to date his daughters.
Which was the reason Sara was keeping their relationship to herself.
At least part of the reason.
She tried to gain the upper hand, “You know, Mother, you just admitted to snooping around my house. I have a right to privacy.”
Bella tsked. “Oh, baby, it’s so sweet that you really think that.”
Sara tried again, “Will and I know what we’re doing. We’re not giddy teenagers passing notes in the hall. We like spending time together. That’s all that matters.”
Cathy grunted, but Sara was not stupid enough to mistake the ensuing silence for acquiescence.
Bella said, “Well, I’m the expert here. I’ve been married five times, and—”
“Six,” Cathy interrupted.
“Sister, you know that was annulled. What I’m saying is, let the child figure out what she wants on her own.”
“I’m not telling her what to do. I’m giving her advice. If she’s not serious about Will, then she needs to move on and find a man she’s serious about. She’s too logical for casual relationships.”
“‘It’s better to be without logic than without feeling.’”
“I would hardly consider Charlotte Brontë an expert on my daughter’s emotional well-being.”
Sara rubbed her temples, trying to stave off a headache. Her stomach grumbled but lunch wouldn’t be served until two, which didn’t matter because if she kept having this conversation, one or maybe all three of them were going to die in this kitchen.
Bella asked, “Sugar, did you see this story?”
Sara looked up.
“Don’t you think she killed her wife because she’s having an affair? I mean, one of them is having an affair, so the wife killed the affair-haver.” She winked at Sara. “This was what the conservatives were worried about. Gay marriage has rendered pronouns immaterial.”
Sara was having a hard time tracking until she realized that Bella was pointing to an article in the newspaper. Michelle Spivey had been abducted from a shopping center parking lot four weeks ago. She was a scientist with the Centers for Disease Control, which meant that the FBI had taken over the investigation. The photo in the paper was from Michelle’s driver’s license. It showed an attractive woman in her late thirties with a spark in her eye that even the crappy camera at the DMV had managed to capture.
Bella asked, “Have you been following the story?”
Sara shook her head. Unwanted tears welled into her eyes. Her husband had been killed five years ago. The only thing she could think of that would be worse than losing someone she loved was never knowing whether or not that person was truly gone.
Bella said, “I’m going with murder for hire. That’s what usually turns out to be the case. The wife traded up for a newer model and had to get rid of the old one.”
Sara should’ve dropped it because Cathy was clearly getting worked up. But, because Cathy was clearly getting worked up, Sara told Bella, “I dunno. Her daughter was there when it happened. She saw her mother being dragged into a van. It’s probably naive to say this, but I don’t think her other mother would do something like that to their child.”
“Fred Tokars had his wife shot in front of his kids.”
“That was for the life insurance, I think? Plus, wasn’t his business shady, and there was some mob connection?”
“And he was a man. Don’t women tend to kill with their hands?”
“For the love of God.” Cathy finally broke. “Could we please not talk about murder on the Lord’s day? And Sister, you of all people should not be discussing cheating spouses.”
Bella rattled the ice in her empty glass. “Wouldn’t a mojito be nice in this heat?”
Cathy clapped her hands together, finished with the green beans. She told Bella, “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, Sister, one should never look to Bella for help.”
Sara waited for Cathy to turn her back before she wiped her eyes. Bella hadn’t missed her sudden tears, which meant that as soon as Sara had left the kitchen, they would both be talking about the fact that she had been on the verge of crying because—why? Sara was at a loss to explain her weepiness. Lately, anything from a sad commercial to a love song on the radio could set her off.
She picked up the newspaper and pretended to read the story. There were no updates on Michelle’s disappearance. A month was too long. Even her wife had stopped pleading for her safe return and was begging whoever had taken Michelle to please just let them know where they could find the body.
Sara sniffed. Her nose had started running. Instead of reaching for a paper napkin from the pile, she used the back of her hand.
She didn’t know Michelle Spivey, but last year she had briefly met her wife, Theresa Lee, at an Emory Medical School alumni mixer. Lee was an orthopedist and professor at Emory. Michelle was an epidemiologist at the CDC. According to the article, the two were married in 2015, which likely meant they’d tied the knot as soon as they were legally able. They had been together for fifteen years before that. Sara assumed that after two decades, they’d figured out the two most common causes of divorce: the acceptable temperature setting for the thermostat and what level of criminal act it was to pretend you didn’t know the dishwasher was ready to be emptied.
Then again, she was not the marriage expert in the room.
“Sara?” Cathy had her back to the counter, arms crossed. “I’m just going to be blunt.”
Bella chuckled. “Give it a try.”
“It’s okay to move on,” Cathy said. “Make a new life for yourself with Will. If you’re truly happy, then be truly happy. Otherwise, what the hell are you waiting for?”
Sara carefully folded the newspaper. Her eyes returned to the clock.
1:43 p.m.
Bella said, “I did like Jeffrey, rest his soul. He had that swagger. But Will is so sweet. And he does love you, honey.” She patted Sara’s hand. “He really does.”
Sara chewed her lip. Her Sunday afternoon was not going to turn into an impromptu therapy session. She didn’t need to work out her feelings. She was caught in the reverse problem of every romantic comedy’s first act: she had already fallen in love with Will, but she wasn’t sure how to love him.
Will’s social awkwardness she could deal with, but his inability to communicate had nearly been the end of them. Not just once or twice, but several times. Initially, Sara had persuaded herself he was trying to show his best side. That was normal. She had let six months pass before she’d worn her real pajamas to bed.
Then a year had gone by and he was still keeping things to himself. Stupid things that didn’t matter, like not calling to tell her that he was going to have to work late, that his basketball game was running long, that
