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She smooths her dress. I look on as she rubs her palms against her thighs. This is definitely getting back to my husband.
She's wearing a long floral dress, which is a bit different than June would've worn, a bit tighter. “That's a pretty dress,” I say. I have to stop playing defense, stop making her work for small answers so that the conversation stays on the surface. That’s not why I came.
“Thank you,” she says, blushing, and I realize she’s equally nervous.
We pray. Or rather she prays, and I listen. It goes on and on, and I’m impressed by her thoroughness. I remember a time I cared that much. Well, not quite that much. But surely, I cared.
“So tell me,” I say when she’s finished, and we’ve said our amens. “How do you like the neighborhood?”
“It's great—” she offers, fanning out the skirt of her dress once again. “I really have no complaints.”
“And how are the children?” I ask. I can't help myself, I have to know. “Tom's children, I mean.”
“Oh,” she says, and she looks away briefly. I can see that she’s taken aback. I don’t think she expected me to pry. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “They're fine.”
“I figured,” I tell her. “They’re great kids.”
“Well, yes. But they’re hardly children anymore.”
She’s right. They can’t be much younger than she is.
“Yes,” I laugh. “I guess you don’t realize other people’s children grow up.”
She presses her lips to one another and leaves it at that.
“And the Bible study?” I missed the last one, sadly. I skate just beneath the surface. “My daughter was cut from the dance team. It was a big deal.”
She nods like she understands. She doesn’t.
“How did you get on with the others?”
She lifts her cup from the table and sips her tea uncomfortably.
“That good?” I ask. Sometimes sarcasm works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
“I’m not sure they like me,” she replies earnestly, and in this case I made the right call. I can't help but get the feeling she thinks I’m one and the same.
“I’m sure you're wrong,” I tell her, sipping my tea. “They can be a tough bunch to crack. But they mean well.”
She leans in. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think they know about the baby?”
“The baby?” I say raising my brow. Something lodges in my throat. Of course, the baby. The flowy dress, the shotgun wedding, it all makes perfect sense now.
“No,” I tell her. “I haven't heard anything.” This latter is the truth. It’s the best way to hide a lie.
She looks relieved. She visibly relaxes. I expect her to say more, but when she doesn’t, I realize I’m going to have to ask. I cross and uncross my legs. Then I fold my hands and place them in my lap. “How far along are you?”
She looks away. “Not very far. It’s just—we haven't told anyone…”
“How did you and Tom meet? I know you said on the street but—”
“Yes—about that,” she says, cutting me off. “I figured you’d want to know.”
“It's really not my business,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Another truth hidden in a lie.
