the door made her sigh. Betsy was the warm-est, sweetest person she’d ever met, but Cindy couldn’t bear to talk to her right now. Betsy would want to know what the conversation had been about. She’d give Cindy that concerned look and ask her all kinds of probing questions that would make Cindy sound like an idiot for believing in her husband and in her marriage. Max had faith in her no matter what she said. Maybe she should find out if there were any way she could become a dog and move to a kennel.
“Cindy?”
Cindy lifted her head. The voice was male. “Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
Patrick. What could she say? Only if you don’t make me feel ridiculous. “Yes. Of course. Come in.”
The door opened a few inches and his head appeared around it, as if he were afraid he’d catch her in some embarrassing moment and have to withdraw quickly. “Betsy had to leave for a while. She told me you were on a call from your daughter. It got kinda quiet in here, so I thought I’d check.
Make sure you were okay.”
She smiled at him, even though her insides still felt cracked and unstable. “I’m fine.”
He glanced at her hands, then into her eyes, which were undoubtedly broadcasting her troubled feelings, which made her nervous, so she looked down at her hands, and found them twisted and tight. He knew she was lying about being fine.
“Take a walk with me? I want to show you something you’ll like.”
She looked back up at his fine strong face and wondered if he’d been planning to show Ann the same thing that morn-As Good As It Got
93
ing, or if this was special, for Cindy. And then she realized that was a completely juvenile and pointless thing to wonder, the kind of thing she wondered about boys in grade school, where she spent so much time dreaming of the day Boy X
or Boy Y or Boy Z would find her irresistible, which none of them ever had.
“I think I have a class right now.” She couldn’t remember what. Her brain seemed only to be able to hang on to useless, meandering thoughts at the moment. She was probably acting like someone with Alzheimer’s. If she could sleep at night, people might not think she was such a ditz.
“So?” He grinned and bent down to whisper close to her ear. “Play hooky with me.”
“Oh.” She laughed nervously. Something about the way he said that had sounded sort of naughty. Or would have from the lips of a guy who liked women. “That sounds fun.”
“Then let’s go.” He gestured her out through the comfortable blue-green living room, then out through the door on the opposite side of the cabin so they were walking up the gentle hill away from the sea. They crossed a mown field to another narrow path of matted grass and then, when they entered the woods, of soft leaves and moss.
As Cindy walked, the phone call with her daughter kept looping through her mind. Patrick could show her the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, complete with sprightly lep-rechaun, and she’d just nod. Lucy couldn’t be harmed in all this, Kevin had to see that. He shouldn’t let his trampy girlfriend into their house, shouldn’t let her answer the phone and upset everyone. But then that was Kevin—and most men from what she gathered—doing what he wanted and 94 Isabel
Sharpe
expecting everyone to accommodate him. She’d spent a lot of her life accommodating Kevin, done it mostly happily out of love, but in retrospect that made her part of what was now hurting Lucy.
“Here.” They’d left the path, and Patrick held back a spruce branch for her to pass into a small mossy clearing strewn with rocks, ferns, and downed trees so old they squished into moist splinters under her feet. Ahead, dangling from a branch, she saw a strange lantern-looking object with yellow plastic flowers pasted around it, half filled with a bright red liquid, like the lone decoration left on a Christmas tree.
“Hummingbird feeder.”
“Hummingbirds?” She turned in astonishment and found him
“Cindy?”
Cindy lifted her head. The voice was male. “Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
Patrick. What could she say? Only if you don’t make me feel ridiculous. “Yes. Of course. Come in.”
The door opened a few inches and his head appeared around it, as if he were afraid he’d catch her in some embarrassing moment and have to withdraw quickly. “Betsy had to leave for a while. She told me you were on a call from your daughter. It got kinda quiet in here, so I thought I’d check.
Make sure you were okay.”
She smiled at him, even though her insides still felt cracked and unstable. “I’m fine.”
He glanced at her hands, then into her eyes, which were undoubtedly broadcasting her troubled feelings, which made her nervous, so she looked down at her hands, and found them twisted and tight. He knew she was lying about being fine.
“Take a walk with me? I want to show you something you’ll like.”
She looked back up at his fine strong face and wondered if he’d been planning to show Ann the same thing that morn-As Good As It Got
93
ing, or if this was special, for Cindy. And then she realized that was a completely juvenile and pointless thing to wonder, the kind of thing she wondered about boys in grade school, where she spent so much time dreaming of the day Boy X
or Boy Y or Boy Z would find her irresistible, which none of them ever had.
“I think I have a class right now.” She couldn’t remember what. Her brain seemed only to be able to hang on to useless, meandering thoughts at the moment. She was probably acting like someone with Alzheimer’s. If she could sleep at night, people might not think she was such a ditz.
“So?” He grinned and bent down to whisper close to her ear. “Play hooky with me.”
“Oh.” She laughed nervously. Something about the way he said that had sounded sort of naughty. Or would have from the lips of a guy who liked women. “That sounds fun.”
“Then let’s go.” He gestured her out through the comfortable blue-green living room, then out through the door on the opposite side of the cabin so they were walking up the gentle hill away from the sea. They crossed a mown field to another narrow path of matted grass and then, when they entered the woods, of soft leaves and moss.
As Cindy walked, the phone call with her daughter kept looping through her mind. Patrick could show her the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, complete with sprightly lep-rechaun, and she’d just nod. Lucy couldn’t be harmed in all this, Kevin had to see that. He shouldn’t let his trampy girlfriend into their house, shouldn’t let her answer the phone and upset everyone. But then that was Kevin—and most men from what she gathered—doing what he wanted and 94 Isabel
Sharpe
expecting everyone to accommodate him. She’d spent a lot of her life accommodating Kevin, done it mostly happily out of love, but in retrospect that made her part of what was now hurting Lucy.
“Here.” They’d left the path, and Patrick held back a spruce branch for her to pass into a small mossy clearing strewn with rocks, ferns, and downed trees so old they squished into moist splinters under her feet. Ahead, dangling from a branch, she saw a strange lantern-looking object with yellow plastic flowers pasted around it, half filled with a bright red liquid, like the lone decoration left on a Christmas tree.
“Hummingbird feeder.”
“Hummingbirds?” She turned in astonishment and found him
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