Page 11 of His Loving Wife

Now

Already, I’m imagining Aster using phrases like “shabby chic” to describe the décor, whereas I would describe the place as a tropical oasis. Our rental is one level, a floor plan that seems to stretch out into comfortable corners. Each of the three bedrooms has a different color that reminds me of seaside homes in Key West or cascading down hillsides in the Cinque Terre—shades like buttercup, pear and powder pink. The color scheme would be too harsh at home, but it seems perfect for a rental. Perfect for an escape.

After getting dressed and pulling the hair away from my face, I wander into the living room. The ambiance is peaceful with the pale blue walls and white shiplap ceiling. The far wall is fitted with sliding glass doors, allowing for a view of the private swimming pool and beachfront beyond. In some ways, the transparency and seclusion of the place make me feel exposed, and yet, ironically, this is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.

I walk into the kitchen, which is located in the far-left corner of the open concept design. There aren’t any barriers between one place and the next. The space is white and clean with distressed ceramic floors that remind me of a shipwreck. The décor flows seamlessly, although our exposed cabinets are now noticeably bare. We’ll definitely need more food now that we’re staying another week.

“Lazy much?” Willow says, wandering in through the sliding glass door that leads to the patio.

“Morning,” I say, smiling before opening the fridge. “I’m heading out to the store as soon as your dad gets back. Need anything?”

“Where did he go?”

“He took Noah to that boat rental place down the road.”

“Are you really going to let him get one?”

“If that’s what they want to do.” I keep my back to her, pretending the idea of renting a boat for the week isn’t as terrifying as I really think it is. “Tell me what you need from the store.”

Willow rambles off a list of toiletries and snacks she justhasto have. Eventually, I have to stop investigating the refrigerator to grab a pen to write everything down. You would think we were going to be here another month.

“Dad said you cooked yourself breakfast this morning?”

“Cereal.” She sighs.

“I’ll be sure to get up early and cook omelets for everyone tomorrow. Maybe you can even help me.”

Willow smiles at this. In her eyes, eating an omelet sounds much more sophisticated than eating scrambled eggs.

“By the way, Aunt Aster and Uncle David are stopping by the house tomorrow.”

“Really?”

Willow’s tone perks up. She’s always had a good relationship with her aunt, the few times a year they actually see one another. When Willow was little, Aster treated her like she was a stain on my life. She did the same with Noah. Babies were yucky and needy and dependent; only people who didn’t have anything better to do had them. Aster much preferred children, especially teenagers. Now that she’s older, Willow is easily fascinated by stories her aunt tells about traveling to different conferences around the world. Sometimes I wonder if the main reason Aster shows Willow any attention is to get under my skin.

“They’re driving down to their vacation home for the week. If we had left today, we would have missed them. Since we’re staying a bit longer, they thought they’d join us for dinner.”

“Sweet.” Willow looks down at her phone and starts walking toward the sliding glass door. Before she opens it, she stops. “Do you want me to go to the grocery store with you?”

I smile at the fact she at least thought to offer. “No. You enjoy the sunshine. I’ll be back in time for lunch.”

I watch her walk outside, checking my phone to see if there are any messages from Andrew. It’s hard to gauge how he’ll react to Aster’s visit. The two don’t necessarily dislike one another. They tolerate each other for civility’s sake. Aster thinks Andrew is too simple, and he finds her too domineering. Of course, he’s not used to our family dynamic.

My parents divorced when I was ten years old, igniting a contentious relationship that lasted until my father’s death two years ago; Andrew’s parents have been married almost forty years. My mother worked two or three jobs to support us, while my father pursued a high-flying career in advertising and wrote a check twice a month. Andrew’s father is a preacher. His mother is the church organist. I have a complicated relationship with my sister; he is an only child. It’s another reason I feel pressure to patch up my relationship with Aster; she’s the only aunt my children have, and they’ll never have any cousins.

Andrew’s upbringing was different from mine on almost every level—financially, relationally. And yet, we reached a comfort with one another that we’d never found anywhere else. Either in our own homes, or in the arms of other lovers before each other. I certainly never had those feelings when I was with Paul.

Paul.

For years, he was someone whose name only popped up in passing. I could hardly remember anything about him, let alone anything we did together. Our relationship was that insignificant. Now, he’s always there, hiding in the recesses of my mind, waiting to reappear. I can’t even think about the milestones I’ve had since our breakup—my marriage to Andrew, my children—without fearing he might somehow interfere.

I fear he’ll take them away.

I fear he’s not only hiding in my psyche, but on the outskirts of my life. Our lives. Waiting to make his next move.

Chapter 7

Now

---