He glances down at my limp arms. His expression turns almost rueful, and he sighs. “I didn’t want this.”
“What did you want?”
He lets me go and begins to gently rub my arms. “I wanted you to kiss me.”
“I almost did before you ruined everything. Yet again.”
“Almost,” he agrees. He carefully returns my hands to my lap and leans back. “Cora,” he says. “Listen. We need to work this out. Can we take some time, go away together?Maybe Aspen. Or Gstaad. You love Gstaad. We can bring the kids.”
I’m already shaking my head.
“How about a night out then? Vera can watch the girls. We left Pearl for the evening when she was Winnie’s age.”
“No.”
“That’s it? Justno?” He keeps his voice even, but there’s a note underneath, anger that he’s trying to control.
“That’s it. Just no.” My voice is even, too. My anger is buried so deep, it doesn’t leave a trace.
We stare at each other for a few moments. The wind is gusting so hard outside, it buffets the window panes. The branches of the trees blow in one direction and then another. The red and orange and yellow leaves scramble, sailing this way and that in the air, cartwheeling across the lawn.
Inside, the room is silent, and we are perfectly still.
I think outside and inside are backward. Adrian’s face is impassive. Collected. I watch him, calm and motionless.
But inside—I’m beginning to suspect that there’s a storm in him as wild as the one in me.
13
ADRIAN
It’sthree o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday, and I’m halfway to wasted. After the unproductive breakfast conversation with Cora, I meant to get some work done, but after I poured myself a finger of whiskey, I brought the bottle to my desk. I lost track—of the numbers on the screen, the time, the top offs.
This isn’t me. I need food and a cold shower. I’m not letting a momentary setback turn me into a drunk waste like Nathaniel Maddox. Besides, Cora might have refused to spend time together alone, but she came to breakfast—for Pearl’s benefit, I’m sure, but it’s forward momentum.
Downing the rest of my drink, I shut down my laptop and head for the main stairs. At least I’m walking straight. My foot is on the first step when I hear laughter from the kitchen.
I don’twantto see what’s going on. I’m in no condition to be around the girls. Still, my legs carry me down the hall. I stop just outside the door and peer in.
Cora, Vera, and Pearl are making gingerbread houses at the table. Winnie is in her swinging chair, snoozing. Minh is prepping for dinner at the counter.
Christmas carols are playing and spiced wine simmers in a pot on the stove. Pearl has icing in her hair. So does Cora. They’re all singing “Joy to the World.” None of them know many of the words except the title of the song, which they bellow, and then boisterously mumble the rest of the lines.
They’re happy. That’s good. I wouldn’t want it otherwise.
Careful to keep my steps light, I turn and track back toward the stairs.
My plan is to shower, sober up, and do an hour on the rowing machine, but when I pass the nursery, the door is cracked open, and Cora’s taunt from earlier is still in my head. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she didn’t throw her rings in the river. The habits of growing up with scarcity are etched too deeply in her. Only a few months ago, I discovered that she adds water to the last of her shampoo to eke out a few more uses. I know she’s hidden those rings somewhere until she can dispose of them at an egregious loss out of spite.
As quietly as I moved downstairs, I stalk into my children’s room, even though I have every right to be here. This is my house. I’ve provided for all of this—the enchanted forest murals on the wall and oversized foam mushrooms and flowers covered in vinyl for Winnie to pull herself up on when she’s ready. So much plastic.
The decor is charming, though. I always feel like the Tin Man stumbling into Munchkinland here, but what man wouldn’t? I don’t think my father stepped foot in our bedrooms once. He’d shout for us from down the hall, and we either presented ourselves or made ourselves scarce, escaping via the roof.
I make my way to the daybed where Cora’s been sleeping. There is a dresser beside it with her cosmetics bag ande-reader on top. My heart rate picks up. As a rule, I don’t lower myself to snooping, but needs must.
I open the top drawer. Socks, nursing bras, and panties, the sensible ones that Cora wore those first weeks postpartum. Where are her silky, lacy numbers? Probably stuffed in the garbage bags with her gowns and furs.
After I squeeze the socks to make sure there’s no ring hidden in them, I go on to the next drawer. T-shirts and sweaters. The next drawer is yoga pants and jeans. No rings in the pockets.
