“You scared me for a second. I was concerned about your IQ.”
“I got that joke from a TV show.”
I laughed. “Now I’m really concerned about your IQ.”
The place Grace and I used to go to was long gone, so I took Ash to a diner in our neighborhood.
“Mom told me you guys used to do this breakfast-for-dinner thing all the time in college.”
“We did.” I smiled at the memory but didn’t want to dwell on the past. “How was school?”
“Good. Boring, except for ceramics.”
“You like pottery?”
“I love it.”
“My mom—your grandmother—loved it. She had a little art studio set up behind her house in California. She called it the Louvre.” I chuckled at the memory.
“I know.”
“Your mom pretty much covered everything, didn’t she?”
“Why didn’t you want her to come tonight?”
This daughter of mine didn’t pull any punches. “Like I said before, things are complicated.”
“You guys love each other, so why the hell aren’t you together?”
“It’s not that simple, Ash. I need time.”
“Well, I think you’re wasting it.”
Why was the fifteen-year-old the smartest one in the room?
Because she doesn’t have decades of bullshit clouding her judgment.
We ordered pancakes and milk shakes, and Ash told me about school and a boy she liked.
“Boys are pigs. You know that, right? Stay away from them.”
She sipped her milk shake thoughtfully. “You don’t need to do this. Seriously.”
“I do. I want to meet your friends and come to your school events. And that’s not a request.”
“I know.”
After we totally stuffed ourselves with pancakes, I paid and we headed out. On our way to the door, Ash stopped in front of the refrigerator case.
“You want a piece of pie?” I asked.
She dug into the little purse slung across her chest. “No, I’m gonna buy a piece for Mom.”
“I’ll buy it. What does she like?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You know what she likes.”
“One piece of chocolate cream and a piece of peanut butter to go,” I said to the woman behind the counter. She bagged it up and handed it to me, and I led Ash out of the diner.
Ash and I talked about music the entire way back to her house. It was no surprise that Ash had great taste and vast knowledge across genres. We agreed that we would see Radiohead together next time they played in New York. I wondered how many times Grace had played Radiohead or Jeff Buckley to Ash over the years. I hadn’t been able to listen to either one since college.
I followed Ash up the steps. She swung the door open wide, turned around, and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Father.” She left me in the open doorway, holding the pie, as she ran up the stairs and called out, “Mom, some dude is at the door with pie!”
I swallowed, frozen in the doorway.
Sneaky little thing.
24. Once, We Were Lovers
Grace
Every time I laid eyes on Matt, I’d instantly be overcome by two conflicting feelings: shock at how handsome he was—lean, strong, defined, and somehow sexier with age—and total disbelief that he was even there. I was convinced I would wake up and things would be back to the way they were before.
But I wanted to be strong around him. I had spent a week crying over how he took the news. I’d done enough falling apart for all of us. Frankly, I was getting tired of mulling over all this shit; I had been doing it for a decade and a half. If he wanted to blame me for what his psychotic ex-wife had done, then so be it. I was done crying and I was done apologizing.
Strutting toward him, I watched as his eyes scanned me from head to toe. I was wearing a short, silk nightgown and a devil-may-care look in my eyes. I took the bag from his hands. “Chocolate and peanut butter?” I asked, drily. He nodded. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay, well, it’s late.” He just blinked at me then looked down at his slippers.
“Um . . . all right, I’m gonna head home.”
“Okie dokie.”
He headed for the door and I followed to close it behind him. But just before he stepped out of the doorway, he turned, placed his hands on my silk-clad hips, and kissed me right below the ear.
I whimpered.
“Night, Gracie,” he whispered and then he was gone. I stood in the doorway for several moments, trying to catch my breath. Just when I was learning to hold it together . . .
AFTER SCHOOL THE next day, I went to Green Acres, which didn’t remotely embody its name. It was a subpar convalescent facility in the Bronx, where Orvin’s daughter had placed him after his wife died a few years earlier. The place really needed renovation. The walls were painted that heinous shade of vomit-green from The Exorcist, and the whole place smelled of putrid yeast from the bread-making factory next door. Green Acres was awful. There was a small yard in the back for residents to get exercise, but not a single blade of grass. I broke Orvin out of there at least once a week. We’d go to a nearby park and play chess, and even though he couldn’t remember my name anymore, I was fairly certain he knew who I was.
As we sat in the park, we listened to the wind whistling through the trees. “Do you still listen for it?” I asked.
“For what, doll?”