“
Well. Good night.”
He stepped out and shut the door behind him.
Crap, crap, crap.
I glared at Peter. He didn
’
t meet my eye.
“
I
’
m sorry, Portia. I wasn
’
t thinking. I should have known there might be someone else.”
I grabbe
d my purse from the coffee table, rummaging through it for my keys. “
There wasn
’
t. Not yet. Now there probably won
’
t be.”
I pulled my keys out and yanked the door open. “
I
’
m gonna go talk to him.”
Peter looked at the floor. His voice was quiet. “
Do you wan
t me to be here when you get back?”
I wanted to say no. I needed to say no. Instead, I stepped out into the drizzle and guided my shaking legs down the steps and out to the street, thinking,
Crap, crap, crap
in rhythm with the rain.
I pulled up to the Babb
farm. Ian
’
s car was already there. I knocked on the door. No answer. I stepped back off the porch and looked around. I could see light coming from the barn. I took a deep breath and hurried over as the rain started to come down in earnest, soaking my dre
s
s.
I stepped inside the barn and saw Ian clearing off a table he
’
d set up in the middle of the open space. Two candles sat on a plank of wood next to a bottle of champagne tucked in a bucket of melting ice. The sawhorse sported a single rose in a bud vase
as Ian pulled a tablecloth off the circular table that usually sat in the Babbs
’
kitchen. The rain pelting the roof filled the barn with hollow echoes.
“
It would have made a great first impression,”
I said.
He stopped folding for a second and looked at me,
then turned his attention back to the tablecloth. I took a few steps forward.
“
Ian, I didn
’
t even know he was in town. He showed up literally five minutes before you did.”
Ian put the folded tablecloth on the sawhorse, but didn
’
t look at me. “
Look, Portia
, you don
’
t owe me any explanations. If you and Peter have things to work out, go and work them out.”
“
We don
’
t have anything to work out.”
Here with Ian, I felt fairly sure that was the truth. I stepped another foot closer. Ian
’
s eyes shot up to mine.
“
I
’
m sorry, Portia,”
he said. “
I don
’
t think this is going to work.”
“
Wow,”
I said. “
That was quick.”
His jaw muscles twitched. “
I
’
m sorry?”
“
This morning you were Mr. First Impressions, and now it
’
s don
’
t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass-on-your-way-out.”
Ian
was quiet for a moment. “
Perhaps we should wait and talk about this tomorrow.”
“
No, I
’
d like to talk about it now.”
I paused and grabbed the first defense I could think of: deflection of guilt. “
The way I see it, I
’
m still one up on you. At least you knew
about Peter.”
He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me. “
Excuse me?”
“
Were you ever going to tell me about the baby you abandoned?”
Ian
’
s eyes widened as though he
’
d been slapped. “
Excuse me?”
“
Beauji found an article on you from
People
magazine. I
t mentioned your ex-wife.”
I paused as I tried to think of a way to say the important part without saying it, but my mind came up blank, so I choked it out. “
And the baby.”
He inhaled through his mouth. “
Ah. So Beauji pulls up a magazine article and sudden
ly I
’
m a deserter, is that it?”
The hurt expression on his face cut right through me, and I wanted nothing more than to run over to him and apologize until he forgave me. Instead, I stood where I was, clinging to my righteous indignation. Ian grabbed the t
ablecloth off the sawhorse and clutched it in his hand with an iron grip.
“
Just to fill in some blanks for you,
she
had a baby; I did not.”
I blinked and felt my stomach churn. “
What?”
“
The baby
’
s father is a fellow from her office,”
he said, his voice gri
tty. His eyes shot ice through mine. “
Guess the distracted husband is always the last to know.”
Crap, crap, crap.
“
I
’
m sorry, Ian,”
I said. “
It never occurred to me
—”
“
No. I guess it didn
’
t.”
I closed my eyes. “
I don
’
t know what to say.”
I hear
d his boots clopping against the cement floor. When they stopped, I opened my eyes to find him standing next to me.
“
I
’
m sorry your father abandoned you, Portia. I really am. But his guilt doesn
’
t automatically transfer to the rest of us.”
I looked at him
but said nothing. He turned his focus from my face to the open barn door behind me.
“
This may come as something of a shock to you, Portia, but you
’
re not the only person in the world who
’
s been left.”
