If she had been honest, she would have had to admit she didn’t love Anna’s friends. She found them pretentious and rather full of themselves. One of them, Edward, was the king of the malaprop. Emma would listen to him denigrate a fellow artist, using incorrect words in incorrect ways, and she would smile to herself as she sat there saying nothing.
She and Anna spent almost every weekend together, would text each other throughout the week and talk several times each night on the phone. Until, one day, Emma’s text wasn’t returned for a few hours. Anna eventually responded with an emoji unhappy face. She was sorry, she’d said; she’d been really busy.
Emma suggested coffee a few days later. Anna wrote back saying she had to work. She included a kissing emoji this time, as if that would make Emma feel loved.
Emma quickly discovered she felt like she was in a romantic relationship and the other person was backing off. She had no idea what she had done. They had become instant best friends, until the day they weren’t.
She decided not to pursue Anna, certain that the friendship would get back on track as soon as her friend wasn’t so busy. It was simply work related, she told herself. This probably happened to Anna sometimes, and she just hadn’t known her long enough to experience it before. So she waited, patiently . . .
Anna never contacted her again.
They ran into each other a few months later in a restaurant. She saw Anna, head close together with a girl Emma didn’t recognize, two good-looking men sitting opposite them. And that was when she knew she had been replaced with another instant best friend.
It hurt tremendously. Emma wasn’t used to being dumped. But she also had to admit the warning signs had been there; she had just failed to recognize them. Anna had regularly dismissed women she knew as too high-maintenance, too bitchy, too needy. They had been friends, Anna had said about one or another woman she knew, until she realized they were awful. Emma lost count of the number of times she heard this. She thought that would never happen to her; she thought their friendship had been different.
She crafted texts many, many times. If I did anything to upset you, she wrote to Anna, I would love to know; I’m so sorry if I said anything to offend you; I would never knowingly have done anything to jeopardize our friendship. But she never sent them. She deleted the number, which she had never known by heart, then blocked it. One night a few months after the first encounter, she saw Anna again, this time sitting with another new friend at a different restaurant. This time, she went over, despite the pounding of her heart, and with a big smile, tapped Anna on the shoulder. She was friendly but slightly disinterested, cool but polite.
“Anna.” She bent down to kiss her. “What a nice surprise to see you here. I saw the review in the Times the other week. Congratulations.” She turned then and nodded to the other people around the table, now watching her curiously. Turning back to Anna, she said, “You look wonderful. So good to see you. Have a great evening,” and with a wave she turned on her heel and walked out. She had known Anna would never realize how upset Emma had been when she disappeared, nor how discombobulating it was to see her now. But most of all, she had realized that Anna would never know how un-Emma it was for her to behave in the way she had just behaved, affecting an air of gracious disinterest. Because as close as she had thought she and Anna had been, she now knew they had really not known each other at all.
Emma was, at least, able to let go after that. She no longer worried about what she might have done to push Anna away. She had no idea whether Anna had tried to call after that chance meeting, thanks to blocking her number, but sometimes she liked to think she would have tried.
It had been just like a romance. The intensity, the delight at finding someone with so many shared interests, the way the mutual attraction had fizzled out. Emma hadn’t been needy, or high-maintenance, or bitchy, but Anna was someone who moved through people, who gathered them easily because of her beauty and charisma, and discarded them just as easily and quickly. Perhaps it was from boredom, perhaps it was because she was just careless of any feelings but her own. All Emma was certain of was that she wouldn’t jump into any more friendships, or relationships, that quickly again.
• • •
Yet here she is sleeping over every night with Dominic, for all intents and purposes, rushing things in a way that is bound to end badly. Yet there isn’t the buzz of nervous excitement she has had before at the beginning of relationships. There is, instead, huge passion. But the relationship doesn’t feel dangerous. She doesn’t feel that she and Dominic are anxious about having found each other. If anything, their connection to each other feels calm, and safe, and—she doesn’t even really want to think this it’s so unlikely—right.
