what wasn’t. Lost her touchstones of normality. But even to her, calling the police when someone was a little late in coming home from shopping seemed nutso. Over the top anxious, even possessive. Not the kind of person any man could possibly want.
No, Nick would come back when he’d finished . . . whatever it was he was doing.
At noon, the doorbell rang and she ran to the front door, smoothing her hair, wiping her palms on her jeans.
Normal, Elle, normal, she chanted to herself under her breath. No throwing herself on him in relief. No asking where he’d been. Just smile and say hello.
But when she flung the door open, it was only a pimpled teen in some kind of uniform. She blinked, stepped back.
He was consulting a clipboard, looking at her, leaning back to look at the pewter street numbers on the lintel. “Ms. Elle Thomason? Of 1124 Linden Drive?” Behind him was a delivery truck, with some supermarket logo on the side.
“Yes?” He had the right address, he just had the wrong house.
But apparently he did have the right house, because the kid signaled someone behind him. “Okay—bring them in!”
Bring them in?
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .” And then, of course, she did. Two men ferrying boxes—and boxes and boxes—of groceries carted in on a hand truck. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of food.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” The kid’s voice was sharp with emphasis. He’d been talking to her and she hadn’t heard him. “We’re going to need to know where the kitchen is.”
Numb, Elle stepped back inside, lifted her arm, unable to speak. The men passed her without a word, neatly stacked the boxes and went back out for another load.
In the kitchen, Elle opened a box, peered inside. All dry goods. Staples. Pasta and rice and flour and sugar. All kinds of canned goods. Enough to feed a battalion. Other boxes with staples. The next delivery was fresh fruit and vegetables, more than any person could possibly eat in a month. A huge package of every kind of fresh meat, most of which would have to go into the freezer.
The delivery guys had her sign something and left without saying another word. She stood unmoving in the kitchen, up to her knees in food, sick to her stomach, feeling the world spinning around her, feeling the cold creep back into her bones.
Her legs felt weak, no longer capable of holding her up. She reached blindly for a chair when the phone rang.
“Ms. Thomason?” A male voice. She recognized it but couldn’t put a name to it.
“Yes? Who is speaking.”
“This is Mr. Bent, Ms. Thomason.” Silence. “Of Bent Mortuary Services? Your father’s funeral yesterday?”
His voice buzzed uselessly in her ear because the truth had hit her like a hammer blow.
Oh God. That chair was necessary . She sat down, barely able to breathe. Nick . . . was gone. It struck her like a blow to the heart, squeezing all the air out of her chest. That was the only explanation for the empty house, the supplies arriving from Morristown, two hundred miles to the south.
Nick was on the road and stopped at the first opportunity to top up on gas and top her up with food. A kind gesture for the forlorn waif.
And now Mr. Bent was calling to say he’d changed his mind and wanted his money now instead of over the course of a year.
Money she didn’t have.
It was hard to even think about that through the pain of Nick’s departure. Money. How could she think about money with Nick gone? She could barely focus.
Mr. Bent’s tinny voice was faint, sounding as if he were calling from the dark side of the moon. No—wait. She was on the dark side of the moon, on some cold airless rock spinning in space.
His voice buzzed in her ear again. She couldn’t understand the words, but she had to say something.
“Yes, um, Mr. Bent. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. What can I do for you?”
Oh God, she was so intent on not shaking apart there was no room left to consider her words. What can I
No, Nick would come back when he’d finished . . . whatever it was he was doing.
At noon, the doorbell rang and she ran to the front door, smoothing her hair, wiping her palms on her jeans.
Normal, Elle, normal, she chanted to herself under her breath. No throwing herself on him in relief. No asking where he’d been. Just smile and say hello.
But when she flung the door open, it was only a pimpled teen in some kind of uniform. She blinked, stepped back.
He was consulting a clipboard, looking at her, leaning back to look at the pewter street numbers on the lintel. “Ms. Elle Thomason? Of 1124 Linden Drive?” Behind him was a delivery truck, with some supermarket logo on the side.
“Yes?” He had the right address, he just had the wrong house.
But apparently he did have the right house, because the kid signaled someone behind him. “Okay—bring them in!”
Bring them in?
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .” And then, of course, she did. Two men ferrying boxes—and boxes and boxes—of groceries carted in on a hand truck. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of food.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” The kid’s voice was sharp with emphasis. He’d been talking to her and she hadn’t heard him. “We’re going to need to know where the kitchen is.”
Numb, Elle stepped back inside, lifted her arm, unable to speak. The men passed her without a word, neatly stacked the boxes and went back out for another load.
In the kitchen, Elle opened a box, peered inside. All dry goods. Staples. Pasta and rice and flour and sugar. All kinds of canned goods. Enough to feed a battalion. Other boxes with staples. The next delivery was fresh fruit and vegetables, more than any person could possibly eat in a month. A huge package of every kind of fresh meat, most of which would have to go into the freezer.
The delivery guys had her sign something and left without saying another word. She stood unmoving in the kitchen, up to her knees in food, sick to her stomach, feeling the world spinning around her, feeling the cold creep back into her bones.
Her legs felt weak, no longer capable of holding her up. She reached blindly for a chair when the phone rang.
“Ms. Thomason?” A male voice. She recognized it but couldn’t put a name to it.
“Yes? Who is speaking.”
“This is Mr. Bent, Ms. Thomason.” Silence. “Of Bent Mortuary Services? Your father’s funeral yesterday?”
His voice buzzed uselessly in her ear because the truth had hit her like a hammer blow.
Oh God. That chair was necessary . She sat down, barely able to breathe. Nick . . . was gone. It struck her like a blow to the heart, squeezing all the air out of her chest. That was the only explanation for the empty house, the supplies arriving from Morristown, two hundred miles to the south.
Nick was on the road and stopped at the first opportunity to top up on gas and top her up with food. A kind gesture for the forlorn waif.
And now Mr. Bent was calling to say he’d changed his mind and wanted his money now instead of over the course of a year.
Money she didn’t have.
It was hard to even think about that through the pain of Nick’s departure. Money. How could she think about money with Nick gone? She could barely focus.
Mr. Bent’s tinny voice was faint, sounding as if he were calling from the dark side of the moon. No—wait. She was on the dark side of the moon, on some cold airless rock spinning in space.
His voice buzzed in her ear again. She couldn’t understand the words, but she had to say something.
“Yes, um, Mr. Bent. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. What can I do for you?”
Oh God, she was so intent on not shaking apart there was no room left to consider her words. What can I
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