Breathing Room

“That wasn’t a prayer.”

“Tell Her.”

He had to know it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to make her forget she wasn’t quite ready to take that final step. One more of those well-practiced kisses would do the trick. She watched him try to make up his mind whether or not to press her, and she didn’t know whether she was glad or sorry when he headed for the stairs.

Tracy used the banister to haul herself upstairs. She felt like a cow, but then she always felt like a cow by her seventh month-a big, healthy Elsie cow with round eyes, a shiny nose, and a daisy chain around her neck. She loved being pregnant, even with her head hanging over the toilet, her ankles swollen, and the sight of her feet nothing but a memory. Until now she’d never worried much about the stretch marks that had spread like lightning bolts across her belly or her big, leaky breasts, because Harry had pronounced them beautiful. He’d said pregnancy made her smell like sex. Obviously he didn’t find her sexy now.

She walked down the long corridor toward her room. The heavy moldings, frescoed ceilings, and Murano glass fixtures weren’t her style, but they suited the dark elegance of her ex-husband. Considering the way she’d barged in on him, he wasn’t being as much of a prick as she’d expected, which proved that you could never predict exactly how people would behave, even the ones you knew the best.

She opened the door to her bedroom, then stopped just inside as light from the hallway fell on her bed. Harry lay on his back in the middle of her mattress, the raspy sounds coming from his mouth not exactly snores, but not exactly not-snores either.

He was still here. She hadn’t been completely certain he’d stick around for the rest of the day. She allowed herself a moment of hope, but it didn’t last long. Only his sense of obligation had kept him from leaving right away. He’d drive off first thing in the morning.

In looks, Harry was ordinary compared with Ren. His face was too long, his jaw too stubborn, and his light brown hair beginning to thin on top. The creases at the corners of his eyes hadn’t been there the night of that dreary cocktail party twelve years ago when she’d accidentally on purpose tipped a glass of wine into his lap.

The moment she’d seen him, she’d made up her mind to get his clothes off, but he hadn’t made it easy. As he’d later explained, men like him weren’t used to having beautiful women hitting on them. But she’d known what she wanted, and she’d wanted Harry Briggs. His quiet intelligence and steady outlook had been the perfect antidote to her wild, aimless life.

Now Connor lay across his chest, the fingers of one chubby hand caught in the neck of his father’s undershirt. Brittany was pressed against his other side, the final remnant of her tattered blankie draped over his arm. Steffie had curled into a tight, insect-fighting ball near his legs. Only Jeremy was missing, and she suspected that it had taken a supreme act of will to keep him in his room instead of cuddled up with his father and the “brats.”

For twelve years Harry had been the calm to her fire, putting up with all the drama and emotional excess that made up who she was. Despite their love for each other, it hadn’t been an easy match. Her untidiness drove him crazy, and she hated the way he withdrew when she tried to get him to express his feelings. She’d always been secretly afraid he’d eventually leave her for someone more like himself.

Connor stirred and rolled farther up on his father’s chest. Harry instinctively drew him closer. How many nights had they spent with kids in their bed? She never turned them away. It hadn’t seemed logical that the most secure people in a family, the parents, were permitted to find comfort together at night but the smallest and most vulnerable were expected to sleep alone. After Brittany was born, they’d moved their king-size mattress to the floor so they didn’t have to worry about babies falling out at night and hurting themselves.

Her friends had been incredulous. “How can you ever have sex?” But the doors in their house had solid locks, and she and Harry had always managed to find a way. Always, that was, until this last pregnancy, when he’d finally gotten fed up with her.

He stirred and opened his eyes. They were unfocused until they settled on her. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of that familiar, steadfast love, but then his expression went blank, and she saw nothing at all.

She turned away and went off to find an empty bed.

In a small stone house on the outskirts of Casalleone, Vittorio Chiara pulled his wife closer to his side. Giulia liked to sleep with her fingers in his hair, and that’s where they were now, woven through the long strands. But she wasn’t asleep. His chest was damp beneath her cheek, so he knew she’d been crying, and her silent tears broke his heart.

“Isabel will be gone by November,” he whispered. “We’ll do the best we can until then.”

“What if she doesn’t leave? For all we know, he might sell the house to her.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, cara.”

“I know you’re right, but…”

He stroked her shoulder to quiet her. A few years ago he would have made love to her, but that wasn’t so much fun anymore. “We’ve waited a long time,” he whispered. “November isn’t far off.”

“They’re nice people.”

She sounded so sad he couldn’t bear it, and he said the only thing he could think of that might cheer her up. “I’ll be in Cortona on Wednesday night with those Americans I’m taking out. Can you meet me?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, but then she nodded against his skin. “I’ll be there,” she said, sounding just as sad as he felt.

“This time it’ll work, you’ll see.”

Her breath skittered across his skin. “If only she’d go away.”

Something woke Isabel up. She stirred in bed, then began to drift back off, only to hear it again, a clicking against the window. She turned on her side and listened.

At first she heard nothing, but then it came again: the sound of pebbles being tossed against the glass. She got up and made her way across the tiles. Outside the window only the faintest sheen of moonlight illuminated the garden. And then she saw it.

A ghost.

It moved through the olive grove, a vaporous apparition. She thought about waking Ren, but going anywhere near his bed didn’t seem like the best idea. Better to wait until morning.

The ghost moved behind a tree, then drifted out again. Isabel waved, shut the window, and went back to bed.

13

Tracy reveled in the luxury of waking up without being poked by a five-year-old or lying in a damp spot from Connor’s leaky diaper. If he didn’t potty train soon, she was putting him in Depends.

She heard a catcall from Jeremy followed by Steffie’s shrill scream. He was teasing her again, and Brittany probably running around naked, and Connor got diarrhea if he ate too much fruit at breakfast, but instead of getting up, she buried her face in the pillow. It was still early. What if Harry hadn’t left yet? She couldn’t bear the thought of watching him drive away.

She closed her eyes and tried to force herself back to sleep, but the baby was stomping on her bladder, so she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. The moment she sat on the toilet seat, the door flew open and Steffie burst in.

“I hate Jeremy. Make him stop teasing me.”

Brittany appeared-dressed for once, but with Tracy’s lipstick smeared over her mouth. “Mommy! Look at me!”

“Pick me up!” Connor demanded, padding in, too.

And then Harry was there, standing in the doorway gazing down at her. He hadn’t made it to the shower yet, and he wore jeans with one of his sleeping T-shirts. Only Harry Briggs could have T-shirts he’d specifically designated for sleeping, old ones he considered too worn for regular daytime wear but too good to throw out. Even in his sleeping T-shirt he looked better than she did, sitting on the pot with her gown bunched at her waist.

“Could I have a little privacy, please?”

“I hate Jeremy. He called me a-”