Author: Kristan Higgins

I linked my arm through his as we turned onto another little street.

It had always bothered me that Sam had gone to someone like Trish. Granted, he’d been a teenager when they’d gotten together, but it always seemed like the best men went to those too-beautiful, ungrateful women who felt they were owed everything and were grateful for nothing. And Sam was everything a woman could want in a man, quiet and funny and just so decent and reliable. Trish never seemed to appreciate those qualities. Sam deserved someone who really loved him. And so…

“Are you still going out with Katie and me on Saturday?” I asked.

“Sure. It’ll be fun.”

“Great.” I left it at that. “Boy, your son can sure pack it away,” I observed, kicking a stone.

Sam laughed again. “Growth spurt,” he said. “Did he tell you he’s going down to New Jersey next weekend?”

“No, he didn’t mention it. How do you feel about that?”

“It’s still pretty weird. But still, she’s his mother, and he misses her, even though he doesn’t say it much. She calls him every night.”

“How nice.” A car passed us, the driver waving. We waved back.

“So, Sam,” I ventured, “how are you doing with being alone and all?”

He shrugged, but I could feel the muscles in his arm tighten. “Not bad, I guess.” He was quiet for a moment. “Aside from doing stuff with Danny, or going to his games, things are pretty quiet. Before, Trish pretty much planned all the stuff we did.”

“Do you miss her?” I asked curiously.

“I miss being married,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know if I miss her…I mean, she cheated on me, and I’m still getting over that little fact. But yeah, I’m sure I will miss her, once I stop…”

“Hating her?”

Sam laughed. “No. I don’t hate her. I hate what she did, but I loved her.”

“Why?” I blurted, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. Trish had been like a drill sergeant with Sam, always barking orders, never even noticing how steadfast he was.

“You were always too hard on Trish,” Sam said, clearing a small branch from the road and throwing it into the woods. I snorted.

“You were,” he insisted. “I never understood how the two of you could be so mean to each other. I would’ve loved a brother or sister.”

“I wasn’t mean to her! She was mean to me!” I sounded like an eight-year-old, but I couldn’t help it.

“Well, she was jealous of you.”

“What?” I yelped. “You’ve got it backwards, Sam my man.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You went to college, you went away to Scotland, lived in a big city. Come on, Mil, you became a doctor. Trish never had anything like that.”

“Well, she could have! Instead, she—” I broke off.

“She got knocked up by me?”

We had stopped walking. Sam and I had never talked like this before, and the conversation was quickly heading out to stormy seas.

Yes, Trish had gotten knocked up, but I couldn’t let Sam take the blame on that one.

“Sam, I have to tell you something.” I took a fortifying breath, glad that it was dark enough so I wouldn’t have to see the shock on his face. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I think it’s time you knew.”

“Knew what? That she got pregnant on purpose?”

“You knew?” I gasped.

“Sure, Millie. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Give me a little credit, kiddo.”

I remembered the fateful weekend as if it were yesterday. Sam had been off at his sophomore year at Notre Dame. It was a Saturday afternoon in the late fall, and we were all sitting in front of the TV, hoping for a glimpse of Sam in the masses of second-and third-string football players. And then, like magic, a time-out was called in the fourth quarter, a Fighting Irishman limped off the field, and then, those golden words…“Now playing for Notre Dame, number twelve, Sam Nickerson!” And Sam’s picture filled the screen, and there were screams and hugs and tears and all sorts of delirium in our living room. Sam took the field. Two plays later, he caught a twenty-eight-yard pass, dodged three guards and ran it in for a touchdown. Irish 21, Trojans 17. It was glorious.

Three hours after the game ended, a glass pressed to the wall that separated our bedrooms, I listened to Trish utter those fateful words to her best friend, Beth.

“I am throwing out my birth-control pills this minute.”

Why had she done it? Because Sam had seemed destined for greatness, for riches, for an NFL contract, maybe even for TV commercials, and Trish had wanted a piece of it.

Silly me. I thought it was a huge secret from which Sam—and certainly Danny—needed protection.

“You coming?” Sam’s voice snapped me out of my stupor, and I trotted to catch up to him.

“Sam, how did you know? When did you find out?”

He sighed. “I don’t remember, Millie. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, I got Danny.”

There it was in a nutshell. Danny was everything to Sam, and that was it.

It wasn’t that simple for me. “But didn’t it drive you crazy? I mean, Trish pinned the rest of her life on you because she thought you were going to be a famous jock. And then…then she blamed you for not being one.”

In the third game of Sam’s senior season, in another unforgettable scene that we’d all witnessed on TV, an evil Michigan State defenseman had slammed into Sam after the whistle had blown. Sam’s right shoulder had shattered like a teacup, and it was all the doctors could do to pin it back together into some semblance of normalcy. The NFL scouts who had been wooing him fled. Sam’s pigskin dreams (and Trish’s dreams of wealth) had ended, and they’d come back to the Cape. Sam had gone to work cleaning septic tanks for my dad until he’d become a cop.

Sam sighed. “Well, what can you do? We were already married when I broke my shoulder, already had Danny.”

“And you still loved her?” I asked incredulously.

“Sure.”

