“It’s not! It’s not too good to be true! It’s just true! Danny. Danny. Sit back down. It’s more complicated than you’re making it sound. Let me explain. Let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t feel like talking, Kristie. I just feel... disappointed. I feel really, really sad.”
When he walks out the door he doesn’t even slam it. He just closes it.
Kristie sinks down on the couch and kicks at the bag from Main Street Markets and wonders how many more pieces her heart can break into.
She sits there for a long time. She considers having a good cleansing cry, but then she thinks about how she’s planning for two now. She’s got to hold herself together. She picks up her phone, and she texts Louisa.
I need to talk to you. Can you meet me in town?
She paces while she waits.
The three dots appear immediately, and then the answer:Now???
Now.
This time at least two minutes go by with no dots at all. Then the dots come back, then this text.
I can’t leave now. My mom is at her book club and I need to stay here with my dad and my kids. Kristie waits, and then another text arrives.You could come here?
Kristie calculates the cost of an Uber there and back, and then she adds in the emotional cost as well. Will Martin Fitzgerald be there? Is there any chance at all that Annie will see Kristie? What if Annie’s book club ends early, or Kristie’s Uber is late?
Her phone pings again.You have to come now if you’re coming. Book club usually ends around nine.
It’s twelve minutes past seven.
OK,she answers.I’ll come.
By the time she contacts the Uber, waits for it to arrive, and makes the trip it’s seven forty-seven. Kristie doesn’t know how far away this book club of Annie’s is, but she is sure as heck going to be out of there before nine. Earlier, if possible. What if the book being discussed is terribly boring and Annie decides to leave before the meeting is over?
Louisa meets Kristie on the grass when the Uber pulls up. She’s barefoot, and holding a giant glass of white wine. “I thought we could sit out on the porch,” she says. “My dad goes to bed early most nights, so he’s in his room.”
Kristie doubts Martin Fitzgerald goes to bed quite this early, but she gets it—Kristie is being hidden from the inhabitants of the house. She follows Louisa across the lawn to a set of steps on the side of the porch and then up them. It’s almost the end of July—the days are growing shorter, and sunset is probably only twenty minutes away. She notices that all of Danny’s gardens are thriving—the dahlias are tall and proud, the ornamental grasses are performing a light dance in the breeze, and the vegetable garden, safe behind its wire fencing, looks pristine and luscious, with a giant almost-ripe tomato bowing on its vine. Thinking about Danny makes her eyes well up immediately, so she tries to shepherd her thoughts elsewhere.
On the porch, Louisa gestures for Kristie to take the love seat that faces the water. She flicks a switch to turn on the lights in the porch ceiling, then sits in a chair turned three-quarters of the way to face the love seat. “Can I pour you a glass of this?” she asks, holding up her wine. “It’s a really nice one. I brought out a glass for you.” On a low table in front of the couch is a half-empty wine bottle (or maybe, Kristie thinks, it’s half full!) and an extra glass. Kristie looks at the bottle. It’s a Pascal Cotat Sancerre, which she knows sells for over $120 at a restaurant so must be close to $70 to buy in a shop.
“No, thank you.” (She’d love to taste that wine, though.)
“Something else, then? Water, or seltzer? Whiskey?”
“I’m all set.” She thinks about telling Louisa why: I’m on the wagon because I was on my way to becoming a raging alcoholic when I lived in Miami Beach. Oh, also, I’m pregnant. The father is your lawn guy, Danny, who just tonight left me, because of what he found in my backpack, which has to do with you.
But she decides against it. Better to ease into the conversation than to wallop Louisa over the head with her troubles.
“I hope you don’t mind if I keep drinking,” says Louisa. “Let me tell you, I’ve had a day.” She takes a long pull of the wine and regards Kristie over the edge of the glass with Martin Fitzgerald’s eyes.
“Of course not,” says Kristie. “Drink away.”You’ve had a day?she wants to say.I’ve had a life.
“So . . .” says Louisa. She leans forward toward Kristie, and something about her posture and expression make Kristie think of long-ago middle-school-aged Twyla, with her fancy family treeand her rec room, rolling her eyes at her parents with their dishes of ice cream—Twyla, who never fully understood how lucky she was to be placed so firmly in her own particular orbit; Twyla, who always expected to move within that orbit, without question or examination.
“So,” says Kristie. “I opened the envelope. With the check. And I really appreciate it, the gesture and all of that. But.” She pauses and looks out at the rapidly darkening sky. The fog has moved in, and between that and the time of day she can’t make out the breakwater, even though it’s just across the harbor. “But. I don’t think it’s enough. I mean, it’s not. I don’t think; I know. It’s not enough.” She turns back to face Louisa. She watches as the familiar spots of color appear on Lousia’s cheeks, and then as they flatten and spread into a full flush. Kristie sees a pad of paper and a pencil on the side table, next to the wine bottle and the glass. She picks up the paper. It’s a grocery list. Olive oil, says the list. Cabernet. Peaches. Brie. Kale (farmer’s market?). It’s a rich person’s grocery list. She takes up the pencil and turns the page to reveal a fresh sheet. She writes down the $27,000 that she owes the bill collectors. She writes down her Linden Street rent, then multiplies that by twelve, then writes down that number. She writes down her estimated cost of a new stroller, a crib, a year’s worth of diapers. She’s guessing, because she doesn’t really know. There are so many more things she could include—premiums for health insurance, formula, utilities. But she stops there. She adds everything carefully, taking her time, because math was never her best subject. “This,” she says when she’s done. She pushes the paper toward Louisa. “This is closer to the right number.”
Louisa takes the pad of paper. Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a big number,” she says.
Kristie stands her ground by staying silent. A long moment passes, then another one. She resists the urge to explain herself.She’ll let thirty seconds go by, the way Sheila taught her. She stares out at the water, and at the sky, turning orange now.
Louisa drains her wineglass and sets it down on the low table. Kristie can see her contemplating pouring the rest of the bottle. “You know, Kristie. I’m really sorry about your mom. I am. I’m so, so sorry. But this—this is practically extortion.”
