Lady in Waiting: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

fifty years old!”
    I’d never owned anything as old as this. Never.
    “A Catholic rosary placed in a box with a Protestant book of prayer.” Wilson laughed.
    Stacy bent over the book again, and I saw her notice the lump in the spine. “What is that?”
    “I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe the remains of an insect or something. I’m sure it’s the reason the spine has started to separate. We’re going to have to find a way to get it out. I won’t be able to reattach the spine as long as that bump is there.”
    “Are you going to try and fix it yourself?”
    “Wilson said it would cost a mint to get it fixed professionally.”
    Stacy nodded. “Might be worth it, though. You could probably sell it to a collector for some good money.”
    Something about the book was comforting to me—like the clock that didn’t tick—and the thought of selling it and the rosary made me frown.
    “What?” Stacy noticed.
    “I don’t know. I just … I might hang on to these for a while.”
    Stacy smiled. “They are kind of cool, actually. Like little pieces of God from hundreds of years back. You know, when we didn’t even exist and he was who he’s always been.”
    She walked over to the tea set that Wilson unpacked. Ivory china edged in gold filigree and decorated with lavender asters. “These dishes are cool.” Her spoken thoughts on the Divine had been a mere stepping stone to a comment about dishes.
    Most of the time I could forget Stacy was the daughter of missionaryparents. Then there were moments, like that one, where I would almost hear a swishing sound as I brushed up against her confident faith.
    I reached for the rosary and the prayer book and placed them gently back in the ancient box that they came in.
    Instinctively I set them by my purse to take home with me; the little pieces of God that seemed to resonate with my little broken world.

Five
     

     
    I heard from Brad a few times after he left. He called after he broke the news to Connor, and again, two weeks later, when he phoned to make sure I had enough money to cover the bills. He made one trip back to Manhattan to pick up the canoe he had in storage and the panini sandwich grill, but he came while I was at an auction in Newark. He left a note on the breakfast bar saying he hoped I didn’t mind him taking the sandwich maker and that he was sorry he missed me.
    Sorry he missed me.
    Each of those tender intrusions—the two calls, the note—left me wavering on the edge of hope and doubt when I crept into bed at night. Brad’s voice and his handwriting, so familiar to me and so absent now from my day-to-day life, kneaded my thoughts like a masseur pressing against taut muscles. Sleep never came on those nights.
    His first phone call came on the heels of his conversation with Connor, the same day he left. He told me he and Connor had met at the Ben & Jerry’s near the Dartmouth campus. While eating ice cream, he told Connor he was trying out a new a job at a hospital in New Hampshire. And taking a little break from Manhattan.
    I had paced the quiet apartment during the hour I knew he was meeting with Connor. I thought of the things Brad had said to me when he told me he was leaving. I wondered which of any of those things he was telling Connor.
    That Brad and I needed some time away from each other to think.
    Time to ponder.
    Time to review.
    Time to decide.
    Brad had been insistent that this time away from each other wasn’t about waiting. But time is often about waiting.
    I’d thought perhaps Connor would call me after Brad left him. Surely he had questions. Was he mad? sad? confused? Was Connor disappointed in us? How much time did he need before I should talk to him?
    Connor didn’t call until nearly ten that night. There had been a queer, disapproving tenor to his voice, the kind of tone a cop uses when aiding a stranded driver who should’ve known better than to slam on the brakes when driving on ice. I told him I was going to be okay.