’m sinking into blissful oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jessica
THE WINDOW DISPLAYof the decor shop, Verve!, looks like the exquisite Parisian apartment of someone with beaucoup more style than moi. I admire designs that combine unexpected elements with panache, but it’s not something I could ever pull together myself, so I’m intimidated as I open the door and step off the Magazine Street sidewalk.
The first thing I notice inside the shop is the scent. It’s exotic and earthy, like amber and black cardamom, and it strikes a note of wistfulness in my chest like a haunting piano chord. If I were to give it a name, I’d call it “Longing.” The place smells of beautiful things I don’t have, can’t fully understand, and will never be. It’s the kind of place that rattles every insecure bone in my body.
I know that on the outside, I appear to have it all together. I’ve worked hard to curate my image, but inside, it’s a different story. I’ve always wanted to be the best at everything, and, of course, that’s just not possible. I’m constantly judging myself against others.How am I doing? How do I compare? Do I measure up?I’m particularly uncomfortable when I feel like I’m competing in an arena that’s not one of my strengths. Like this.
The shop is unattended, so I walk around. The merchandise is a mix of new, vintage, and antique furnishings. Overhead, light fixtures twinkle—classic crystal chandeliers, Sputnik-shaped pendants, shaded ceiling lamps—and throughout the space, artwork and accessories highlight distinctive furniture groupings. The items are all striking and tasteful and arranged in beautiful vignettes. I appreciate and admire this complicated aesthetic, but I could neverpersonally orchestrate it. Consequently, my decorating style defaults toward modern furnishings that are clearly designed to go together.
I’m practical when it comes to interior decor; why can’t I apply that same approach to other areas of my life, such as wanting to have a child? Probably because of the universal truth that Emily Dickinson so eloquently penned: “The Heart wants what it wants—or else it does not care.”
I cross the room and examine a midcentury lamp. I think it would go well with our living room furnishings, but I’m pretty sure Zack would be upset to learn I’ve been in Quinn’s shop. From the way he avoided my question about when I’ll meet Lily, I’m afraid he doesn’t want me involved in his child’s life—or, by extension, in Quinn’s life, or Miss Margaret’s.
I’m even more afraid of something else: that I’ve irrevocably broken our marriage.
Thinking about it makes me feel as if air is in short supply. I inhale deeply and search my mind for a more optimistic way to look at things. I’m usually able to spin things to a more positive perspective.
Up until now, Zack and I have always worked things out. A little time would go by, and whatever disagreement we had would fade into the background. We’d reconnect and move on.
But this situation is different. I feel it in my gut, in the place where hard truths live. We were already unraveling before we had that argument. Instead of reconnecting with me, Zack is connecting with his newly discovered daughter.
Hisdaughter, notourdaughter. That little possessive adjective looms large. He’s forming a relationship with Lily, and that relationship has nothing to do with me.
I couldn’t believe how hard and how fast he shot down my idea of us trying to get custody of her. I’d thought that was the answer—for me to embrace her, for us to become a family, for all of us to move to Seattle and leave these outsiders behind. I’m shocked byhow badly I miscalculated his reaction. I’m starting to feel like I’m married to a stranger.
I pick up an antique perfume atomizer from a mirrored boudoir tray and lift it to my nose, hoping to get a hint of what it used to hold. It smells vaguely sweet and distant. If I were naming it, I’d call it “Memories of My Marriage.”
Well, I intend to revitalize our relationship. I’ve read that the easiest way to feel closer to your spouse is to share a great experience together. I need to give the whole seducing-my-husband concept another try tonight. That’s the real reason I flew home. There are some things you just have to handle in person.
We need to reestablish our marital bond. I’m not liking how much time and emotional energy he’s spending with Quinn and Lily.
Especially Quinn. She’s pretty, accomplished, and the guardian of his child, and...
“May I help you?”
An attractive blond woman in her late forties or early fifties steps from a back room. She’s wearing a cream-colored shift with a Ferragamo scarf and Tabitha Simmons sling-backs, and she looks as well put together as the store displays.
I put the perfume bottle back on the tray. “Oh, I’m just looking.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
Maybe she’s the one who arranged all the merchandise. “It’s a beautiful shop,” I say.
“Yes, isn’t it? The owner, Quinn Langston, is very talented.”
So much for my hopes.
“I’d love to meet her,” I say. “Is she here?”
