Three Years Earlier
The K-Gallery was located on Highway A1A on the island of Palm Beach, not far from Worth Avenue. It occupied the ground floor of a five-story building that was painted peach with elaborate white cornices. I probably would have missed it if the GPS in my car hadn’t insisted that I had arrived at the correct address. The only signage was a simple brass plate next to the door.
Feeling a little nervous in a way that strangely reminded me of being the new kid at school on the first day of classes, I opened the large glass-paned door, setting off a chime as I entered. K-Gallery had white walls and a dark hardwood floor. It was spacious and airy. Small sculptures of twisted metal wire were displayed on white pedestals. A series of large abstract canvases hung on the walls, painted in moody blues and stormy grays. They reminded me of the finger paintings my children had made when they were little, although I thought I probably shouldn’t mention that to Kat.
“Alice!” Kat called, sweeping into the room. She gave me a quick hug, which I returned. “I’m so glad we were able to get together.”
“I am, too.” I had been surprised but pleased when she called me a week after our flight back to West Palm Beach and invited me to lunch.
Kat was wearing an immaculate sleeveless white shift dress and black heeled sandals. I was glad I had opted to dress up for our lunch, wearing a cotton sweater and skirt I’d bought on clearance at J.Crew, instead of my usual uniform that consisted of a T-shirt and yoga pants.
Kat noticed that I was admiring the wire sculptures. “Aren’t they exquisite? They were done by an artist in Miami who welds in a storage locker with no air-conditioning, if you can believe it. I think he’s going to be the next big thing.”
“The paintings are incredible, too.”
“You think?” Kat tipped her head to one side, regarding the closest one, which featured wild swirls of olive green paint. “They’re by an English artist named Crispin Murray. He’s quite successful, and they sell wonderfully. But I have to admit, his paintings always remind me of the ones my daughter brought home when she was in preschool.”
I laughed. “I actually thought the exact same thing but was afraid it would sound gauche if I admitted as much. Especially since I don’t know anything about modern art.”
“Not at all! I can’t stand it when people get pompous about art, as though there’s only one valid opinion. Art is supposed to elicit a reaction from you. Or at least, good art is. And your reaction is as valid as anyone else’s.” Kat waved a hand. “Enough with the art talk. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
Kat suggested we eat at Renato’s, an Italian bistro on Worth Avenue. It was a glorious day, cool and sunny, so we decided to walk to the restaurant.
Even though Palm Beach was only a short drive from Jupiter, I hadn’t spent much time on the tony island. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I was struck by how picturesque it was, from the neat rows of royal palms to the luxury stores housed in Mediterranean-style buildings to the Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins parked on the street. My earlier nerves dissipated, replaced by a frothy, bubbling sense of well-being. Here there were no dishes to wash, no homework assignments to check over, no piles of laundry to fold. Only a delicious lunch to look forward to and, possibly, a new friendship.
We decided to sit in the elegant outdoor courtyard, which was filled with round tables dressed in starched white linens and surrounded by flowering bougainvillea. Our waiter, who was young and handsome with a slight build, beamed at Kat as he handed her a menu.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Grant.” He spoke with a slight Italian accent. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You know I can’t stay away,” Kat said, returning his smile. “I’m craving the risotto.”
The waiter rolled his eyes upward. “It is sublime, no? Shall I bring you the wine list?”
Kat looked at me and asked mischievously, “What do you think? Should we?”
I almost never drank wine at lunch, other than the occasional indulgence on vacation. But I was suddenly feeling festive.
“Why not?” I said.
Kat ordered a bottle of something white and imported, and the waiter swiftly returned with the bottle in hand. After he went through the presentation of uncorking it, offering Kat a taste and filling our glasses, he set the bottle in a silver bucket of ice. Kat raised her glass to me.
“Cheers,” she said. “To new friendships.”
We clinked our glasses together. The wine was cold and crisp and delicious.
“Your gallery is beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” Kat said. I would later learn that Kat always accepted compliments with a simple thank-you. She did not brush them off with the self-deprecating remarks many women, including myself, fell back on. Kat was not an especially vain woman, but she was perfectly willing to accept compliments on her appearance, her taste, her home, as nothing more than an obvious truth.
“How long has your gallery been open?” I asked.
“It’s hard to believe, but nearly twenty years. I opened it when I was pregnant with Amanda, and she turned nineteen in November,” Kat said.
“I thought you said you met your husband at your gallery.” I immediately regretted this intrusive remark. The details of when she’d met her husband and when she’d given birth to her daughter were none of my business.
