Barefoot: A Novel

“I know.”

“You don’t have to go out and about looking for that love elsewhere, Josh. Your mother loved you, and wherever she is now, she loves you stil .”

She loves you still. This was a huge statement, especial y considering the source. It was a gift from his father. And yet, it was too much to process on a flat, hot morning at the end of the most tumultuous summer of his life. He would have to pocket the statement and think about it later.

“Right,” Josh said. “But I don’t think what’s happening this summer has anything to do with . . .”

“That may be,” Tom Flynn said. “It was just a thought I had.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Thanks.”

Tom Flynn stood up to his ful height and squared his shoulders. “As for being in love, I’m out of practice. I don’t have any fatherly advice other than: Be careful.”

“Be careful,” Josh repeated. “Okay. I wil .”

Heat and humidity were no friend to the pregnant woman. Melanie couldn’t stand to be in her own skin. She felt fat and sweaty and lethargic. The cottage was unbearable, it was a kiln, even with al of the windows open and the three oscil ating fans running on high. Melanie made two or three trips to the market per day—primarily for cold juice, Cokes, and Gatorade for herself and Vicki, but also because the market was air-conditioned.

She went to the beach and swam, but it wasn’t unusual for Melanie to feel faint walking home, confused, fatigued, forgetful. It was less than half a mile from the beach back to Number Eleven Shel Street, but Melanie arrived home feeling like she’d been lost in the desert.

And so, on the day that she saw Peter standing at the front door, she thought she was hal ucinating.

She saw the cab first, an Atlantic Cab right in front of Number Eleven, and a cab, general y, meant Ted. But it was a Wednesday, not Friday, although Melanie had some vague sense that Ted was coming earlier than planned for his vacation so that he could be with Vicki for her post-treatment CT scan. But that was stil another week away, wasn’t it? This was the kind of thing Melanie kept forgetting. Stil , when she saw the cab, she thought: Ted. Because who else could it possibly be? They never had visitors.

It took another few seconds for Melanie to notice the man standing in the shade of the overhang, a very tal man in a suit. From the back he looked like Peter. Melanie blinked. It was always like this at the end of her walk home; her vision splotched. She was thirsty and tired. She had been out with Josh the night before, back home so late it was early.

The man turned, or half turned, searching the street. Melanie stopped. It was Peter. Her stomach dropped in a quasi-thril ing way, like she was careening down a rol er coaster. The voice in her head screamed: Holy shit! It’s Peter! Peter is here! How was this possible? He took off from work? He flew here? He thought it would be okay to show up without asking? There had been phone cal s, three to be exact, not counting the cal that Melanie had placed from the market, not counting the cal that Vicki had answered. So five cal s in total—but not once did Peter hint that he was thinking of doing this. He asked Melanie when she was planning on coming home—and that was the correct question. That left Melanie in control.

She would come home when she felt like it, and at that point they would deal with the detritus of their marriage. Melanie could not believe Peter was standing by the front door of the cottage. She imagined the baby inside of her doing backflips . How dare he! she thought. And simultaneously, she thought, Thank God Josh is gone for the day. Josh. A second later she realized that she was not only horrified by Peter’s arrival, she was flattered by it. Before everything happened with Josh, this was exactly what she had wished for.

She couldn’t make herself move forward; she wanted to remain in this moment of seeing Peter but being unseen herself. The front door of Number Eleven was always unlocked. Had he tried the knob? Had he knocked? Vicki would be asleep with the kids, Brenda was probably stil out.

Melanie stood in the shade of the neighbor’s elm tree, watching him. He looked distinctly out of place in his suit, but the suit also brought to mind the fact that Peter was an adult, a man with a job in the city—and not a col ege student.

Melanie remained there a few seconds longer, but she was a hostage in her own body. She was dying of thirst—and, as ever, she had to pee.

She moved forward, pretending not to have noticed him and trying not to worry about her appearance. She hadn’t seen the man in nearly two months. She was bigger now, with a swel at her abdomen. She had been swimming at the beach, and her hair looked like . . . what? When she touched it, it was curly and stiff with salt. The skin of her face was tight from too much sun. And yet, Melanie felt beautiful. Because of Josh, she told herself. She felt beautiful because of Josh.

She opened the gate and strol ed down the flagstone walk. Peter saw her, she could feel his eyes on her, but she would not look at him, she would not acknowledge him, she would not be the first to speak.

“Melanie?”

His voice was not fil ed with wonder, as she had hoped. Rather, his tone was the one he used when he wanted to cal attention to something that was right in front of her face. Earth to Melanie! She responded to this not by acting surprised but by cutting her eyes at him, then quickly looking away. She reached past him for the doorknob and he touched her shoulder. His voice softened considerably.

“Hey, Mel. It’s me.”

“I can see that.” She looked at him. It was both familiar and strange, the way her neck arched so she could look him in the eye. Peter was tal , six foot six, whereas Josh was just a few inches tal er than Melanie. Peter’s skin was a warm, golden color, despite his claims that he’d been trapped in the office al summer, and she’d missed his almond-shaped eyes, the intricate creases of his eyelids. This was her husband. The man she’d been with for nearly ten years.

Before she knew what was happening, he bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes. The kiss was distinct from the thousands of other kisses of their marriage, many of which had been dutiful, passionless, dry, quick. This kiss was searching, lingering, it was exploratory and apologetic. It took Melanie’s breath away.

But come on! Melanie told herself. She was not such an easy mark. She pushed into the house. Peter had to duck to get through the doorway.