The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t my father. “I brought food.”
I stalled before replying, wiping my stained fingers on a dish towel and pressing the “#” key. “Come in.”
Ben would be climbing our steps in a minute, and I smoothed my hair and wiped my hands on my jeans. Sunny heard him first and ran toward the knocking sounds. He didn’t bark when I opened the door to the man holding two large brown bags. Some guard dog he turned out to be. Just show up carrying food, and suddenly he was your best friend.
“Charlotte, Philip said you might be hungry. You never came in for the recipes.”
The smell of delicious food filled my nose. My mouth watered. “How nice of you,” I began. “Thank you, Ben, or is it Goose?”
He was standing over me, searching my eyes. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” His pause was long. “Can I bring these in? It’s ricotta and asparagus with a fig salad.”
“Sure,” I said, opening the door wider to let him pass, glimpsing the tattoo on his left hand. “I’m actually trying out a recipe for Philip . . .”
A piercing sound sprang from the kitchen along with a stinging, pungent odor. Ben thought nothing of sniffing rather loudly. “Is everything okay in there?”
I smiled up at him and nodded, pretending that my kitchen wasn’t about to explode beneath a spray of marinara.
“Charlotte, I think something’s burning.” He was casual about it, as though we hadn’t already experienced life and death together.
“Oh that”—I waved my hand in the air—“that’s nothing.” He dropped the bags in the entryway and ran toward the kitchen. And the smoke.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, fanning out flames and moving a pan off the burner. The meat I’d been browning had turned a smoky, charcoal black. The smell stung my eyes.
Ben opened a window and turned on the exhaust above the stovetop. He held up the pan of charred meat, and I refused to look. “You won’t be needing this.”
Embarrassed at my ineptitude, I slunk out of the room and went to retrieve his offering. Sunny followed me, all perked up and focused on the pleasant smells drifting from the bags. When I returned, I noticed the mess. There were seasonings and utensils all over my countertop, plus tomato halves, garlic cloves, onions, and an array of balled-up paper towels. Ben was wiping the countertop and asking me where the garbage can was before I could set his meal on the table. It smelled wonderful, and I realized how hungry I was. “You don’t have to do this.” I slumped down at the table. It was like being with a famous painter and having HomeGoods reprints on my walls.
“Feed you or save you from burning the house down?”
“I guess both.”
“It looks like the apocalypse in here.” He watched me for a reaction, and when he didn’t get one, he pointed at me.
“What?”
“You have some on your face.”
My fingers came up to my cheek, and I felt a hardened blob embedded in my skin. After escaping to the bathroom to properly wash my skin, I returned to find Ben picking the Publix bag off the floor, the test nearby. Racing toward the box as though it were an actual child, I shielded it in my hands, stuffing it inside the plastic.
“You still have a little sauce. It’s in your hair.” He reached for the strands, and I backed away, cradling the bag in my hands.
“I didn’t see anything,” he added.
His thoughtfulness touched me, but I knew it was a lie. The big letters on the box made it impossible to miss. I tucked the bag away and noticed the way he spread the food out for me to taste.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” I finally asked, opening the fridge. “Or do you need to get home to Jimmy?”
He came up alongside me, assessing the contents, and I slinked away. “He’s with our sitter.” He stretched the door wider as if I didn’t know what it contained. “Philip was right to be worried about you being fed.”
I couldn’t tell if Ben was joking or not. He was guarded and controlled. What little emotion I’d witnessed was saved for his son. My inability to get a read on him formed a strange tension between us. But I knew I was being silly, imagining things. Philip loved him, so of course I would, too.
He helped himself to a beer while I opened cabinets and drawers and dropped plates and clean forks on the glass table. The package in my hand stopped him from asking me if I wanted one, too.
“Eat,” he said, “before it gets cold.”
He joined me at the table, and even with the silence between us, it felt nice to have company.
“Philip told me,” I began. “He told me about your wife.”
