As we carried the bench up to the second floor of the old farmhouse, I crossed my fingers—metaphorically, since I couldn’t do it literally—that it would fit in the space under the tall multipaned window at the end of the hall.
It did.
Roma beamed at us. “How did you know it would fit?” she asked.
“Maggie measured the space,” I said.
Roma looked up at Mags. “When did you do that?” she asked.
Maggie had been studying the bench, head tipped to one side. She shifted it about a half an inch to the left and moved it back even less than that, then nodded with satisfaction. She looked at Roma and then shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “When did I measure for the bench? Remember when the three of us were stripping the wallpaper in the closets?”
Roma nodded.
There had been so many layers of paper on the old walls I’d been half-afraid they’d fall down when we got it all off.
“You lost the drawstring in your hoodie,” Maggie said to me.
I made a face. “Right. The vacuum ate it.”
Her eyes darted from side to side. “I took it. That’s what I used to measure the space because I didn’t have a tape measure and I couldn’t exactly ask Roma if I could borrow one.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. Roma was running her hand over the cushion again. I nudged her with my elbow. “It’s okay to sit on it.”
She laughed, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s so beautiful, I don’t want to mess it up.”
Maggie put her arm around Roma’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “You can’t ‘mess it up,’” she said.
Roma sat down in the middle of the bench. She grinned up at us.
“Your drawstring is hanging on the bulletin board in my studio, by the way,” Maggie said to me.
“Don’t worry about it. Owen turned that hoodie into the cat version of a futon.”
“See?” she said. “I told you he was smart. He’s creative, too.”
I laughed, wrapping my arms around her shoulders in a side hug, and thought that she didn’t know the half of it.
Roma had made chicken corn chowder for supper. We sat around the kitchen table talking about her plans for the yard and the outside of the old house. “Oren’s going to start painting as soon as it gets just a little bit warmer,” she said, glancing out the window to her right.
“What did you finally decide on for colors?” Maggie asked. Her spoon was paused midway between her bowl and her mouth. She had made several “mood boards” for Roma, highlighting the different color combinations she’d been trying to choose between for the old farmhouse.
Roma nodded. “Buttercream yellow, vintage white and winter-lake blue. And thank you for putting those boards together for me. I never would have been able to decide with just those little swatches.”
“You’re welcome,” Maggie said. “You picked my favorite colors, by the way.”
“Eddie’s, too,” Roma said.
Something in her voice, or maybe something in the way she said Eddie’s name, told me something was off.
“How is Eddie?” I asked, pushing my empty bowl to one side.
“Eddie’s good.” Roma couldn’t help smiling whenever she said his name, so I knew whatever was wrong between them was fixable. “Nobody expected them to make the playoffs this year and now it seems as though everyone wants to interview him.” She glanced out the window again.
I shot Maggie a sidelong warning glance to stay quiet and waited, letting the silence settle at the table with us. Roma looked from me to Maggie and back again. “Can you two keep a secret?”
It wasn’t really a serious question. I trusted Maggie and Roma as much as I trusted anyone, and I felt certain they felt the same way about me as well. Still, I nodded.
“Of course,” Maggie said softly.
Roma glanced down at her hands for a moment, then looked up at us. “Eddie won’t be going public with this until the playoffs are over, but . . .” She hesitated. Took a deep breath. “He’s decided to retire.”
I wasn’t really surprised. The last time Eddie had been in town he’d been full of plans and ideas for Wisteria Hill. In the back of my mind I’d wondered if he was thinking about making a permanent move to Mayville Heights.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Maggie asked, picking up her spoon again.
Roma leaned both forearms on the table, reached up and began idly tracing the shoulder seam of her shirt with one finger. “It is and it isn’t.”
“I’m guessing the good part is that Eddie’s retiring while he’s still healthy,” I said.
“That’s why he’s decided to retire now,” Roma said. “Kathleen, do you two know who Ben Crossley is?”
“Only the best center to ever play the game,” I immediately said.
Maggie’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sidney Crosby?”
I gave her a Cheshire cat smile. “I don’t think so, Mags. Check the numbers.” Then I turned to Roma. “Crossley was Eddie’s mentor, wasn’t he?”
She nodded. “They met at a hockey camp when Eddie was just eleven. Ben has been part coach, part mentor, part father figure.” She swallowed. “And he’s showing signs of early dementia. He suffered more than one concussion in his day.”
“Oh, Roma, I’m sorry.” Maggie reached across the table to give Roma’s arm a squeeze.
“So that’s why Eddie’s decided to retire,” I said.
Roma nodded. “Yes. He had a serious concussion himself, three years ago. He’s been thinking about retiring for a while now. If this hadn’t happened I think he might have played for another year, but that probably would have been it.”
She was still playing with her shirt. I would have expected her to be happier about Eddie’s news. There had to be something she hadn’t told us yet.
“So what does he want to do?” Maggie asked. “I mean aside from stripping all the trim upstairs.” She glanced at the ceiling over our heads.
Roma got an odd look on her face. It was a mix of panic and . . . happiness?
She looked down at the table for a moment, then lifted her head and met our eyes. “He says he wants to marry me.”
11
Maggie and I both gave squeals of excitement.
“Roma, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, grinning at her. I knew she loved Eddie, and you only had to spend a few minutes with the two of them to know he was crazy about her, too.
“He’s a lucky man,” Maggie said, green eyes shining. Then her smile faded.
Because Roma wasn’t smiling at all.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“How can I marry him?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at the flowered tablecloth.
“It’s easy,” Maggie said. “Kathleen and I take you shopping for a pretty dress. We put lights and flowers in the living room the way we did when Everett and Rebecca got married, and then you say ‘I do.’”
Roma shook her head. “I can’t.”
Maggie shot me a sidelong glance.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m older than Eddie. A lot older.”
I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. You know he doesn’t care.”
Roma had been married young, widowed when her daughter, Olivia, was very small, and she had put herself through college. She was in her late forties now, but most people were surprised when they found that out. She was older than both Maggie and me and it had never mattered to our friendship.
“It does matter,” Roma insisted. She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, tipping her head toward me. “Look. I found a gray hair yesterday.”
I couldn’t see a single white strand among her glossy dark brown hair.
“So what if you have a couple of gray hairs?” Maggie said. “So what if they’re all gray? Eddie loves what’s on the inside.” She laid a hand flat against her chest. “Sure, he appreciates your colorful candy shell.”