As the sound of his steps faded behind me, I focused on
the candles sitting next to the bucket of melting ice. The single rose in the bud vase hung its head to one side, as though it didn
’
t want to look at me. I stamped my foot against the cement, sending a shot of sound careening off the empty barn.
Crap. Cra
p. Crap.
“
Okay, Peter, get out,”
I said as I opened my front door. It had stopped raining, but my dress was still wet, and I was anxious to get him out and get changed into something I could eat five quarts of Ben & Jerry
’
s in without feeling self-consciou
s.
The living room was empty. I stepped out onto the porch landing and looked down.
The Hyundai was gone.
Deflated, I settled myself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, running my fingers through my damp hair.
“
Shit,”
I huffed to myself, and got up. I o
pened a cabinet and grabbed a glass.
You
’
re not the only person in the world who
’
s been left.
I pushed up the handle on the faucet, filled the glass with cold water, then put it down on the counter. I looked out the window into the night, grabbing a street
light for a focal point.
It was like a sign, the final thing that told me this is what I need to do.
I picked up the water and took a drink, my eyes glazing as the streetlight blurred in my vision.
I want to be with you. Forever.
I tossed the rest of the w
ater down the sink and plunked the glass down. That
’
s when I noticed that all my dishes were done.
I turned around. The books and magazines that had been splayed all over the coffee table were piled neatly on one side. The jacket I
’
d thrown over the back o
f the easy chair was hanging on the rack by the door.
Peter.
I smiled before I could stop myself. Straightening up had always been Peter
’
s preferred method of apology. I leaned over the counter and put my head in my hands. That
’
s when I noticed the little
black velvet box sitting between my elbows.
I stood up straight. I wanted to be furious. I wanted to toss it across the room.
Instead, I opened it.
A half carat shimmered at me, set in a simple platinum setting. Almost exactly like the one I
’
d shown Peter
a year ago, when I
’
d gone through a brief hinting phase, before the relationship started its downward spiral into the fifth ring of hell.
Forever.
I shut the box with a snap. I couldn
’
t think about this now. It was too much. And t
he fight with Ian was still tearing a hole in my stomach. It was time to do something else, time to get out of the apartment, time to distract myself.
And settling a score is often a perfect distraction.
“
Mags!”
I slammed the front door behind me. “
Mags, w
here the hell are you?”
It was only eight o
’
clock. The house was empty. I rushed through the living room and kitchen to the back door, where I found all of the Mizzes playing gin rummy at the big umbrella table.
“
Portia!”
Mags stood up, her smile tremendou
s. “
I
’
m so glad you came by, darlin
’
. Sit down, I
’
ll get you a drink.”
“
Mags,”
I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “
We need to talk.”
She patted my arm and kissed my cheek. “
Okay. Sit down with the girls, I
’
ll come back with your drink, and we
’
ll talk. G
and T all right?”
Mags headed into the house, not waiting for my answer. Bev gave me a wry smile and patted the seat next to her.
“
Sit down, Portia,”
she said. “
I have a feeling this is gonna be an interesting discussion.”
I crossed my arms. “
Did you two
know about this?”
Vera forced a smile, but I could see the discomfort in her eyes, although whether it was about our argument that morning or about this Peter thing, I couldn
’
t be sure.
“
You mean that Peter
’
s in town?”
she asked. “
Yes. Isn
’
t it exciting?”
Exciting
? My head tilted to the side. Before I could ask the question, Bev glanced up at me over her cards. “
He
’
s upstairs sleeping in your old room.”
“
His room, now.”
Mags tapped me on the shoulder, forced the drink into my hand, and motioned toward the s
eat next to Bev.
“
His
room?”
“
Sit down, honey,”
she said, settling herself down opposite the empty seat. “
What do you say, girls, should we start a new game and deal Portia in?”
“
Absolutely!”
Vera said, tossing her cards on the table. “
That was the worst h
and of my entire life.”
Bev snapped her fan of cards closed and handed them to Mags. She raised an eyebrow at me. “
Well, sit down, child.”
I didn
’
t move. “
Peter
’
s
sleeping in my
room
?”
Mags nodded as she shuffled the cards. “
Well, yes. He looked so tired w
hen he showed up here, poor boy.”
“
I don
’
t know what you said to him, Portia,”
Bev said, “
but he wasn
’
t in a good state.”
“
Oh, so what, now I
’
m the bad guy?”