Jude:I’m sorry, no. But that doesn’t mean today didn’t have an impact.
Gracie:Then I guess you can consider me hopeful.
Jude:I can’t imagine you as anything but.
Thursday
Gracie:I see you typing. Is this about the chance of rain in the forecast?
Jude:It’s over 80 percent. That’s practically a threat.
Gracie:Shouldn’t you be busy unaliving a marriage or something? I have a weather app, you know.
Jude:Do you have new tires, too?
Gracie:No, but I do have a handy predisposition for never leaving my house unless forced.
Jude:We’re still on for tomorrow night, though, right?
Gracie:Do I sense the tides shifting? Are you looking forward to wedding planning events?
Jude:I’m looking forward to having an excuse not to join Henry’s pickleball team.
Gracie:That *almost* makes me want to cancel. But we’re still on—unless it drizzles, of course.
Jude:With those tires, you should take hydroplaning seriously.
Gracie:I think it’s time for your prune juice and a nap, Grandpa.
Jude:See you tomorrow, Gracie.
13GRACIE
Five Weeks Before the Wedding
Sitting in my dark car in downtown Providence under a streetlamp, I check my lipstick one last time. Tonight, I’m dragging Jude along to hear the band that plays at nearly every Larkwood wedding, hoping three things: (a) they won’t be able to resist my sad-puppy eyes when I beg them to squeeze Calvin and Brooke’s wedding into their packed schedule, (b) Jude meets an amazing group of people who would be seriously set back if Larkwood stopped hosting weddings, and (c) he miraculously changes his mind about selling. And whilemaybeit’s a little too soon for C, after our meeting with Daphne this week, my hopes have never been higher.
I don’t want to admit that I’m nervous. Not just about guilting him into keeping Larkwood, but also because prior to last week, my feelings for him were black and white. He was Jude: the heat-seeking missile aimed directly at my life. Now though, he’s Jude: devoted but unappreciated cat guardian, excessive worrier over my bald tires, and sender of texts I look forward towaytoo much.
It’s more than a little unsettling. Admitting that I enjoy talking to him (or worse, that I’ve taken to rereading our text conversations when we’renottalking) feels wrong. But the fact is, I’ve stopped crying in my shower to Celine Dion, and that’s a silver lining I’m not quite ready to give up. So, with nerves crackling in my stomach, I get out of my car and walk to the bar.
Inside, it’s snug and crowded with a 1920s Art Deco theme andjazz that runs like a current just below the hum of conversation. Across the dim room, I spot Jude seated on a dark-green velvet barstool. An electric pulse goes through me at the sight of his large, graceful body leaning with one elbow on the bar, like he was born to slouch in elegant rooms. Rolling my eyes at the thought, I make it to the seat he’s saved for me.
“You didn’t bring Taco?” I say in greeting.
Jude smirks as he turns toward me. “She’s out back with the band, drinking bathtub gin and flashing her knees.”
“This place definitely makes me wish I’d worn something with more fringe,” I say, slipping my light trench coat from my shoulders. His eyes follow the garment, dropping down as my clingy maroon dress makes its appearance.
“You look lovely,” he murmurs, eyes meeting mine again.
I look away as the compliment, free of any of his usual snark, makes all my pulse points flutter to life.
“Thanks!” I say lightly, hanging my bag and coat under the bar before sitting down. I don’t mention that, as usual,hemanages to make a boring white button-up look borderline pornographic. Instead, I say, “No sign of the band yet?”
“Not yet, but the drinks are strong.” He slides a cocktail menu over to me. “Anything look good to you?”
My eyes instantly zero in on the prices, which, at seventeen dollars per drink, make me want to rear back and rub my eyeballs.
