“I don’t care.”
“I do. Plus, it’s a jungle down there.”
“Is it?” Interest lit his eyes. “Let me see.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then at least let me feel.” We were between cars, shielded by the wall I’d parked in front of. He shifted so that people driving by couldn’t see me. His hand went to the waistband of my workout sweats.
“Oh!” I said at the electricity that shot through my body when he touched me. And there was no more talk, or thought, of my calling off the wedding.
Chapter Fifteen
Now
About seventeen years into our marriage, I had an epiphany about Ali.
During a yoga class meditation, we were asked to focus on the closest person to us, our truest love. My thinking mind immediately went to the children, but when I closed my eyes, I saw Ali’s sweet face, the ever-present smile, the gentle expression, the understated laugh at one of my jokes.
Marriages, like people, are imperfect. There were times I actively disliked my husband, especially when his extreme cheapness made me feel constrained, hemmed in. We stopped seeing certain friends with expensive tastes because of it. Ali and I rarely fought about anything but money. The problem was that money touches everything in life. Where you live. Who you see. Where you go. What you do day-to-day.
But, that afternoon in the yoga class, the insight about the depth of my love for Ali felt like the truest thing. And I was glad, after he died, that I’d had that realization, that I knew what I had when I had it. That I didn’t ever have to regret not loving Ali enough.
When I went home and told him, Ali said, “You only just now realized?” And we went upstairs and made love. Long and slow and sweet and tender. That afternoon stayed with me for a long time.
I couldn’t remember Ali ever saying, “I love you.” He showed it in the way he took care of me and the children. I never doubted hisdevotion. I assumed his reserve was a natural part of his personality. But maybe it was because he kept secrets from me.
Later, I compared the dates and realized that he’d already purchased the house on Cozy Glenn Lane by the time we made love that afternoon.
The morning after deciding to sue the LLC, I got my coffee and sat down to edit an exhibit script for a Missouri museum.
I’d developed a thriving freelance business, working with design firms hired by museums to put together new exhibits or update old ones. A lot of my work came via word of mouth. The museum world was tight knit.
But I couldn’t concentrate. How long would it take to learn anything from the lawsuit? I was impatient to know more. My thoughts went to Ali’s phone. I’d avoided going through his electronics up until now. In part because it still felt like snooping, even though Ali was dead. But maybe I’d find some clue about the woman who lived in the Cozy Glenn house.
I checked my work calendar. I had a meeting at eleven with a new client, a museum in Indiana that was being revamped and wanted me to write a new exhibit. It was a big job. But I had a couple of hours before the call, so I went upstairs to Adam’s room, where Ali’s phone was charging. Adam hadn’t been happy when he came home to find his dad’s phone dead. As though keeping Ali’s phone charged was a way of keeping part of him alive.
I dialed in the security code—which Ali had never hidden from me. Tons of junk email had accumulated in the months since Ali died. I scrolled through, going back until the week of the accident, but found almost nothing personal. Ali had never texted much either, but there was one message that caught my attention. It was from Ian, one of Ali’s JMU friends.
No one’s heard from Lizzie in almost a year. I hope she’s OK. Have you heard from her?
I checked the date. The text was more than a year old. Ali hadn’t responded. Why not? Maybe he’d picked up the phone and called Ian to discuss Lizzie’s mysterious absence.
Next, I went through Ali’s tablet. Again nothing. No trace of Carol Darius, and he didn’t even follow Lizzie online. I scrolled through Ali’s Facebook account. He’d rarely posted.
I paused at a family photo of us at Thanksgiving from many years ago when the children were still in elementary school. I read through some of the comments. There was only one person I didn’t recognize. Someone named Samantha Price. Her comment beneath the picture said,Beautiful family. Maybe she was a work colleague or some other acquaintance he’d met along the way. I clicked on her profile, but it was blank. No picture or biographical information. Ali hadn’t responded to her or any of the other commenters.
The doorbell rang, startling me out of my ruminations. I set the tablet down, wondering who would show up unannounced on a weekday morning. It was Julia, Ali’s sister. I hugged her hello.
“It’s good to see you.” I meant it. I’d missed my friend.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Of course.” I led her into the kitchen and pulled the iced tea out of the fridge. Arabs never let guests leave without forcing food and drink on them whether they wanted it or not.
“Then why haven’t you come to see Mama?”
I’d avoided my husband’s family because I feared they’d sense my uncertainty about Ali. I wasn’t sure I could hide my growing resentment at my husband for creating this situation and leaving me to deal with it. “Would you prefer coffee?” I asked.