Nevertheless, she believes she needs this night off. She is glad she is in her crisp, cool sheets, glad that she can stretch a leg out to the other side of the bed when her own side gets too hot. She is glad that when she finds herself awake at two A.M., she can turn the light on and get back to sleep by reading, without worrying about waking anyone else up.
And at that early hour, before she has a chance to become absorbed in the book, she can lie in bed and think about all that has changed over the last week; the loveliness of not being alone, the fun it has been to get to know Jesse, to find herself cooking dinner for someone other than herself, to feel part of a family that is, this time, the right family for her.
• • •
Emma is awakened by the telephone. Sure it is Dominic, she is surprised to see Unknown on the screen. It’s either private or overseas.
“Hello, darling,” peals her mother’s voice. “We haven’t spoken for a while so I thought I’d check that you were still alive.”
“I’m very much alive,” says Emma, getting out of bed and padding to the kitchen to get some coffee on. “Alive and busy.”
“Busy? Did you get another job? Oh, I’m so pleased, darling. Daddy and I have been worried about you, out in the country all by yourself with no one you know.”
“I told you, it isn’t the country. It’s the suburbs, which is a different thing entirely. I’m surrounded by people, and I got my first decorating job last week.” Of course, Emma knows her mother will refuse to acknowledge the word suburb, having spent her entire life attempting to erase her roots. She ignores Emma’s mention of the word.
“Darling, that’s wonderful!” she says. “Who is the job for?”
Emma smiles at her mother’s question. What difference does it make who the job is for? It’s not like her mother would know anyone in Westport. “It’s for a woman my age who doesn’t know how to decorate her house. I’m just doing two rooms, for now, but it’s a start. She’s thrilled.”
“I’m so pleased for you. But I also called because I do want to make sure you’ve booked your flight for Cousin George’s engagement. Remember? I’m throwing the party here at home?”
Oh God. How had this so completely slipped her mind? “I’m so sorry, Mum, completely forgot. Give me the dates again and I’ll see if I can work it out. It may be difficult, though,” she lies. “I have a few more clients I’m meeting with, so it really depends on the work situation.”
Her mother gives her the dates, as Emma’s heart sinks, picturing a party at which she will know no one other than family members she hasn’t seen in years. She realizes she will probably have nothing in common with any of them anymore, if indeed she ever did. And with that thought, she can’t help thinking about how comfortable she has felt with Dominic and Jesse.
“Mummy?” She resorts to Mummy only when she wants something, but a thought has just occurred to her. “Would it be okay if I maybe brought someone with me?”
Her mother is instantly suspicious. “What sort of someone?”
“My landlord, actually. He’s terribly nice, and he’s never been to England, but I’m sure he’d love to go. I have no idea whether he would come. It probably wouldn
’t work, but if he could, would that be okay?”
“Your landlord?” Her mother is shocked. “Darling, why on earth would you offer to bring your landlord to a family party in England? I know you’re trying to prove you’re a good tenant, but isn’t this a bit too too?”
“We’re sort of seeing each other,” says Emma reluctantly, for she really doesn’t want her mother knowing anything about her life.
“Emma!” booms her mother in surprise. “Why didn’t you say that in the beginning? Now I understand! But, darling, I’m not sure that a family party is the best place for him to meet everyone. And you haven’t been living there very long. Isn’t it a bit early to be thinking about bringing him to England to meet your family? I don’t know, Emma. I’m not sure this would be the right time.”
Emma says nothing. If Dominic can’t go, she won’t go, either. If anything, it makes the decision easier.
• • •
Later that day, on the way to Lisa’s, Emma mentions to Dominic that her mother has phoned. She’s thinking about going to England, she tells him. Has he ever been?
“I’ve never left the country,” he says. “I don’t even have a passport.”
“How can you not have a passport?” Emma, who has had a passport as far back as she can remember, is aghast.
