My phone rang.
Owen.
I answered immediately.
“Rachel, where are you?”
“In the spare room.”
Silence.
Then he exhaled.
“You found it.”
“I met Ivy.”
“Oh no.”
“I accused her of sleeping with you.”
Another silence.
Then, despite everything, Owen made a small choking sound that might have been laughter.
“This is not funny.”
“No. It’s really not. I’m sorry.”
“Why was she in our bedroom?”
“She was painting the view from the window.”
I looked across the hall.
From our bedroom, you could see the old oak tree in the garden.
The same view from the room Molly and I had shared.
Owen continued.
“I wanted every section to feel right.”
“Why did you hide all this?”
“Because since Molly died, you stopped talking about her.”
My throat tightened.
“I thought you didn’t want to.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“I found you crying in the closet one night holding one of her sweaters.”
I closed my eyes.
“I didn’t want to bring it up and make things worse. So I thought I could give you somewhere to put the memories.”
“You involved Jamie in keeping secrets.”
“I know. That was stupid.”
“It frightened him.”
“I know.”
“And me.”
“I know that too.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I thought surprise mattered more than honesty. It didn’t.”
Owen came home twenty minutes later.
I was sitting on the plastic-covered floor beside the miniature cottage.
Jamie was showing me the stars he had painted.
Owen stopped in the doorway.
He looked exhausted and ashamed.
“I wanted to finish it before our anniversary,” he said.
I looked around the room.
“Who is Ivy?”
“A restoration artist. She builds museum models and historical displays.”
“Why did she act so secretive?”
“Because I made her sign a confidentiality agreement.”
I stared at him.
“You made your supposed mistress sign a contract?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds terrible.”
“It looked terrible.”
“I should have told you I was working on something private without making Jamie responsible for the secret.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He sat across from me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I don’t know how to help you grieve.”
“You don’t have to fix it.”
“I know that now.”
“You could ask me how I am.”
“I do.”
“No. You ask whether I’m tired. Or hungry. Or whether work was hard.”
He looked down.
“You never ask whether I miss her.”
“I was afraid the answer would destroy you.”
“The answer is yes.”
My voice cracked.
“I miss her every minute.”
Owen moved closer but waited before touching me.
I reached for his hand.
That was permission enough.
The following day, I called Ivy.
She answered cautiously.
“I owe you an apology,” I said.
“You were given a fairly convincing collection of suspicious details.”
“I accused you of having an affair with my husband in front of the bread aisle.”
“That was memorable.”
I laughed through my embarrassment.
Then she became serious.
“He loves you very much.”
“I know.”
“He also has no idea how normal people arrange surprises.”
“That I definitely know.”
She returned later that week to finish the cottage.