But Kat didn’t seem put out. She just smiled and said, “You have a good memory. Yes, I met Howard after Amanda was born.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t. It’s not a secret. Well, it’s not a secret that Howard isn’t Amanda’s biological father. The truth is—” Kat leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—when I was living in DC, I had an affair with a married man. A politician, if you can believe it. I know, it was reckless. But I was young and selfish, and foolish enough to believe that my feelings were more important than his family.” She shook her head. “Looking back, I want to slap my younger self for being such a brat.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “Everyone makes bad choices when they’re young.”
“Yes,” Kat agreed. “But trust me, I deserve to be hard on myself. I did my best to convince him to leave his perfectly nice and blameless wife and their two young children. All because I was in love.”
“He was the one who was breaking his vows,” I said. “So he was more at fault than you were.”
I wasn’t sure why I was arguing the point. Of course, Kat was right. What she had done was selfish and destructive. But at the same time, twenty years of self-flagellation seemed a heavy price to pay. I’d also noticed that she hadn’t named her daughter’s father. I wondered if he was someone I would’ve known from the news.
“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn he didn’t turn out to be a good guy in the end,” Kat said. “When I told him I was pregnant, he ended the relationship. Actually, first he tried to talk me into having an abortion, and then, after I refused, he said he never wanted to see me again.”
“Wasn’t he worried you’d bring a paternity suit against him?”
“No.” Kat shook her dark, glossy head. “He knew I’d never do that. Anyway, I decided it was time to leave DC and headed home to Florida. My mother was horrified, of course—she’s easily horrified—but my father was more pragmatic. He said if I was going to be a single mother, I needed to have a business to support us, so he encouraged me to open K-Gallery.”
“Had you always wanted to open an art gallery?” I asked.
“Not really. Before I got pregnant, I was working at the Smithsonian and thought that if things didn’t work out with the married man, I would probably move to London or Paris, where I’d work as a curator for one of the great museums.” Kat rolled her eyes. “I’m sure whatever I imagined that life to be like was something out of a movie and not in any way rooted in reality. Romantic dinners at a Paris café, cocktails at the glamorous hotel bars, love affairs with handsome foreigners. I certainly wasn’t calculating in the long hours, toiling away in an office to build the sort of career I imagined myself having. It’s not like they hire twentysomethings to buy Renoirs or organize Rodin exhibits. And the simple truth is that I wasn’t ambitious or driven to succeed in that sort of world. There are too many hungrier candidates for those positions out there. So in the end, having my own gallery has suited me very well. I can exhibit art that interests me and close early for the day when I feel like it. And, of course, I had Amanda. The affair was a bad choice, obviously, but having her was not.”
I listened to Kat’s story with interest. I was impressed that she was self-aware enough to recognize and accept her limitations. But it was also true that unlike most of those hungrier would-be art curators, Kat had enough money to open her own art gallery in Palm Beach.
Our conversation was interrupted by the return of the handsome waiter, eager to take our order. Kat ordered the lobster risotto. I chose a decadent-sounding dish of fettuccine with grilled chicken in a light cream sauce. The waiter effusively praised our choices and hurried away.
“Amanda was just a few months old when I met Howard. So he’s the only father she’s ever known,” Kat said. She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Actually, Amanda is probably what brought us together. Howard was definitely not my type. But between having a baby and getting the gallery up and running, I was so overwhelmed. Hormonal, too, I suppose, and still nursing a broken heart. And Howard was just so—”
She stopped abruptly, searching to find the right word. I expected her to say something like kind or supportive or nurturing.
But instead she said, “Forceful.”
“Forceful,” I repeated. It did not seem, to me at least, to be a foundation for romance. Sexual excitement, perhaps, but that usually wasn’t enough of a basis for eighteen years of marriage. At least, I didn’t think it was.
“Yes. Howard’s primary motivation in every aspect of his life is to get what he wants when he wants it. He’s unapologetic about it.” Kat lifted her wineglass to her lips again. “And at that time, I was just so tired. Tired of making the decisions, tired of being in charge of everything, tired of my mother’s endless badgering that I needed to get married for Amanda’s sake. Not that Howard was ever all that interested in being a father.” Kat laughed. “But he was more than happy to step in and straighten out my life. Suddenly I was hiring an assistant for the gallery and a full-time nanny for the baby and then, somehow, planning a wedding. I think if I had ever stopped to catch my breath and really thought about what I was doing, I would never have gone through with it.”
“Which part?”
“The part where I married a man I wasn’t in love with,” Kat said. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “But I did. And here I still am eighteen years later.”
“Why are you still married?” Then, realizing that I might again be dangerously close to crossing a too-personal line, I raised a hand. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive. You don’t have to answer.”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t have a good answer. A divorce would be messy and expensive...”
“And you had your daughter to think of,” I offered.
