“Last week, I caught my husband cheating on me when I came home early from work. He had a health condition a year ago, a rare disorder that led to emergency surgery and a lot of recovery. Apparently, his physical therapist was really good at her job because he was screwing her in my house.”
The words hung in the air, the room somehow getting quieter. My lip trembled. Even a Bayou Bliss couldn’t fix this.
But Brianne seemed to know what to do. She gestured to the small, round table in the kitchenette, where we both took a seat.
She shoved a plate of cookies in my direction. “How long were you married?”
“Twenty years.” I drew in a shaky breath, trying to release the lump in my throat.
“Kids?”
“One son.” I broke off a chunk of a small, pink cookie and fiddled with it just to give my hands something to do. “He’s almost twenty.”
“I see.” To my relief, Brianne didn’t pry. Without me saying it outright, she’d understood that Jeff and I got married because I was pregnant and filled in the blanks. And it warmed my heart that her voice was laced with kindness instead of judgment.
“Are you married?” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a female friend, and though I’d known her all of half-an-hour, it somehow felt natural sitting at the table sharing things with her.
“Twenty-five years this May.” Love and joy shined bright in her eyes. A new kind of sadness, raw and envious, pulsed in my heart. Had I ever looked like that when I mentioned Jeff to someone? Probably not. “We’ve got a brood of our own. I’ll introduce you one day.”
“I’d like that very much.” My stomach grumbled like a lion in search of an antelope. “You know, Brianne, I don’t think I’ve had anything other than sugar to eat in at least a day. And I’ve been sleeping in my office for a week.”
“Well then, why don’t we go upstairs so you can have a nice lunch and settle in?”
“As long as I don’t have to cook.” When Jeff first got sick, well-wishers and colleagues sent casseroles and food delivery gift cards by the dozen. We were still finishing off the contents of our freezer, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a meal of my own. Which is a good thing, because I wasn’t exactly an ace in the kitchen.
My throat was warm from the drink, and clogged from my random, pitiful thoughts. The one place I should have been an ace was in my therapy clinic. And I hadn’t even done that right.
Looking at this put-together woman in front of me, the same age as me but with a life I could tell she enjoyed and workthat fulfilled her, I felt like a tiny, messed up possum. It wasn’t just my appearance. I could manage disheveled hair and my wrinkled clothes. It was how I felt on the inside. Like my soul was as hungry as my stomach.
Somewhere in the past year, while caring for Jeff and trying to hold together the last dregs of my failing practice, I’d gripped onto everything with my fingertips while letting the rest of my body hang loose. And just the offer of a supportive friend was enough to bring it all to the surface and make me realize everything I’d lost. And everything I’d let go of.
Right there in the lobby of the company that I now owned, with businesses I knew next to nothing about and a complete stranger in front of me, I broke down and gave in to the ugly, black despair I’d ridden on for far too long. Tears erupted like a geyser. A sob escaped my throat, a strange sound that didn’t hold my voice, like a cork popping on champagne then ricocheting off the wall.
“Hunh.” I clamped one hand over my mouth at the odd sound, searching the space as if a customer had suddenly appeared and I would lose this business, too. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, honey.” Brianne took my hand and led me through the kitchenette and out a door in the back. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
The backdoor led to a small, fenced-in yard. Overhead was another balcony, with a spiral staircase a short distance to my left. There were no stairs inside the building, which meant this was the only way to the second floor. Given that was supposed to be my new digs, it was reassuring to know I’d have some privacy.
Brianne fished a key from the envelope she’d retrieved earlier and unlocked the door. She stepped aside and gestured toward the doorway. “Welcome home, Simone.”
CHAPTER 3
I’d expected the upstairs to be shotgun-style, like the bottom floor. Instead, a wide, open-concept space greeted me.
To the right was a large but cozy sitting area, with a sleek television and a bold, red couch I couldn’t wait to stretch out on and take a nap. On the left was a full kitchen and adjoining breakfast nook. Large bay windows overlooked the backyard and the New Orleans skyline in the distance. We definitely weren’t high enough for that to be visible, but the outline was unmistakable. So far away, and yet so close I could still make out the Dome.
In the breakfast nook was a pretty, round, black table made of weathered wood. I didn’t know design concepts or names of styles. Was it shaker or contemporary? I would be guessing. But the bulky legs of the table, and the upholstered gray chairs surrounding it, beckoned me.
A heavenly, rich aroma greeted us as we neared the table, where a bowl of vegetable soup and the crispest, most perfect looking grilled cheese sandwich I’d ever seen waited for me to pounce. It took all I had not to lift the bowl to my mouth and gulp it down. Brianne sat opposite me, sipping from a deep blue glass while I inhaled the hearty meal.
“This is the most scrumptious sandwich I’ve ever eaten.” I took a bite, relishing the crunch and ooze of cheese on my tongue. “Sourdough bread. A good, sharp cheddar. Man, I’m in heaven.”
Brianne stared at my plate with naked envy. Then, she snatched the other half of my sandwich with enough zeal to make me laugh outloud.
“I don’t know how the food stayed warm while we were downstairs, but thank you for making it.”
“Oh, I didn’t.” Brianne winked at me. “This place comes with a personal chef.”
