Finding the papers, I slipped them into a manila envelope. As I wrote the Averys’ name on it, I thought of Phil’s and my wedding album, which I’d saved for Rob’s sake, although he’d never seen it and might never want to. The photos sat at the bottom of a box, beneath the canceled checks and paperwork I’d saved in case the IRS ever audited me. I hadn’t looked through the album since Phil and I split up, but I could remember every detail of the ceremony as it unfolded in my parents’ living room. Phil had looked like a movie star in his black suit and pleated tuxedo shirt, which I never saw him don again. I’d worn a white empire gown with a scooped neckline and a high gathered waist that covered everything. Although Mom begged me to get married in a church with a minister, I’d insisted a justice of the peace guide us through our vows. “A couple needs God on their team, like the third leg of a stool,” Mom had said. “Without a commitment to him, I don’t know how any marriage makes it.”
Had she been right after all? No, it wasn’t God I needed, but a better man—one like my father. Growing up, I’d considered Dad to be old-fashioned, like a worn copper penny. But in truth, he was the finest man I’d ever known.
I left the office and pointed my car toward home. Stopping at a crosswalk to let a couple pass, my thoughts returned to Phil. After the misery he’d put me through, our divorce came as a welcome relief. With our final good-bye, a euphoric sense of freedom took root inside me. But within the year, I grew tired of being alone. In spite of the hardships men caused, they filled a void in women’s lives nothing else could. In my case, I’d tried inflating myself with food, clothes, work, but nothing satisfied my hunger for intimacy or my sense of inadequacy. Only in a man’s arms could I close my eyes and feel whole.
I’d never loved another man besides Phil—not a real one. I’d joked with the Mom’s Brigade that all I really wanted was someone to accompany me to the annual company Christmas party. I’d sworn I wouldn’t attend the splashy event alone again. I was finished pretending I preferred circulating and meeting new people. Done flitting about like a barn swallow rather than hanging onto one man’s arm like a fragile orchid. I envisioned my escort dressed in a suit and tie. He would make witty small talk with my colleagues, but his attention would always be on me.
If I’d stayed with Phil, I thought, he would have refused to attend the party with me, or if he’d gone he would have gotten drunk and acted sloppy. Someone like Henry Marsh would probably consider a bunch of realtors beneath him. Or worse, spend the whole evening talking about himself and trying to sell his paintings. Yikes.
I heard a honk and scanned the crosswalk to see the pedestrians were long gone. As I gunned the engine, I checked the rearview mirror, but could only see the top of the car behind me because I was slouching so much. Elongating my spine, I pulled myself erect to gain several inches. The perfect man for me must exist, I told myself. I remembered Susan saying her husband’s friend was a banker, which sounded interesting. Even if he wasn’t Mel Gibson, it was time to get real and settle for less than perfection. I was, after all, far from perfect myself.
I pulled to the side of the road and dug out my cell phone. “Hi, Susan, it’s Marguerite,” I said when she answered. “Do you think Bob’s friend still wants to go out with me?”
Her voice sprang to life like a windup toy let loose. “Sure, you bet. I’ll call him right now.”
“Slow down. How much have you told him?” The way Susan carried on sometimes, this guy probably thought he was going to meet a fashion model.
“I described you as a top-notch realtor, a single mother, and an artist.”
“I’m not sure how hot a realtor I am.” Some teens cruised by, their stereo bass booming so loud my car windows shimmied. “I don’t feel like a mother anymore, now that Rob’s gone. And I’m hardly an artist.”
“Relax,” she said. “It’s just a date, not a lifetime commitment.”
When I got home, my answering machine was blinking.
“Hi, Marguerite. It’s Tim O’Brien. Susan said you’d be expecting my call.”
When I heard Emily’s voice on the other end of the phone, I figured she’d probably gotten my number off my card. But why would she be calling me?
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.
“No, not at all.” In truth, Rob’s was the only voice I wanted to hear. I’d been working through my frustrations by sweeping, then mopping the kitchen floor, and was considering cleaning the inside of the stove, a chore I hadn’t tackled for years. “What can I do for you?”
“Henry asked me to help him out by contacting half of his students to let them know we’re meeting outside of class this week to see an art show.”
I’d already decided to give myself the week off. “I’m not sure I can make it.” I used my free hand to swab the counter with a sponge.