“Actually, I’m not sure how much our divorcing would bother Amanda. She and Howard have never been close. I’ve often wondered if that’s because she wasn’t his, at least not biologically,” Kat said.
“Did Howard adopt her?”
Kat nodded. “When Amanda was twelve. I thought it might bring them closer together, but...” She trailed off and shrugged. “It didn’t work out that way. I think Howard always resented the time and attention I gave to Amanda. And Amanda’s a smart girl. I’m sure she sensed it.”
I couldn’t imagine happily living with a man who resented my children. Todd might’ve had his failings, but he adored our Liam and Bridget as much as I did.
“Anyway, it’s not like I have any interest in joining the local singles scene. Online dating and all that,” Kat continued. She gave an exaggerated shudder. “It’s always seemed easier to keep the status quo. Anyway, that’s enough about me.” She smiled. “What about you?”
“I don’t have any plans to get divorced in the foreseeable future, either,” I said lightly.
“I meant your career. You said you used to teach at the University of Miami, right?” Kat said. “Logic, but not the Mr. Spock kind.”
I laughed, flattered that she’d remembered. “That’s right.”
“Why did you give it up?”
I hesitated. It wasn’t that I wanted to conceal the truth from Kat, especially when she had just been so forthcoming with me. But sharing my past would cast a pall on what had been until now such a lovely day.
Kat seemed to sense my discomfort. “Am I being intrusive?” she asked, borrowing my earlier line.
“No, not at all.” I took a deep breath. It was never a good idea to start any relationship with lies. “It’s just... It’s a sad story. My daughter Bridget had a twin sister. They were both born prematurely. Bridget was fine—is fine—but my other daughter...she didn’t make it.”
I had told this story dozens of times over the past eight years. It had gotten easier in some ways. The dark, suffocating grief that had crippled me in the days and weeks following my daughter’s death had eventually receded. I could now talk about my lost baby without instantly dissolving into tears. But the heavy weight of her absence in the world was still there. In a way, I treasured this. If I ever stopped missing her, it would mean that my daughter, the one who left the world before she could ever make her mark on it, would be forgotten forever.
Usually when I did tell people about her death, this was the point when they would lean forward, face creased with horrified sympathy. They would pat my arm and tell me how sorry they were, how much it must comfort me that Bridget survived. This was true, of course. I was lucky in many ways—I had two healthy children, and that was something no parent should ever take for granted. But it was also true that no bereaved parent ever wanted to hear that her living children made up for a dead one. It didn’t work that way.
But here again, Kat surprised me. “What was her name?”
“Meghan.” My voice cracked a bit. I cleared my throat. “Her name was Meghan.”
“Meghan,” Kat repeated. “That’s a beautiful name. Were she and Bridget identical twins?”
I nodded. “We were so surprised when they did the ultrasound.”
“Do you know what caused you to deliver early?”
“Placental abruption, although my doctors didn’t know what caused it. Everything was fine, all my checkups were great...and then suddenly everything wasn’t fine, and I was in labor two months ahead of schedule. But even then, even after the delivery, both babies were doing well at first. They were small, of course, and we knew they’d have to spend some time in the NICU. But the doctors kept reassuring us that they were doing well, that they’d be able to come home soon, so I wasn’t worried.”
I stopped and took a sip of wine to steady myself. That lack of worry, that blind trust in the doctors’ feckless pronouncements, still haunted me on the nights when I lay awake. Kat was silent, still looking at me, her focus absolute.
I continued. “Then Meghan had a brain hemorrhage. And she just...died.”
My mouth was suddenly unbearably dry. I reached for my water glass and took a large gulp from it. I could feel the pricks of unshed tears gathering in my eyes. I willed them away. If there was one thing Meghan’s death had taught me, it was that crying didn’t fix anything. It certainly didn’t bring back the person who was gone forever.
“That,” Kat said, “is a fucking nightmare.”
The unexpected profanity made me laugh and then choke slightly on the water. I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.
“Are you okay?” Kat exclaimed, reaching a hand out.
I waved her off. “No, you’re right. It was a fucking nightmare.”
Kat relaxed back in her seat. “I’ll say. You were not only experiencing one of the worst things that can happen to any mother but also taking care of a newborn.” Kat shook her head and drained the rest of her wine. She reached for the bottle and poured each of us another large glass. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. No wonder you left your job. It would have been too much for anyone to cope with. I can’t even imagine. I think I’d have a hard time just getting out of bed in the morning.”
“Oh, I struggled. That’s the thing about grief. It’s just...suffocating. Like you’re being buried alive. And even the easiest tasks, like showering or eating or even brushing your teeth, suddenly seem insurmountable.” Then I shook my head and smiled regretfully at Kat. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a very cheerful topic of conversation. I’m putting a damper on our lunch.”
