I still know, deep down, that we are the good parts of our marriage as well as the bad. The happy days and the date nights and the family vacations. The times he took care of me when I was sick and how he cheered me on during my book’s publication. The times we drank champagne to celebrate his promotion to regional manager of his office, and the weeks I held us together after his mother passed. When we were good, we were really, really good. But when we were bad…when times got tough, neither of us was willing to fight for it anymore.
My mom—widowed but first divorced—would’ve rather I stayed where I wasn’t wanted, had me fight Lewis as he decided to leave, than to give in, give up, and walk away.
“Well, I love you enough for the both of us,” Greta teases, crossing the room to wrap her arms around me and plant a kiss on my cheek.
I hum a laugh and rest my head against her shoulder. “I know you do.”
“Besides, I’m sure she’s just distracted by her new hubby.”
I fake a gag. “Don’t remind me.”
“Does he expect you to call him Daddy now?”
I pull back and swat her arm. “Don’t be disgusting.”
She snorts and turns away, moving to leave the room, but she stops. “Hey, you know what? Why don’t you and Tay come and stay with me for a while? Until your new locks can be installed and things calm down.”
It’s tempting. Greta has a house big enough for the three of us to live comfortably together. It’s closer to all of Taylor’s friends, her school, everything. But part of me knows that if we move in with her, it will be too hard to leave. To return here. It would be too hard to drag Taylor away from her home and previous life for a second time.
“I would love that, but we can’t.” My face wrinkles with sadness that seeps into my core, like a cold stream of water. I can picture it—the three of us curled up on Greta’s couch watching a horror movie with all our favorite snacks. Midnight ice cream sundaes in the kitchen where we have dance parties all night and talk about boys. The two of us giving Taylor relationship advice and celebrating as she opens her college admission packets.
It could be a beautiful life for all of us. I’m not blind to that fact.
“You can. I have plenty of room, and it would be no trouble. Honestly, you’d be helping me out. You can feed Mr. Whiskers when I’m out late at work. You know I’d love having you both there.”
“I know, but I can’t do that to you or Taylor. Or myself, if I’m being honest. I promised myself after the divorce, I’d learn to stand on my own two feet, be an example for Taylor. If we move in with you, it’d be the opposite of that. I’ll love you forever for offering, but I just can’t.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t like the two of you being out here alone.”
“We’re not alone. We have Conrad.” I have no idea if that’s true. Nor do I have any idea if Conrad would help us should we need it. But he’s nearby. He’s been watching this place for Mom. And he did come running when he heard Taylor scream. If nothing else, it feels better knowing we have someone else in the vicinity. That it’s not just us and the trees.
Greta gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push the issue. “Well, the offer’s always there if you change your mind.”
CHAPTER TEN
MARY WILDE - 1649
It’s strange, the way men have begun to look at me. To notice me, wherever I am. Not bad, necessarily. Just…strange. Try as I might, I can no longer miss the admiring glances, the shy smiles, and the whispered conversations between them whenever I enter a room. Even the boys I’ve befriended over the years have begun to act differently.
I try not to let it bother me. Honestly, I do. I’m fourteen, and my mother has prepared me for womanhood. For being a wife someday. I know some of what will be expected of me when I marry.
Still, I didn’t think it would be so soon. When Mama mentioned I would have a visitor yesterday, I thought it might be Margaret or Jane. Instead, it was Thomas Bingham. He will be the first of many, Mama has said. Suitors from the village, some may even come from towns far away. I can’t disappoint her, and I won’t, but I can’t help feeling like a cloak has been ripped off my head, like I’m no longer as hidden and safe as I once was.
Tonight, after the sun has gone to rest below the trees, Mama calls me into the parlor. The air in the house is thick with the scent of the evening’s wood smoke. The fire crackles softly, lighting Mama’s face and casting shadows across the room.
When I was a young girl, I was fascinated by the shadows. I’d sit for hours watching them dance before they eventually faded away with the dying fire. Lately, I realize I haven’t had the time to be interested in such childish things.
I drag the blanket I’ve been quilting behind me as I take a seat next to the fire, studying Mama. She’s beautiful, her long, wavy hair draped down over her shoulders. She sits in the chair knitting a scarf, her eyes steady on her work, but still as piercing as ever.
She reminds me of my gran more than ever now, since we’ve lost her. Her skin is softer, lines appearing where they once were not, and the slightest hints of silver have begun to lace through her hair.
“You’re nearly finished,” she says, looking over at the blanket in my lap. My hands set to work again, the way she and Gran taught me. Upstairs, I can hear Anna running circles in the attic. She loves to play up there, but Papa doesn’t always let her. Tonight feels different. Important. He retired to bed early, and now I suspect I know why.
“In time for winter, I hope,” I tell her.
Her smile is soft, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Outside, the wind whistles through the trees, and I can hear it from right where I sit, feel it coming in through the cracks of the old house.
“What did you think of young Mr. Bingham?”
