She puts the glass down and drizzles balsamic vinegar and olive oil on slices of fresh mozzarella, tomatoes and basil. The timer goes off, so she drains the pasta and starts tossing everything together in a big bowl, then divides the portions into two smaller bowls. And with a final flourish, she pulls garlic bread from the oven and lays it out on a long rectangular plate.
“Voilà!” She spreads her arms with a wide smile. “A simple pasta dinner. I hope you like it.”
I grin at her infectious mood. “I love it.”
We take everything to the dining table. I pull out a chair for her, then take my seat.
“So what’s the occasion?” When a woman cooks, it’s for a reason. Maybe she saw something that caught her eye and has to have it.
My wife doesn’t have the things that women buy that are pretty but aren’t really useful or necessary, like stylish shoes or hundreds of purses or watches and jewelry. Her car is old, and she doesn’t have any jewelry except for the engagement ring and wedding band. Her clothes are classy but not trendy.
Anticipation starts to swell at the idea of buying her something pretty—and maybe not even really useful or necessary, but just because she wants it. Actually, I should also get her a Maybach. It would be more comfortable than her old Corolla, and she deserves a better car anyway. She’s pregnant, and she’s my wife. I make a mental note to place an order.
“Nothing special.” She shrugs shyly. “Just wanted thank you for your help.”
Her softly spoken words make me pause in surprise.
She continues, “I could’ve still fought back, but you made it easier. Knowing that somebody is on my side just…gave me a strength and confidence that I haven’t felt in so long.” Her eyes glow in the light. “I never thought I’d feel it again after Mom was hospitalized. So. Thank you.”
She looks at me like I’m a superhero sent to earth just to save her. Something hot, sweet and slightly uncomfortable swells in my chest. I didn’t do anything exceptional. Any man would have done the same for his spouse.
“As I said, you’re my wife, Grace. You will not stand alone against the world.”
She nods, her eyes suddenly bright with a sheen of tears. I squeeze her hand.
“You’re so good with words. No wonder you’re in advertising.” She lets out an awkward laugh and blinks fast to get rid of the tears. “Go ahead. Take a bite,” she says after clearing her throat.
I start with my favorite—the pasta. The spaghetti is cooked to perfection, and the sauce has the right balance of acidity andrichness. The thinly sliced calamari, which would have ended up rubbery if prepared by a lesser cook, is juicy and tender. If she ever gets tired of working for the foundation, she could open an Italian restaurant and make a killing. “This is amazing,” I say.
“Thanks. It’s Mom’s recipe. She taught me. She’s the best cook.” Grace flushes. “Of course, it would’ve been better if I hadn’t forgotten the parsley.”
“Didn’t Tilda shop for you?”
“Nope. I couldn’t have her do it and use your money when I’m trying to thank you, could I?”
Or perhaps it was due to what I told her when I threw the prenup in her face. Thinking back on it, I feel like a jackass. She probably told Adam she needed to marry for money because of her mother’s medical bills. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions without knowing more about the situation.
She continues, “It puts me behind my savings goal, but you’ve been good to me. You deserve it more than that bastard Peter.”
“You cooked for him, too?” I hope the bastard choked on it and nearly died.
“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “The day he got promoted. That’s also when I found out what he really thought about me, which is why I was upset enough to not care about being frugal and went to another bar to have some drinks.”
“Doesn’t the Pryce Family Foundation pay you well?” The rumor is that they do, but then, things could be different in reality. Everyone has a public persona, including Elizabeth Pryce-Reed King.
“It does, but money is always tight. I need to send two thousand bucks to Johns Hopkins every month, so—”
“What? Why?”
“Nelson and Karie made me contribute. They thought I should have a hand in Mom’s care.” Frustration and contemptfleet in her gaze. “They probably thought if I had to pay that much, I wouldn’t want to continue with her treatment. Mom’s life doesn’t mean anything to them, and they can’t imagine it being significant to anybody else, either.” She shakes her head, her mouth twisted.
“What a bunch of assholes.” I should’ve rearranged Nelson’s face permanently. What kind of heartless monsters try to force a woman into a situation where she might have to give up on her own mother because of money? “I can add the amount to the monthly bill.”
“You sure? I don’t mind paying. I’ve sort of figured out the budget.”
“Obviously not, if buying some seafood puts you behind your savings goal.” I frown as another thought occurs to me. “Do you ever get to splurge on yourself? Just go out and have fun?”
She shakes her head. “I haven’t done anything like that in a while, but it’s okay.” A seemingly nonchalant shrug. “When my friends drifted away after Mom got sick, I learned that they weren’t real friends anyway, you know?”
