“Must you go?” I ask.

“We’ve outstayed our welcome, surely.” Libby scoops up her son. “And he truly does need his naptime.”

We begin to make our way out of the kitchen, Kat following. “I’m so glad you came,” I say, in a bright-toned attempt to recapture the hopes I’d had for our meeting. “And thank you for the sweets.”

“My pleasure,” Libby says politely. “Just bring me the plate when you’re through.”

I like the thought of there being a reason to walk across the street and ring the bell at Libby’s house on another day. “Certainly.”

I swing the front door open and Libby turns around before stepping across the threshold. “If you need anything, anything at all, do come right on over.” Her gaze is tight on me.

“I will, thank you,” I reply, deflecting the concern. I don’t want Libby thinking of me that way, as a troubled woman who’s made a bad decision and who might need an escape route someday. “And please do the same if you should need anything. I would be happy to watch little Timmy if you ever need me to.”

Libby offers a noncommittal smile, perhaps wondering, what would I know about taking care of babies when I’ve only been a mother to a five-year-old, and for less than a month? I watch as Libby, with Timmy in her arms, crosses the street and enters her own house—a large brick structure on a sloped, landscaped lot—before closing my front door.

I look down at Kat standing next to me.

“That was nice, wasn’t it? Making new friends?”

Kat says nothing, but she is close enough to me to lay her head against my hip for a moment, as if to say the experience had been exhausting.

7

Not long after Libby’s visit, Martin arrives home from several days on the road. He looks tired, out of sorts, and I ask him if he is feeling well. What should come across as simple concern from a spouse seems meddling somehow. He tells me in a clipped tone that he is fine.

I don’t need to be told twice to mind my own affairs.

I make us a supper of roast beef and roasted turnips and carrots and serve the last of Libby’s petits fours for dessert.

“Kat and I had company on Thursday,” I say as I place two little cakes on a plate in front of Martin.

I tell him about meeting Libby and Timmy and that she brought the sweets and we had tea together. I wait to see if he will ask what Libby and I talked about. He does not.

Martin either doesn’t care that I might’ve told the neighbor across the street how very strange our marriage is, or perhaps he assumes I would never divulge our personal business to a person I’d only just met. This thought makes me chuckle out loud because, of course, I’d married someone I’d only just met.

He looks up at me when I laugh.