He shook his head, and dusk settled in his eyes. The sadness reached down my shirt and tugged at my heart. He was fingering the bottle, careful not to look up right away. “I’m sure this has been very difficult for you.”
This got him to face me. The pain, a deep sadness, clouded his eyes. It was heavy, and like a strong wind, it unsteadied me. “We’re not going to have this moment, are we?” he asked, breaking away and tossing his beer back.
I didn’t move. I waited.
“You hardly know me.” His voice broke. “A lot of people have tried to fix it. They can’t. You can’t either.”
“I would never try,” I said. “Sometimes it’s just nice to talk.”
“My wife is gone,” he finally said. “She’s not on a business trip. She’s not tucking Jimmy into bed. She’s—” He stopped himself, finishing the beer in one swoop and quickly recovering. “She’s dead. My wife is dead.”
I sat there while his ache drew me in. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was the last few months of indifference. I latched on to his pain. I recognized the hurt. I imagined Ben doing all the things a mother would do. Making sure Jimmy brushed his teeth, helping him with homework, monitoring what went in and out of his mouth, kissing his forehead before he fell asleep. Her death mingled with my own versions of goodbye. First, my dad, then my mom.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, tossing the food around my plate. “I’d never insult you with lies. Losing someone hurts. We can’t bring them back, but I’m here. If you ever want to talk.”
His eyes tugged at me, leading me away from my own emptiness, hitching me to something near, something tangible.
“How often is he away?” he asked.
I picked at my fingers. “Enough.”
“Are you going to tell him about the test?”
I looked up. “What makes you think I haven’t?”
“A hunch.”
He must have seen the disappointment springing from my eyes, because his next statement was full of platitudes. “Philip will make a fantastic father. He’s patient and funny, one of the most sentimental guys I know.”
“I think his parents’ death scarred him,” I said, pushing my plate away. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“I tried once,” he said. “I never asked again.”
A tiny door was opening. “We never talk about it. You know Philip. Everything is in the moment. Fun, flippant Philip. Ben, can I ask you something?” I didn’t wait for his response. “Have you noticed a change in him? Does he seem different to you?”
He took his time before answering. “I’ve noticed some edginess. He’s working on multiple deals at any time, and the travel’s got to be exhausting him. His mind never rests. And I’m sure he hates being away from you so much.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I replied. “Maybe we need a vacation. Just the two of us.” I patted my belly reflexively. “Or three.”
The phone rang, slicing the thick tension. The screen flashed a number I didn’t recognize. Nashville, TN. My fingers were suspended over the display until the very last ring.
“You okay?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Something like that,” I said.
Ben began to relax, and he wasn’t so bad to be around. “Do yo
u want to talk about it?”
I could give it back and tell him he couldn’t fix it, but we had reached an impasse that had me willing to talk. I let out a long-held-in breath and relayed the story of how Philip had reached out to the father I hadn’t seen or heard from since I was seven. “He thought it would be a good idea to reconnect after all these years.”
Ben looked confused. “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah, they’re not all doting dads like you.”
“Are you going to call him back?”
“I’m not sure.” I reached for my phone to see if he left a message. My fingers were shaking, and if I wasn’t possibly with child, I’d attribute the tightness in my belly to how close my father had come. How a potential reunion was nearing. “I used to think I didn’t care. I buried the pain . . . It’s part of why I became an English teacher . . . I lost myself in other people’s stories.”
He stopped eating and listened. “When I was younger, I thought I had these magic powers that could erase pain and rejection. It never goes away. You can mask the pain, but it’s always there.”
A knot was forming in my throat. “I’m sorry. My loss doesn’t come close to yours.”
“I have an idea,” he said. “Let me teach you how to cook. It’s always been helpful to me, a great source of comfort. It’ll free your mind from all this stuff. Besides, it’s the least I can do for my friend, seeing how you’ve almost blown up his kitchen.”
