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He looks up then. I know what he’s thinking. Any minute now, the first of our guests will begin arriving. “We’re expecting forty people any second now.” He glances at his wrist. “The top is fine.”
I straighten it. I’ve lost weight, thanks to the added workouts and the stress with Avery. Nothing fits right.
“Have you given any consideration to my suggestion?”
“I don’t want surgery.”
“Breast augmentations are very common for women your age.”
I think of June.
He reads my mind. “What happened with June was very rare, Jos.”
I remove the top. He studies me carefully. I can see the wheels in his mind turning. He reaches out and cups my left breast. “Hmmm,” he mutters. Nothing more. It says enough. I don’t have to ask what he’s thinking. I know.
“You’re lovely,” he tells me. He lies. “Here, I think you should wear this one,” he says handing me a blouse from the stack lying on the bed. It’s beige, and it tells me what he wants from me today. He wants me to blend in. This is what happens when you spend decades with a person. You don’t question them because you want to know why they want what they want. You question them because you need to know you want the same.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask. He seems nervous. Especially lately. Different, too. Not that I’m complaining.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he assures me. “I just have a lot on my mind. Work.”
I think of our son and his birthday and our guests. “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t quite know what I’m sorry for. For the last few months, for being so distracted lately, for not being more appreciative, for all of it, perhaps.
“You did good,” my husband tells me, slipping his arm around my waist.
I smile. “Remind me again why we didn’t have this at the clubhouse?”
He pulls me close and plants a kiss on the top of my head. We stand together watching the commotion as friends fill our backyard. “This is our home,” he says. “It should be this way.”
I take a glass of wine from a server’s tray.
“Plus,” he adds, squeezing my waist. “It’s nice to have our friends here. Our job is to unify and grow the congregation. What better place to do it than our home?”
“You’re right,” I whisper leaning into him.
He glances at me sideways. “You really are a lot smarter than I give you credit for.”
“Nice to know,” I say playfully. I jab his gut. Laughter breaks out. Our eyes follow. Beth and her husband are talking to the Bennetts. Tom and Mel have a small group around them, and the rest of our closest friends from New Hope are pittering about, enjoying the hors d'oeuvres. It’s the kids laughing. James is telling a story. I strain to hear, but there’s too much chatter to make out specifics.
“It is important to show the newcomers hospitality—” Grant says getting my attention. “You know, what an ideal family looks like. It gives them something to aspire to.”
I do know. Which is why I still haven’t told him I want out. My husband is particular about change. I realize I’m going to have to plead my case. Somehow, I don’t think this is the appropriate time.
Eventually, he pats my backside. “Go on,” he says. “Mingle.”
I down the last of my wine and mentally tally how many of these people will still be around when we leave the church. None.
He places his hand on the small of my back and pushes me into the crowd. “Social affairs are meant to be social.”
Halfway through the party, Grant cuts in via the sound system.
“May I have your attention?” His eyes scan the crowd. He’s looking for me. I’ve always loved my husband’s face most when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. He commands everyone’s attention.
His eyes land on mine and his face lights up. “First, I want to thank my beautiful wife for putting this all together,” he says raising his glass. “I’ll never know how I got so lucky.”
Our friends cheer. There’s clapping. Someone whistles.
“Secondly, I’d like to thank you all for coming. This community means everything to us. And I do mean everything.” He looks to me for confirmation. A lump forms in my throat. It hits me. It’s there, the truth in his expression. Leaving New Hope with his blessing is never going to happen.
