Chloe’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Singapore. On a Sunday.”
“Markets never sleep, kiddo.”
“Cool,” my daughter said, perfectly pleasant. “Neither do plumbers, apparently.”
I nearly choked on my water.
Because two weeks earlier he’d rushed out claiming he had a plumber coming to the house at nine at night. Even my mother had blinked at that one. She’d said at nine? and he’d said he’s a friend and changed the subject.
Richard laughed it off. But there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there in April.
The Sunday after that, his leather tote was in his hand by 7:25.
This time it was a neighbor.
“Mr. Mendez can’t get his blood pressure bottle open — arthritis in both hands. I told him I’d swing by and sort him out for the week.”
“That is so sweet of you,” Mom said, glowing.
“So sweet,” I said.
Chloe kicked me under the table hard enough to leave a mark.
By 7:30 the porch light was clicking on behind him and that leather tote was under his arm like it held state secrets.
Every single week. Like clockwork. Like a man on a leash none of us could see.
The Conversation at the Sink Where My Mother Almost Told Me the Truth
After the dishes, I got her cornered by the sink, which is the only place in that house where a person can’t easily walk away from you.
“Mom. Can I ask you something without you getting mad?”
“That’s usually a wonderful start, Avery.”
“Six months. You’ve been seeing this man six months. Have you been inside his house? Even once?”
She turned the faucet on harder than the dishes required.
“Have you seen his kitchen? His couch? His mailbox?”
“He’s private.”