I eyed the phone, the bag, and a framed photo of Philip and me on the wall. “Well, I did save your son,” I said, breaking into a smile.
“You need my help.” He said it in a way that wasn’t offensive. “And you know something, Charlotte, I think we need your help, too. Jimmy and me.”
I was pushing the food around the plate, and he was standing up to leave, watching me with an intent grin. “If you’re planning on destroying my creation, at least wait until I go.” I’d been starving when he’d arrived, but our conversation left me unable to finish.
We walked to the door, and I thanked him for the delivery. I held the brass handle as he passed through to the first step. When he was halfway down, I cleared my throat. “Philip travels a lot,” I called out. He stopped and turned around. “You know that already . . . um, well, if you need a babysitter for Jimmy . . . you said you have someone, but I can help out. It’s really not a problem. I’m happy to do it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” A tiny speck of gratitude squeaked through, enough to show he appreciated the gesture. “And good luck,” he said referring to the purchase he hadn’t seen. “And with your dad. Whichever way you want it to go.”
I never did end up taking the test. The box sat there on the kitchen counter taunting me—as did my father’s unanswered message. However, the universe had a different plan for the first of my quandaries by way of nature’s rite of passage. I frowned at the sight of crimson, an unspeakable loss creeping through that barely had time to take root. Philip had asked a few times how I was feeling, but his general lack of enthusiasm did little to convince me this was what he wanted. If he ignored it, it would just go away. And it did.
He arrived home for three days before leaving again for LA and San Francisco. Three days. It was hardly enough time to make up for the letdown when I got my period, for accepting the spate of nausea as a weird virus that manifested in unexplained ways. I watched him climb the steps to our door, eyes blank, cheeks sallow, but his exhaustion quickly disappeared when he swooped me in his arms and twirled me around—no baby in there to worry about. Sunny growled and Philip growled back. “I brought you into her life, you little bugger.” He dropped me down for Sunny’s scratchy tongue to lather my legs, when I noticed the Band-Aid on his arm. It covered the patch of skin where blood was drawn, and I questioned him with my eyes. “Philip?”
“I had a physical. Mandatory for the insurance renewal. Glorious fun.”
“And all was good?”
“Darling,” he said, shaking his bottom and wiggling his hips. “Look at me. I’m perfect.”
The weather was hot, and we set out on foot to the restaurant. My father’s presence uncoiled around me like a snake, ready to strike or to slither away. Philip gripped my hand while attempting to humor me with airport observations.
“Don’t forget you met me on an airplane,” I said.
“Charley, this generation is rather bizarre. You weren’t photographing yourself with your lips puckered like a duck.”
I laughed, and the release felt good, if only temporary. The familiar walk reminded me of the dozens of walks that preceded it. When it was the two of us. Philip and I. When dreams were scattered wishes, before they rooted themselves to the sand and climbed close to the shore. Marriage was once as distant as memory. Children, the players in someone else’s plan. Yet, the loss of what I didn’t have turned me inside out. And while it was only days of wondering, the idea turned to wonderment. Something inside of me had changed.
We took our seats at our table. It was a balmy, cloudless night, a cornflower blue spanning for miles. A light breeze rustled the nearby palms, and Brett’s guitar filtered through the air. Ben stopped by to greet us. He joked with Philip about my almost burning the house down, and I was beginning to understand their closeness. Jimmy was nearby, his shyness giving way to a quiet deference. I took the time to study his pale freckles, counting the tracks his mother once kissed, each stain a kiss from an angel. Now that she was the angel, the marks had to confuse him.
Jimmy lingered, petting Sunny with his nimble fingers, letting him lick his hands and face, and I took the time to chat with him about his upcoming treatment. “No shots. A pain-free session.” I jabbed at his arm. “You’re strong. You’re going to do great.” His features softened, or I was seeing him with new eyes, this young boy. He reminded me of my students, but with far more innocence and far less cynicism. “I’ll be right there with you, cheering you on.” He smiled, and I felt Philip and Ben watching me. Sunny was furiously wagging his tail, and his affection for Jimmy gave me pleasure. Little boys needed love, especially those who had grieved as he had. Soon the pair took off down the sand, playing fetch.
