Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti Page A

scarf and places it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. At fifty-four years old Richard is still a good-looking man, due in part to two decades of near obsessive devotion to exercise and healthy eating, made necessary by a reckless and degenerate youth. In fact, the only clues to his age are a hint of silver in his golden hair and a few extra lines around his mouth and eyes.
    We tiptoe into Chloe’s room so that Richard can sneak a peek at her. She’s sleeping on her back with her arms flung over her head in a gesture of complete surrender. Richard leans in, his palms to his cheeks in an exaggerated gesture of delight.
    â€œShe’s gorgeous,” he whispers, taking my hand.
    She stirs, and I shush him. “Come on, you’ll wake her,” I tell him.
    â€œPleasant dreams, sweetie,” he says, gently brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead.
    â€œCome on, I’ve made biscotti,” I tell him, hustling him out of the room. “And a pot of tea.”
    â€œI just survived the flight from hell. I think we’re going to need something stronger than tea!”
    In the kitchen, I watch as he opens the antique china cupboard and helps himself to two delicate demitasse cups and saucers. He opens another door and takes out the old-fashioned stove-top Italian coffee maker, for Richard’s idea of something stronger—espresso. He does these things with a minimum of looking around. Although he has been here only a handful of times, somehow Richard knows his way around my kitchen.
    We work side by side, in companionable silence. It doesn’t seem to matter how seldom I see Richard, because no matter how long it’s been, we are somehow in sync. He rolls up the sleeves of his expensive shirt, revealing two strong, tanned arms and a Rolex watch. The antique business was obviously doing well.
    â€œNice watch,” I tell him.
    â€œThanks, it was a gift,” he says, smiling at my raised eyebrows. “No, it’s not what you think. I agreed to do the apartment of a little old matron who’s been coming into the shop for years. She bought one of those hideous-looking condos on Mount Washington. I did a fabulous job. She was just trying to show her appreciation. Anyway, it’s probably a fake, but it’s a good one, so what do I care?”
    We sit down at the kitchen table and sip our espresso. It is good, strong and hot. Neither of us says anything for a minute or so.
    â€œChloe’s beautiful,” Richard says finally. “Your father must be over the moon.”
    â€œHe thinks she’s great. Not that we’ve seen much of him. He came out when she was first born, and I was hoping that he’d be here for Thanksgiving, but . . .” I let this last bit hang in the air, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice.
    â€œWhat about Jake? Does he see her?”
    This is a dangerous question, one most people I know avoid. Probably the reason most people don’t ask is they assume that when a marriage breaks up so soon after the birth of a child, that somehow the child is at the heart of it. But Richard isn’t most people. And, because it’s Richard, I tell him everything—about Jake’s doomed visit, how he had to feign food poisoning the next day, how Nicola showed up sniffing around for clues, and how Jake has been avoiding me ever since.
    One of the great things about Richard is that you could tell him you just ax murdered your best friend, chopped her up, and fed her to the dog, and he would flick a piece of lint from his lapel and raise an eyebrow as if to say, “And then?” This is why I know I can tell him the truth. What actually happened matters less than what I know lurked menacingly beneath the surface. Seduction was in my heart, and I know that had Jake shown even the slightest interest, I would have taken him back. Not just back into my bed, but back into my life, and for that I hate myself. For being weak