“Why would I need a passport when I’ve never left the United States? My driver’s license is my ID.”
“But what if you suddenly decided to hop over to, I don’t know, Mexico, or the Caribbean for the weekend?”
Dominic turns and looks at her, shaking his head with a laugh. “Do you know me? Do I look like someone who would decide to hop over to the Caribbean for the weekend? Rhode Island? Yes. New Jersey? Yes. I’ve even been to Maine for the weekend, which I won’t be doing again in a hurry because it was so far away. But the Caribbean? Never.”
“I’m so sorry,” says Emma. When she was growing up on the relatively tiny island of the United Kingdom, everyone she had ever met had a passport. It was so cheap and easy to hop on a ferry or a plane and go on holiday. The English lived for their holidays. Who wouldn’t have a passport over there?
Of course someone like Dominic has never left the United States. Why would he need to? she thinks. America is so vast, you could spend your life picking different spots to vacation every year and you’d still never get to see the whole country.
“I’m an idiot,” she says. “I’m sounding like a snob. It’s just that in England almost everyone has passports. Maybe you should get one? Maybe”—she takes a breath, hardly believing she’s saying this—“we could all go away somewhere for a vacation sometime?”
“You’re right. I should definitely have a passport,” says Dominic. “Now that I have myself an English girlfriend. She’s positively spiffing,” he continues in a really bad English accent as Emma groans.
“Please don’t do that,” she says. “That’s the most horrible English accent I’ve ever heard.”
“Toodles. Pip pip!” he says, as Emma shakes her head.
“No one in England ever says that,” she says. “Seriously. Please stop. It’s very difficult for me to continue being attracted to a man who sounds worse than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.”
Dominic’s face falls. “Really? I’m that bad?”
“Oh, Dominic,” she says with a sweet smile. “You are so very much worse.”
• • •
The shelves go up at Lisa’s, and they are beautiful. More than beautiful; they are perfect. Dominic has done a great job.
Emma is slightly surprised, but relieved and delighted. She works right alongside him, priming, applying the first coat of paint. Tomorrow he will come back by himself to sand, and apply the second coat. Saturday will see the third coat, so Emma will be able to finish the room on Wednesday, by which time most, if not all, of the furniture she has ordered will have arrived.
“We make a good team,” says Dominic, looking over at where she is painting. “I like this. You and I.”
Emma smiles. She is liking it, too.
NINETEEN
The weeks sail by, filled with ease, and fun, and a peace that Emma has never known before. One Saturday afternoon, after Dominic and Emma have spent the morning finally creating the garden Emma has long dreamed about, Dominic announces that AJ and Deb are coming for dinner that night. Does Emma have anyone she wants to ask? It might be fun to turn it into a small party.
She will invite Sophie and Rob, not knowing anyone else to ask. She worries, for a brief moment, that her friends might not have anything in common with Dominic’s, but she pushes the thought away. This week has been so busy, finishing the decorating for Lisa, that she hasn’t even had a chance to speak to Sophie. It will be nice for them to meet Dominic properly.
He is insisting on grilling his usual burgers, but Emma persuades him to try something a little different. “Not steak,” she groans, after his first suggestion. “How about tuna?”
Dominic grimaces. “Do we have to have fish?”
“Who doesn’t like fish? Okay, I can see that you don’t particularly like fish, but I do. Most people do. I’ll do a simple pasta with pesto to have along with it. I promise that everyone will love it. Maybe I’ll do a shrimp ceviche to serve beforehand . . .”
“Why are you getting so fancy?” He peers at her. “Are your friends fancy?”
Emma laughs. “No, my friends are not fancy, but I want to do something nice. Let’s do burgers with sourdough rolls, tuna and pesto, ceviche, and a tomato, mozzarella, and prosciutto salad. How’s that? Unfancy enough for you?”
“I like the pro-zhiutt,” says Dominic.
