I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “Yeah. I really hope so.”
He nods, like we’ve just made some solemn pact, then disappears after his sister into the dining room.
I finish basting the chicken and glance at the clock.
Jayne texted twenty minutes ago:Be home by seven, latest. Daniel says Happy Anniversary and that if you mess this up, he’ll let me play cougar.
I wrote back:Tell Daniel I’ve located a nice spot to bury him in the backyard. With love, your husband.
The truth is, I don’t actually want to bury him anymore.
Not…all the time, anyway, but that’s only because he was there for Jayne when I wasn’t. And I’m grateful for that.
As for Tory, she’s gone. Left Camden for some shiny academic post in Philly four months ago. I haven’t seen her since Dr. Lin’s dinner, when Jayne verbally bitch-slapped her with such elegance I almost proposed again on the spot.
My phone buzzes.
Iris:3rd date tonight. He reads books that aren’t about crypto and remembered my coffee order. Is this…growth?
I grin and type back one-handed while fishing out the green beans.
Me:If he survives your sarcasm for three dates, it’s basically a long-term relationship. Proud of you.
Iris:I can’t believe we’ve become friends. Don’t screw up tonight. She loves you so much, you idiot.
I can hardly believe it myself, but Iris adores Jayne and—now that I’m finally behaving—she actually likes me, when before she mostly just tolerated my existence.
I glance at the oven door, at the table set with the good plates and cloth napkins Jayne only busts out forspecial occasions. The whole setup screamstrying too hard,and I’m okay with that.
I check the potatoes, finish the beans, and am pulling the chicken from the oven when I hear the garage door open.
The kids bolt in from the living room like someone fired a starting gun.
“She’s here!” Mikaela hisses.
“And you still haven’t frosted the cake,” I inform them.
“You keep her busy with wine and food, and we’ll take care of it,” Mikaela says with confidence that I don’t share at all.
Good thing I have a pecan pie in the fridge that I picked up at the bakery. Jayne would pick pie over cake any day, and twice on Sundays.
“No one say anything cheesy,” Finn orders. “Dad’s got that covered.”
I swat him on the back of the head with the dish towel. “Respect the chef.”
Jayne steps into the kitchen, toeing off her heels, hair slightly mussed from the summer humidity, blazer draped over one arm.
She’s still in her COO armor—silky blouse, sharp slacks, the faint tiredness around her eyes that comes from shepherding a firm of a hundred and something people through a merger.
To me, she looks like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She freezes when she takes it all in—the table, the candles, the kids barely containing themselves, the smell of roast chicken and lemon.
“What…is all this?” she asks, a little hoarse.
Finn clears his throat. “Happy anniversary, Mom.”
Mikaela practically bounces in place. “We made cake! It’s abstract!”