Ben ordered a round of beers, searching my eyes.
I nodded sadly, he hesitated, and I knew it was an apology.
It was the kind of summer evening that etched itself into memory. Brett was singing Bob Seger’s “Fire Lake,” and I was mouthing along with the words. The guys joined in, and I let the happiness soak through, sending the restless waves out to sea, while a warm breeze coated me in hope. It felt good to be alive. Three beers landed in front of us. And that’s when it clicked.
Philip whispered in my ear. “Should you be drinking?”
“About that,” I said. “False alarm.”
“Oh, Charley,” he began, “we’ll just have to keep practicing.” Which in itself would have lessened the disappointment if we were actually having copious amounts of sex, which we were not. He patted my shoulder while sadness and relief settled inside me. Then he reached for the beer and uncapped it, breaking into song. Philip and his godawful, terrible voice. Even though it was a love song, and even though he sang the words to me, it didn’t quench the uncertainty I felt, the Philip I was beginning to misunderstand. Ben did his best to hide his sympathy, but I saw it all over his face. I quickly finished the first beer and moved on to the next.
Several rounds later, Philip thanked Ben for dropping off dinner, and the conversation centered on a well-known client of Philip’s who frequented Ben’s Dallas restaurant. They were the trivial things that kept the conversation safe. And when Philip stood to take a call, leaving me alone with Ben, it was hard to maintain.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“Charlotte—”
“It’s fine, really.”
He backed away from the table as though I’d swiped at him. “That’s Philip’s way. He likes to lighten any situation,” he said.
&
nbsp; I sat up straighter, feeling the effects of the beer. Tears pushed through the back of my eyes, and I turned so he wouldn’t see.
“It’ll happen,” Ben said. “You’ll see. And he’ll make jokes about your cravings and your mood swings and you’ll welcome it.”
His kindness felt good, but I didn’t want it. I didn’t want Ben to comfort me, not when it shined a light on Philip’s inability. Philip, who was buried in a phone call paying no mind to what this loss meant to me.
We remained in silence until Sunny and Jimmy bounded up the beach. Jimmy took a seat beside his father while Brett played more of our favorites. I watched the way Ben patted his back until he buried his face in the boy’s hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear. Maybe he was thinking about his wife. Maybe he was remembering her singing to little Jimmy. Maybe it was around this time, before bedtime, or when they were in the car, crooning at the top of their lungs on the drive home from school. Was he jerked awake in the middle of the night missing the sound of her voice?
It was hard to imagine the days following her death. Did he and Jimmy huddle under the covers, hoping to wake up from a horrible dream?
Philip took the vacant seat beside me, and I tossed my head and threw my sadness aside.
“Who was that?” I asked, suddenly curious about Philip’s private conversations.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, Charley. Bloody lawyers.”
He took a swallow of his drink and found my palm. His felt icy cold. “I worry,” I said, treading lightly. “Especially when it affects me. You can’t always keep everything inside, Philip.”
He looked uncomfortable, like I’d made a tiny crack.
But when he spoke, there was no room for discussion. “When it comes to protecting you, Charley, I’ll do whatever I have to do.”
Philip left, this time for a ten-day stint from Vegas to Phoenix and Denver. The days leading up to his departure were tense. I caught him a few times taking calls in the other room, so I couldn’t hear, and when I did what I swore I would never do—searched his phone—there was only one number that seemed to stand out: Natasha’s home in London. Calculating the date and time, it was her who he abruptly rose from the table at Morada Bay to speak with. And when I pressed him about it, he dismissed me, excuses piling up like discarded trash.
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