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Lyndsey perches on the stone table in front of us, inlaid with black and white marble for games of chess that never get played. She sips water from a bottle and reclines on her elbows, closing her eyes as she tilts her face up to the sun. She looks angelic. Tired, but angelic.
“It’s a sandwich,” she says, still basking. “You play games to wear them out, you feed them, and then you play games again to burn off the insane levels of sugar they’ve ingested. The parents at school would be pissed if I sent them back hyper.”
I chuckle. “I thought most of the parents were here?”
“Half and half.” She rocks up and hides a yawn behind her hand, checking her watch at the same time. “Rowan is the self-appointed Master of Entertainment, so get your sweet ass up and join the line for ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’ Honestly, I don’t think kids still play that kind of thing, and I’m not sure Rowan knows what sort of modern monsters he’s got on his hands. If it’s not some cartoon bouncing around on an iPad, most of these kids don’t wanna have anything to do with it.”
“Grace isn’t like that,” I reply defensively, though she knows it as well as I do.
She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder gently. “That’s ‘cause she’s special, and I’m not just saying that because she’s my kid.” She sighs, and drops her chin down. “God, I hope she stays that way. You wouldn’t believe how spoiled some of these…childrenare.”
“She asked if we could go up to the ‘Climbing Rose’ sometime.” It’s not my birthday, but being back in that town with everyone, picking out a book like old times would be the greatest gift I can think of.
Lyndsey nods. “She told me.” There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes: a sadness that twitches the corner of her eyelids. “Cybil mentioned to me that there may be a party one of these weekends. Not sure of the dates yet but you should come if you’re not busy? No doubt you’ll be invited anyway.”
“That sounds nice.” If there’s an event at the gallery, it’s nothing a little rearranging with the girls can’t fix. “I’ll let Ms. T know we’ll be up sometime soon.”
A wicked smile morphs Lyndsey’s expression, chasing away that fleeting sadness. “Not just yet. There’s a condition.”
“Let me guess—I have to get my sweet, tipsy ass up to go play games?”
She fires a finger gun at me. “Got it in one. Come on, there’ll be a big slice of cake in it for you, too.”
Cautiously, I rise to my feet, fully aware that standing after ingesting quite a lot of white wine is the true gauge of how much I’ve had to drink. My legs feel surprisingly steady, and the beautiful garden isn’t spinning. The crab boil that I ate like a woman possessed must’ve taken the edge off, though I’m certain it terrified a few of Lyndsey’s guests. It has been a while since I’ve picked crabs and it tasted incredible. Not as good as crawfish from Lucky’s—neveras good as that—but the flavor of the spices, all of it boiled to perfection, was like liquid memory, seeping through my veins, carrying me off to the harbor, with him. I remember being so grossed out the first time, thinking Ben was tricking me, but now I crave those crawfish, almost as much as I crave him. An addiction I’ll never be able to satisfy.
“You okay?” Lyndsey grasps my arm, steadying me. “You went ‘faraway’ for a minute there.”
It’s a term we use, mostly for Grace, when she’s in the middle of something and she suddenly looks off into the distance, her eyes glazing over, her forehead creasing in a frown, like she sees something far away. I used to think she could see her dad, but even if it was possible, she’s grown out of that, too. I still see him, now and then, in the gray t-shirt of a youngish man walking ahead of me, or in the paint-streaked jeans of the artist around the corner from my apartment, or in the growl of any and every motorcycle that rumbles down my street. I hate that sound, viscerally, and I’m always disappointed when the man I see turns around and it’s not Ben.
“It’s just the heat and the wine. Give me a sec to grab some water, and I’ll come pin the ears on the thingamajig,” I tell Lyndsey, heading inside before she can stop me.
At the kitchen sink, I brace my hands against the cool marble countertop and take deep breaths. I’m shaky as I turn on the faucet and stick my head underneath, gulping down mouthfuls of water. Then, I let the crystalline stream pool into my cupped palms and splash it over my face, running wet hands over the back of my neck.
“Everything alright?” It’s Oscar, coming in from the living room. That guy is with him again, his arms filled with scarves and bandanas. Whoever he is, he still looks like he wants me gone, his nose turned up like there’s a bad smell in the room. I only catch a glimpse of his obvious derision before he’s out the door, disappearing into the garden.
I put on a smile. “All good. Too hot, that’s all.” I clap my hands together. “Raring to go for pin the ears on the donkey, though.”
“Tail,” Oscar replies, laughing. “It’s Rowan’s favorite, apparently, but I don’t think he understands his target audience.”
“That’s what Lyndsey said.” I nod toward the French doors. “Who was that?”
Oscar frowns. “You mean Rowan?”
“Thatis Lyndsey’s brother?” I’ve met him before, on the night of Ben’s show. The last show. A celebration of his life and his work, absent the artist himself.
Oscar tilts his head to one side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I didn’t recognize him.”
And he obviously hates me. Did I say something at the show?I try to think back, but most of those first months after Ben’s death are a blur. Either way, if Ididsay something at the show to rub Lyndsey’s brother the wrong way, any sensible person would give a grieving widow a grace period.
“You don’t have to come and play if you don’t want to,” Oscar says kindly. “No one’s going to mind if you just camp out in here for a while.”
Grace will mind, I tell myself, though it’s a tempting offer. Catching my warped reflection in the backsplash, I smile at the wobbly edges of the woman looking back. She’s come a long way. A year ago, she’d have been hiding in the bathroom, sobbing in secret, dabbing away tears and runny mascara until she looked depuffed enough to go back to the dinner party or gallery event or drinks with the girls.
“I’m fine.” And I am, mostly.
Oscar beckons for me to join him. “Come on, then.”