“Does Danny know?”

“Of course not. Why would I tell him?”

I shook my head. “You’re too good, Sam.”

“Not really.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “You cold? Want my coat?”

“No, thanks.” I trudged along, digesting the information. Trish had told him, or he’d figured it out. And he didn’t care. Further evidence that he was, plain and simple, a great guy.

“I told your dad I’d stop by the Barnacle tomorrow night,” Sam said, snapping me back to the present. I could hear the laughter in his voice, though it was now fully dark.

“Be subtle, okay?”

“You bet, kiddo.”

CHAPTER TEN

ON THURSDAY NIGHT I was all ready to go. As usual, I had left the clinic around four o’clock and headed straight home. I took Digger for a quick walk (he was getting better about not pooping in the house, and if he did, he very considerately went on the linoleum). I snacked on some carrots to avoid unpleasant stomach rumblings later and fed my dog. Then began the preparations for my date with Lorenzo. Shower. Hair. Clothes. Makeup. Jewelry. I took a long look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door and was quite pleased with what I saw.

Curtis, Mitch and I had chosen the long black skirt and black ankle boots. For a top, we’d gone for the red sweater, which had a graceful, wide neckline. The sweater stopped right at the curve of my tummy, just camouflaging the little roll of fat that clung stubbornly to my abs. After a half an hour with the hair dryer and a few ounces of mousse and gel, my hair was gleaming and symmetrically fluffy all around, just brushing my earlobes. Red-and-black earrings discreetly echoed tonight’s color choices, as well as an antique-looking black beaded bracelet. Millie Barnes, I assured myself, you have never looked better.

The problem was, I had an hour and half to kill. Digger, sensing my impending departure, decided he wanted love.

“No, Digger. Sorry, baby. Lie down.” He whined but obeyed, looking reproachfully over his shoulder as he made his way to his corner. To make up for my neglect, I gave him a rawhide bone.

I called Katie, forgetting that she was already at work and that I would see her the moment I walked into the restaurant. I chatted with her mom for a minute, but I could hear the sounds of supper in the background and signed off quickly. Next I called Mitch and Curtis, but they were busy with guests. I debated calling my mom but decided against it, in case my dad changed his mind and came to the Barnacle after all. I checked my e-mail and answered a chatty note from Janette, my best friend from residency, and signed off. Skimming a New England Journal of Medicine, I found that I couldn’t concentrate. I clicked on the TV, but as I had eschewed cable, only the local news was on. I switched off the TV, leaned back in my chair and sighed.

Of course, having gone to so much effort, and having also announced the fact of this date to my family, I was filled with the fear that I would be stood up. But Lorenzo had called me the very day after we’d met, and he had called again to ask for directions to the Barnacle, which was certainly a good sign. On the phone, he had sounded very upbeat and sincere. I could only hope he was.

I imagined seeing Joe tonight. How great that would be! Just the same, make no mistake, I was excited about seeing Lorenzo. It’s not every day a woman gets to gaze at someone as drop-dead delicious as he was.

Finally, it was time. I had planned on leaving the house at five of seven, which would get me to the restaurant at 7:08. This, I thought, was just right; just a teensy bit late so as not to seem overeager, but close enough to the mark so as not to be rude.

I got to the Barnacle without an accident or even incident. I walked in without falling in a puddle. Despite its being only a Thursday in early May, the restaurant was filling up with regulars. I immediately sensed that Lorenzo wasn’t there.

Katie came up to me instantly. “Not here,” she confirmed. “You look incredible, Mil! And don’t worry. He’ll come. And in the meantime…dadada-dum!”

She stepped back a little, and who should be sitting at the bar but Joe Carpenter.

Oh, thank you, Powers That Be, thank you.

As I was a regular, sort of, at the Barnacle, I had hoisted a beer many times on my own. But tonight was different. Tonight, when I waved to Chris, the bartender, he smiled and raised an eyebrow and said something to Joe, who turned around and smiled, too. And I, the well-dressed, well-groomed, sweet-smelling woman that I now was, had no problem claiming the stool right next to the man I had loved for so long.

“Hey, Millie,” Joe said.

“Hey, Joe,” I smiled.

“What can I get you, Millie?” Chris asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” What should I drink? What went with my image tonight? “How about a vodka and tonic?” That seemed very sophisticated.

“What kind of vodka?” Chris inquired.

“Oh…uh…Absolut?” I suggested, not that I could have thought of another brand with a gun to my head. I was really more of a beer person, occasionally a glass of wine. I turned to Joe. God, I was sitting next to Joe! He dimpled at me, and I tried not to grip the bar for strength.

“Good choice,” Chris said. “Regular? Citron? Vanilla? Raspberry? Pepper?”

I turned back to Chris. “The first one,” I answered firmly.

“Lemon? Lime?”

“Lime, Chris.” Just get me the damn drink, I thought, looking at Joe. He looked like an angel in the soft golden light of the bar. “So, Joe, what’s new?”

“Not much, Millie, not much. Hey, was that you I saw running the other day?”

“Might have been,” I answered, feeling my face flush. I gratefully took the drink from Chris and took a huge slurp, hoping Joe would drop the subject.