“No, you’re not, not one bit. I asked you a question and you answered it honestly. Frankly, it’s refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t feel the need to bullshit her way through life.” Kat patted my hand. “I’m glad I called you. I’m usually terrible about following through on things. But I have a feeling that you and I are going to be good friends.”
She raised her glass, and I clinked mine against hers.
“To new friendships,” I toasted.
* * *
“I am home and I have pizza,” I called out, using my foot to push open the back door that led into our house from the garage. My hands were filled with a grease-stained pizza box. Half cheese, half sausage and onion, with a side order of garlic knots.
“Mom’s home!” Liam hollered, not looking up from the Xbox game he was absorbed in.
“No, don’t get up,” I told him. “You don’t have to eat any pizza. There’ll be more for the rest of us.”
Liam rolled his eyes but grinned. He hopped up, gave me a quick hug and headed toward the kitchen. Bridget was there, sitting at the kitchen table, frowning down at her homework.
“Hi, honey,” I said, trying to remember if I’d even had homework in elementary school. I didn’t think so. Some in middle school. Both of my children came home from school every day with their backpacks full to bursting. “What are you working on?”
“Science,” she said moodily. “And it’s really hard.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Right here,” Todd said, coming into the kitchen. He kissed me on the cheek and plucked the pizza box out of my hands. “We’re all starving.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Thanks for picking the kids up from school.”
Once I’d realized that lunch was extending into the late afternoon, I’d texted Todd from the restaurant and asked him to handle the school run. It meant that both kids had to wait in aftercare until Todd arrived.
“I hate staying late at school,” Bridget complained. “Where were you, anyway?”
“I was having lunch with a friend.”
“You’ve been at lunch all this time?” Liam asked. “It’s dark out!”
“After lunch, we went shopping, and then we had coffee.” I shrugged. “We started chatting and lost track of time.”
“Stop giving your mom a hard time,” Todd said. “She gets to have a day off every now and then.”
I smiled at my husband, feeling a surge of affection for him. “It was nice to do something out of the ordinary.”
“Lunch in Palm Beach compares favorably to laundry and the school run?” Todd teased.
I laughed. “Surprisingly, yes, it does.”
Todd grabbed plates and napkins while I poured glasses of water for everyone. Once we were seated at the table, I got reports from the children on their days. Liam shrugged and said his was okay, which was pretty much what he said every day, and then returned his attention to stuffing pizza in his mouth. Bridget launched into a very long story involving hurt feelings and drama over a game of four square played by her classmates that, in the end, had nothing to do with her at all, because she was on the opposite side of the playground when it happened.
“But if you weren’t participating in the game, why do you care that Annalise got so upset?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t even like Annalise.”
“I don’t like her. That’s the whole point,” Bridget said hotly.
I looked at Todd to see if he had any insight into these third-grade dramatics, but he just shrugged and shook his head. After dinner, the children cleared the plates and headed off to their nightly bedtime routines. Todd got a beer from the fridge.
“You had a nice time today?” he asked, sitting back down at the kitchen table.
I poured myself a glass of red wine and joined him.
“Yes, I did. Kat’s great. I’m glad she called me.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s smart and funny and really has her act together. She owns the most beautiful modern art gallery.”
“You’re smart and funny,” Todd said loyally.
I smiled and put my hand on his arm. “It was nice having someone different to talk to. Almost everyone I know here I’ve met through the kids in one way or another. Moms from school, women from the playgroups the kids were in when they were little. Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice ladies. Or at least, most of them are. But every time I get together with any of them, the conversation revolves around the children. What the moms are doing at the PTA. Whom they’re friends with, whatever the latest drama is at school. It just gets so tedious.”
Todd’s eyebrows arched, but he didn’t speak.
“Don’t judge,” I said. I loved being a mother, but there were so many aspects of it, especially when my children were little, that I found mind-numbing. Singing the same cloying songs every week in the Mommy & Me class. Sitting on the cold tile floor during bath time. The hours spent at playgrounds being commanded over and over to “Watch me! Watch me!”
Having children was a wonderful, miraculous, soulful experience. Just not each and every moment of it. I found motherhood easier to cope with now that Liam and Bridget were older and more independent.
“It was nice to talk to someone about other things. About art and work and life,” I said.
Todd nodded and took a sip of his beer. “Does Kat have children?”
“Yes, a daughter, but she’s in college.”
“Kat’s older than you, then?”
“A bit, although she did say she had her daughter when she was young,” I explained. “I think she’s in her mid to late forties.”
“Do you think you’ll get together with her again?”
I rolled my wineglass in my fingers, the way I’d once been taught at a wine-tasting class, and watched the bloodred liquid stream down the inside of the glass.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I will.”