Page 35 of The Homemaker
“Discussing what cut of steak he wants for dinner? Fireworks for the Fourth?”
“No. She was reading to him. I kid you not; he was reclined on his leather sofa, eyes closed, and she was in the chair next to him, reading a book like a bedtime story. How messed up is that?”
“What book?”
“Murphy, what does that matter? That’s not the point. He’s a grown man having a book read to him like a child.”
“Well, maybe your mom won’t read to him.”
“Murphy!”
I laugh. “Okay. Okay. Yeah, it’s weird. But what are you going to do about it?”
“Why can’t you just agree with me without making a case for him?”
“I do agree with you.”
“But I want you to agree with meanddo something about it.”
“What amIsupposed to do?”
“Say something to him. Maybe shame him a little. Like one man to another, tell him how messed up it is that he has a woman close to his daughter’s age reading him a book.”
“Babe, I’m not having that conversation with him.”
“Ugh! You’re useless.” She stands.
“Blair.”
She grumbles, stomping into the house.
I shake my head and remove my sunglasses, then I jump into the pool to escape her irrational anger. She’s stressed, and there’s only so much I can do about it. Perhaps, just staying out of her way while she works through it is the best option.
The air from my lungs escapes into tiny little bubblesbefore my face as I sink to the bottom of the pool, where everything is peaceful. I think about Alice and how long she had to hold her breath as a synchronized swimmer. How long can I hold my breath? Until we’re in New York, and I no longer have to see Alice every day? Until I’m married?
I relax my body and count.
After a minute and twenty-six seconds, there’s a pinch on my arm, a hand gripping it, pulling me to the surface.
Ribbons of long, dark hair.
A blue dress.
White apron.
Legs frog kicking.
I pull away, and Alice whips her head around as we breach the surface at the shallow end.
“I’m fine,” I say, shaking the water from my hair.
Alice’s blue eyes pierce me, red lips parted, satin headband clinging to her drenched ponytail as she pants.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
Drops of water cling to her long lashes as she returns a blank stare like she’s not hearing me or even seeing me. Then her nostrils flair and, without a word, she turns, arms limp at her sides as she climbs the corner steps and grabs a towel from the bin.
“Alice.” I follow her, snagging my towel from the chair.