Emma stares at him. “Prosciutto?” she says.
“That’s not how you pronounce it,” says Dominic earnestly. “In Italy, they never pronounce the O. It’s pronounced proZHOOT, mohzaRELL, riCOTT.”
“I’m sure that’s not right,” says Emma, who has been to Italy many times and has never heard anyone there ask her if she wanted some proZHOOT or mohzaRELL. “Maybe it’s an American thing?” she says, finally, to appease him.
“Nah,” says Dominic happily. “It’s Italian. I can get the best proZHOOT ever. Want me to do the shopping? I can pick it up now if you want.”
“That would be great,” says Emma, giving up on pronunciation. “Do we have enough to drink? Shall I stop at the liquor store?”
“Sounds good to me. Can you drop Jesse off at the School of Rock for his guitar lesson?”
“Sure,” she says, but a slight feeling of dread settles on her. Despite the admittedly nice moments they’ve shared, she and Jesse have not yet quite found their groove again. At first, after that awful morning, she’d thought he’d settled down. But in the past week or so, he has not been the sweet little boy he was before he realized that she and his father were more than just friends. Emma has noticed him becoming increasingly suspicious, and cool. She tries to convince herself that with time she can win him over for good, but she can’t help feeling a little apprehensive. He loved her before, of course he will love her again, right? Still, the prospect of spending time with him on her own makes her nervous. What if he doesn’t talk to her?
In the car on the way to his guitar lesson, her fears are realized. Jesse is silent, speaking only when necessary, and then in monosyllables.
“What songs are you learning at School of Rock?” Emma turns her head to glance at him in the backseat, in a bid to engage him.
Jesse shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“Is it rock? Stuff I would know?”
“No.” He refuses to look at her. After a while she gives up, reaching forward to turn on the radio, softly singing along until they reach their destination. As soon as they do, Jesse jumps out of the car without saying good-bye, leaving Emma both upset and angry.
How is a six-year-old allowed to behave like this? she wonders. Then she berat
es herself for not following him and forcing him to say good-bye. But she wouldn’t have done that, she thinks. Couldn’t have done that, lest it bring on another meltdown.
It’s not good for a small child to have this much power, she thinks, aware that her mood has been brought down, that she is now obsessing about making Jesse happy.
She wishes she knew how.
• • •
That evening, setting up for the dinner she and Dominic have planned, Emma tries to settle the butterflies in her stomach. Will her friends like him? Will he like them? Why does she care so much?
“You look amazing,” Sophie whispers in her ear as they hug on the doorstep, having merely texted for days. “Oh my God, are you totally in love?”
“Stop,” says Emma, kissing Rob hello, then squealing in delight as she sees Sophie’s mother, Teddy, emerging from the car with Jackson.
“Teddy, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Is it okay to bring her?” says Sophie. “I knew we should have asked, but I totally forgot to text you and I know you love my mom.”
“I’m thrilled,” says Emma, giving Teddy a big hug. “How are you?”
“All the better for seeing you,” says Teddy, as Jackson pulls on her long white braid. “Ouch. Jackson, sweetie. Be gentle with your old grandma.”
“You’re hardly old,” says Emma. “You’re the youngest fifty-something I know.”
Teddy breaks into a big grin and leans forward to plant a kiss on Emma’s cheek. “Fifty-something! I knew there was a reason I loved you.”
“Come and meet the others,” says Emma. “Let me get you all drinks.”
“This looks fantastic.” Sophie bypasses Emma’s ceviche to lift the aluminum foil off a catering pan revealing a huge chicken parm, smothered in tomato sauce and dripping with cheese.
“Oh my God,” swoons Sophie, picking a piece of cheese off the side. “Did you make this? This tastes incredible.”
“I did not,” says Emma. “I made all the other stuff, which Dominic said was far too healthy for his friends, so he insisted on making chicken parm. Please tell me you’ll eat my ceviche?”