“Do they ever visit?”I’d asked.
“Not often. It is difficult to find time,”Eric had replied.
But here was their room, kept in readiness, just in case.
And here... Another photo. Their mother, Eric’s ex-wife, smiling into the camera, the boys—maybe seven and ten?—beside her. She was dark eyed, dark skinned, and very beautiful. I felt oddly... jealous. Depressed. Which was stupid. I knew he’d been married before.
I whisked myself out of the room, my heart pounding. Served me right for snooping.
Eric was plating in the kitchen.
“Can I do anything?” I asked.
He shook his head, smiling. “It’s all done.”
He’d pulled a small, square table in front of the fire. There were place mats. Candles. Everything soigné. Very romantic. I stared down at my plate arranged like an artist’s palette, pink slices of crispy skinned duck with maroon cherries, golden pierogi, haricots verts, and wondered what the hell I was doing here.
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Everything all right?”
“Great. Thanks.” I pulled myself together and dug in. “So. This is your idea of home cooking, huh?”
His eyes crinkled. “My heart on a plate. For you.”
I almost choked. Swallowed hard. He ought to be careful about saying stuff like that. If I were somebody else—somebody pretty and sweet, somebody like Meg—I might take him seriously. “The napkins are a nice touch.”
He laughed. “It is all just stuff, yeah? That’s what my father would say.”
“Mine, too.”
“Military families. Every time my father was transferred, my mother would have a yard sale.”
I chewed, relaxing. “We didn’t move so much. My dad didn’t join the army until after 9/11. But he’s a minister. You know,‘Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things’?”
“And your mother?” Eric asked.
“She’s not exactly a material girl, either. But...” I swallowed, thinking of the farmhouse. Of Great-grandmother’s quilts and Granny’s china and Amy’s craft projects, all lovingly preserved. “She likes to hold on to stuff.”
“It falls to her to make the home,” Eric said. “It is important for the children to have their things around them.”
I remembered the photos in his sons’ room, and my heart melted a little more.
We ate. The wine went to my head, or maybe it was Eric’s attention. I found myself talking about everything and nothing: about my sisters and the goats; about running in the city; about my AP English teacher, Mrs. Ferguson. He was a good listener. His eyes never once glazed over the way a guy’s do when they wish you’d shut up and have sex. Like I was interesting enough simply being myself. Well. Mostly myself. I didn’t tell him about my blog. I asked about his family. His father had retired from the military. His parents still lived in Germany, near his mother’s family. His older sister was a vice president for international relationship management at some bank.
“My sister works in a bank, too.Workedin a bank,” I corrected myself. “Before the twins came along. She’s an awesome mother. And daughter. And sister. And wife. I don’t know how she does it all, honestly.”
“She is happy, your sister?”
I hesitated.“If you’re happy, I’m happy,”Meg had said. Living forothers, that was Meg. Except... She didn’t seem so happy lately. I’d texted her on my way over, asking if I could call, and she messaged me back.Sorry. Really busy. Maybe later?
Meaning,Later, maybe. Shewasreally busy. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk to me. Which was totally unfair.Iwasn’t the one questioningherchoices.
“She’s a better person than I am,” I said, dodging the question.
“You seem like a good daughter to me,” Eric said. “A good sister.”
“I mean, I couldn’t give up my career to have a family.”
“You could have both.”
