I’m about to say she doesn’t even know me, but I’ll turn back into Cinderella soon enough, so I might as well enjoy the ball. I flash my most mysterious smile and we chat until his next set.
“You know who that was, right?” Jenna says when Tommy leaves. “Thomas Townsend. Owns half the North Shore, plus the hockey team.”
My mouth falls open. “He’s playing sax in the orchestra?”
“Sage’s husband saved him a fortune in his divorce. Still had to pay his ex thirty mil.”
“Ouch.”
Jenna shrugs. “All that matters is he’s single.”
“Oh, I thought you were married.”
The look she shoots me tells me that’s the squarest thing I might have uttered but she finds it adorable. “It’s you he likes.”
Bidding closes. I’m alarmed to learn I’ve won a basket of organic dog treats. For sixty-five dollars. I don’t own a dog. I could kick myself, because my credit card will be declined, and these women will think I’m a fraud and a mooch and a complete waste of time, and Hannah won’t be invited on any of those cool adventure playdates.
In the cashier’s line, Jenna and Misty trip over each other as they place one bag of wine after another onto their arms like bangle bracelets.
I pass my paddle to the cashier, prepare my best look of shock for when my credit card fails, but then Sage hands me an oversized bag and says, “My treat.”
I peer inside and it’s the dog treats.
“What? You didn’t have to—”
“I wouldn’t be so generous if you’d won the Alaskan cruise. Come on, let’s go.”
Wine from the fundraiser makes our mattress feel like a bouncy castle. I roll on top of Jake for the first time in forever, tease pleasure out of him as if he were still the edgy beat poet performing in the club where I bartended. I close my eyes and picture Tommy in his suit, our silly banter, the stupid grin we shared the whole ten minutes we talked. Jake responds with confused compliance, gets off, and goes back to sleep, but in the morning when I make his coffee, he replies with a full-body hug, an arm that lingers around my waist and tells me all is not dead between us.
Hannah and I ride the bus to John Lawson Park. Sage and her friends take a bar class nearby with childcare. They hit the playground after, rain or shine.
“I read this article,” Sage says. “Kids who play outdoors in bad weather approach problem-solving with more confidence than if they’re taught to avoid the elements.”
Emmaline looks like she’d rather be inside playing princesses, but Hannah races to the climbing apparatus. She’s the first to soak her jeans going down the slide.
“Is Hannah allowed chocolate?” Sage pats her pocket. “Chili-flavored, extra dark. I’m intent on Emmaline enjoying full flavors.”
“Wow. You give parenting wicked flair,” I say. “I’ve been too busy feeling overwhelmed.”
“Because children are designed to break us.” Sage laughs. “The sleepless nights, the freedom lost, the adoring husbands who turn into selfish jerks after childbirth. It’s why mom friends are a lifeline, more essential than air some days.”
I bite my lip. My friends and family are two thousand miles away. My only lifeline is Jake, and he’d rather talk to his fictional characters.
“The cool thing about being broken, though, is that when we rebuild ourselves, we can be as creative as we like. Join us at my house tomorrow. I’ve had fun designing Emmaline’s playroom.”
I’m like an orphan from a movie, my face pressed against the rain-streaked funeral home window. Inside, Misty and Jenna make frequent trips to the champagne table. Tommy stands stoically, nodding, not saying much. A man who I assume is Sage’s husband shakes everyone’s hand with an air of bereaved self-importance.
Hannah’s in her stroller, talking to her bear while she waits for our walk to continue. I’ve been letting her sleep with me since I was released on bail. She nestles in and makes me forget that it’s all going to shit in a week or two, when the verdict comes in.
I could plea bargain if I admit to what I’ve done, serve fifteen years instead of twenty-five. But either way, I’ll be in custody until Hannah is old enough to hate me. I’d rather let the trial linger, have more of these long nights with rain pounding the boathouse roof, her soft little body pressed into mine.
Sage’s butler lets us in. Hannah and I drip muddy rainwater onto the pristine hardwood floor. We’re shown to a bedroom where dry clothes are waiting. It breaks my heart how cherub-like Hannah looks in Emmaline’s Desigual tunic. For me, there’s Lululemon. For the first time since I returned that red dress, I like the way my body looks in clothes.
The butler raps softly and leads us to an enormous playroom overlooking the stormy whitecaps of the Georgia Strait.
“We built into the cliff,” Sage says. “We carved grooves in the rock wall for Emmaline to climb. We’ve planed down jagged edges and the floor mat is padded so when she falls it’s no big deal. A few bumps and scrapes are good, though. Teaches respect for the elements.”
Hannah toddle-runs to join the other kids. After observing for maybe five seconds, she tries to scale the wall herself. Emmaline hangs back, mouth open. When Hannah successfully climbs three footholds, Emmaline claps with delight.
“She’s never put a foot on it herself.” Sage sighs. “Maybe Hannah can encourage her sense of adventure.”
“Maybe Emmaline can temper Hannah’s,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Thanks for the dry clothes. I’ll try to keep her from playing too rough in them.”
“No way. Kids should play as rough as they like. Emmaline has too many clothes anyway. I can barely stuff her drawers shut.” She sips matcha tea. “Funny how your kid is dark and mine is fair, huh? Yours bold, mine timid. It’s like they were swapped at birth.”
I say nothing, because Hannah suits me right down to her core.
“Tommy asked about you,” she says.
“What did he want to know?”
“If you’re available.”
I try to stifle the flutter, but a stupid grin betrays me. “Well, I woke up to my husband’s breakfast dishes in the sink, so if he calls today, I’m wide open.”
Jenna and Misty laugh. Sage says, “Is that a yes or a no?”
“No. He’s delicious, but I’m married.”
The housekeeper arrives with a tray of Indian food. The kids sit around Emmaline’s play table — including Hannah, who has never sat still to eat, ever — and the moms take turns putting curried dahl and butter chicken onto plastic plates. There’s nothing Hannah will eat, but I select a couple innocuous-looking morsels for her. She examines a samosa with her tongue. Wrinkles her nose, takes a tiny bite. Chews thoughtfully. Takes another bite.
Sage beams. “Hunger is key. Run them around, they’ll work up an appetite for anything.”
“Especially for napping.” Jenna reclines in her lounge chair. “A.k.a. spa rejuvenation for the afternoon shift. The instant my son goes down, I hit the Jacuzzi with wine and Netflix. What do you do when Hannah naps?”
I frown. I can’t say I polish my in-laws’ silver for dinners that don’t include me. I didn’t contradict Sage when she dropped me off after the fundraiser and assumed I lived in the big house. How much longer before they figure out I’m not qualified to play with them?
I think of Toronto, the three of us in the duplex, how I cherished Hannah’s naps even with dirty laundry piled around me. “I read trashy best sellers, drink an endless mug of tea, and eat too much dark chocolate.”