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I shake my head. “This was not how it’s supposed to go.”
“It’s a small town,” he whispers. “It was inevitable.”
I look up at him, confusion playing across my face. “What was?”
“Me seeing you again.”
I don’t offer a response. He forces a handkerchief into my hand. It smells like aftershave and sweat and something else…the earth, maybe. Whatever it is, it reminds me of the dirt I used to play in with my mother, while she worked in her clients’ flowerbeds. She did the planting. I did the digging.
Chet stands and gives me space. I cry harder, thinking of those days. I can’t recall how long it has been since I let myself go there. But I go there now, picturing my mother, tending someone else’s flowers, someone else’s children, someone else’s husband. I used to wonder if she wanted those things to be hers.
Now, I know she did.
Suddenly, I am aware of Chet’s movement, of his presence, of his breath. For several moments, he just stands there with his hands on his hips as though he is contemplating what to do about the mess he’s found himself in. At some point I feel him move away. Eventually, he reaches for my hand and I see that he has uncovered the sofa. He motions for me to take a seat. “I can come back later,” he tells me. “If you prefer.”
“It’s fine,” I manage. “So Ethan hired you to paint.” It’s not really a question, more like a realization. Chet misses that.
“Not just paint.” He lists off the projects he is contracted to complete.
I nod and with it comes a long and heavy sigh. So my husband is going to sell the house. Somehow I knew this was coming.
But the finality of it lands hard. Something breaks loose inside of me, and the tears find their way back to the surface.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SADIE
Chet comes back the next day. And the next after that. He paints the living room. He finishes. He starts on the bedrooms. He finishes those too. He works fast. Too fast.
He does his best to stay out of my way. He tries to be polite. Still, his mere presence makes me furious. It’s amazing how fast it is to go from a slight dislike to strong hatred. This doesn’t go unnoticed by him. We have entire conversations with our eyes. I guess there’s some part of you who knows, just knows, when someone is going to upend your life. When someone is upending your life.
It doesn't help that my disdain seems to amuse him more than anything, which, of course, only infuriates me more. He laughs when I ask him to park his work truck around the corner. He goes so far as to throw his head back in the process. “Sweetheart,” he says. “If you’re worried about what the neighbors think at this stage in your life, you’ve got bigger problems than you think.”
I tell him to fuck off.
“The kitchen is next,” he replies, moving into my space, leaning too close, whispering into my ear. “A complete remodel, I hear.”
“That makes one of us,” I say, moving away. I sort the mail while he stands at the sink, washing his brushes. I catch my mind wandering. I catch myself watching his hands. I hate his hands. I hate his broad shoulders and his crooked smile and his unending enthusiasm about the way my life is unfolding. His presence has worn grooves in my understanding. Ethan is easing me into the idea of losing him, just like my mother did.
Chet senses me watching him. He glances up and then over at me. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s used to me watching him. He seems to read my expression and he smiles wryly. “Come on. Tell me you at least like the color.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.” The sincerity in his voice sounds like poison. And yet, it makes me take a second look. I’m not expecting him to appear as genuine as he does. It forces me to reassess what I’m dealing with. It forces me to really look at him—maybe for the first time.
I gather he’s in his late forties, not that I’ve ever been good at guessing that sort of thing. He’s seen a day or two in the sun, for sure, which makes it hard to tell. At any rate, he’s fit, very fit, and although his face is moderately symmetrical, it’s not enough to classify him as handsome. Nevertheless, he has that blue-collar, hardworking look going for him. That, combined with his height, broad shoulders, and a strong jaw—well, I’d be willing to bet he does all right.
“Did you always want to be a carpenter?”
“Always,” he says. “But my parents had other plans. They wanted me to go into banking. Like my old man. So I did for a while.”
“Didn’t take?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Most things that aren’t meant to be don’t.”
THAT EVENING CHET asks if it’s okay if he stays late to work on the grout. The cabinets have been delayed coming in and he tells me it’s going to cost him time. For him, time is money. I thank God for small favors.
/> But I say yes, because it beats spending the evening alone. I cook Chicken Marsala. Partly because it’s Ethan’s favorite and I hope it gets back to him somehow. Also, I’m hungry, and I want to slow Chet’s progress by being in his way the same as he’s in mine.
