Chapter 1 - The Woman at Our Table
“What?” I repeated.
Sophie widened her eyes at me in a way that suggested I was failing a very simple test.
“You’re supposed to ask whether she likes the chicken.”
Emma looked down at her plate.
“The chicken is excellent.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said firmly. “Dad made it. He’s usually nicer when he cooks.”
I set my fork down.
“I apologize.”
Emma looked up.
I made myself meet her eyes instead of staring at the silver lighthouse lying beside her glass.
“I wasn’t expecting someone who knew my wife.”
“I understand.”
“No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “I don’t think you do.”
Sophie went still.
The change in her face stopped me.
She had invited her teacher because she thought someone was lonely. Somehow, I had turned that kindness into an interrogation.
I rubbed a hand over my mouth.
“That came out wrong.”
Emma folded her napkin.
“I can leave.”
“No,” Sophie said immediately.
I shook my head.
“Please stay. Finish dinner.”
For the next twenty minutes, I behaved like a man who remembered he had invited a guest into his home.
We discussed Sophie’s science project, the leaking roof above the school gym, and the apparently fierce political struggle over whether fourth graders should be allowed to trade lunch items.
Emma listened when Sophie spoke.
Really listened.
When my daughter described a boy who had laughed at her homemade volcano, Emma didn’t tell her to ignore him.
“Did the volcano work?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did his?”
“No. His battery died.”
“Then I believe the volcanoes have already settled the matter.”
Sophie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her milk.
After dinner, she carried plates into the kitchen while Emma helped me gather the serving dishes.
Then Sophie announced she needed to finish a book report upstairs.
I knew a tactical retreat when I saw one.
The moment her footsteps faded, I turned toward Emma.
“Now.”
She nodded.
“My wife gave you that pin?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The afternoon she died.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“No. You don’t understand. I watched a nurse put it in a bag.”
“Claire asked for her belongings later.”
I remembered the emergency department. Rain streaking the windows. My wife trying to smile while a doctor explained that they needed more tests after the highway collision.
I remembered leaving for twenty minutes to collect Sophie from my sister.
Twenty minutes I had regretted for five years.
“When I came back,” I said, “they were preparing to move her.”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“I was there before that.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the staircase.
“Because your wife was helping me leave a man who frightened me.”
The refrigerator clicked on behind us.
It was such an ordinary sound that I almost resented it.
“Claire?”
“She volunteered at Harbor House.”
“I know that.”
It was one of the few things I knew. Claire had helped with bookkeeping twice a month. She had been careful about the privacy of the women there.
“She did more than bookkeeping,” Emma said.
I sat down.
Emma stayed standing until I gestured toward the other chair.
“She helped me put together an application for a teaching program. Helped me find a room. Helped me believe I wasn’t stupid for needing help.”
Her voice shook.
“The day she was hurt, I had finally received my acceptance letter. I called Harbor House. They told me there had been an accident.”
“So you went to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you contact me afterward?”
“I didn’t know your name.”
I stared at her.
“She introduced herself as Claire Rowan.”
Her maiden name.
“She never mentioned she was married?”
“She mentioned her husband and little girl constantly. But she kept our support group separate from her personal life. First names. No photographs. No identifying details.”
“And when you became Sophie’s teacher?”
“Mercer is not an unusual name. Her school forms said Nathan Mercer. I had no reason to connect you.”
I searched her face.
“Until tonight.”
“Until I saw the photograph.”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
I looked toward the hallway.
Sophie stood halfway down the stairs, hugging a book against her chest.
“Did Mommy know Ms. Bennett?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Sophie looked at Emma.
“Was she nice to you?”
Emma pressed her lips together, then nodded.
“Very.”
My daughter considered that.
Then she came downstairs and placed her small hand over Emma’s.
May you like
For five years, I had thought grief was everything my wife had left behind.
Sitting at that table, I began to realize there might be more.
