Bella Cigna Page 2

  A soft hum interrupted her grieving, and she jerked her phone from her pocket, not bothering to check the caller ID. Maybe Philip leaving was a mistake? Maybe he had changed his mind? “Hello.” Her voice gargled with phlegm.

  “Sarah Miller,” a digitalized voice replied. “I’m calling to confirm your appointment with Dr. Willis.”

  Sarah swallowed, her pulse reverberating in her ears.

  “Please press one to confirm or two to cancel.”

  Sarah held out the phone, her fingers floundering on the touch screen as she pressed the number two. She didn’t need the appointment now; she probably never would.

  Chapter 2

  Sarah opened her eyes, and darkness had settled around her, the only light from dim figures dancing on the wall. She uncurled, her body stiff from the twin bed that was too small for her frame. Her head throbbed. With a hand to her head, she tossed back the thick blanket and swung her legs to the floor. The scruffy carpet tickled her toes.

  Carpet? Her bedroom didn’t have carpet. Sarah peered through the dimness at the figures on the walls. Ballerinas spun across the wall. She turned her head to encompass the entire space. This space was her bedroom. Not her sprawling master suite, but her childhood bedroom. The light shone from her ballerina nightlight.

  She stood, her hands finding the lamp on the nightstand. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she flitted her gaze around the room. Teddy bears sat on dusty shelves. Awards decorated the walls. Fifteen years had passed, and Mom hadn’t changed a thing. Sarah dropped her gaze. A stain still remained on her shirt from the spilled tea.

  Shaking her head, she fumbled with the buttons as she hastily removed her shirt and threw it into the corner. The coolness of the room fell on her bare arms, and she shivered.

  She shifted her gaze from the crumpled shirt to a picture hung above it on the wall—an acrylic self-portrait she painted in high school. Pulling a blanket over her shoulders, she strode closer. The dirty-blonde hair of her teenage counterpart skimmed her shoulders, just as her own hair did now. The girl’s blue eyes smiled. Her thin lips curled upward.

  Sarah stepped back. Could she ever smile like that again?

  She pushed away the question and extended a hand to trace the bumpy outline of her nose. How noses had given her such trouble on canvas. She traced the lips then the eyes. The portrait displayed novice techniques she’d since mastered: the shadows under cheekbones, the unsymmetrical nostrils under the bridge, and the fuzzy outline of lips.

  When was the last time she had picked up a brush? The nursery. Acrylics. She withdrew her hand.

  “Sarah?” Mom called.

  The door creaked open, and Sarah bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

  “I thought I heard you.” Mom entered the room.

  A tightness grabbed. Sooner or later, she’d have to tell her mom about Philip leaving. She turned to her mom and caught her embrace. As Mom’s petite frame pressed against Sarah’s tank top, the disparity in their heights reminded Sarah just how different the two women were—in many more ways than just appearance. She clung to Mom in a tight embrace, the medicinal scent of Mom’s anti-dandruff shampoo filling her nose. “How long have I been here?” Sarah pulled away from the embrace.

  “Three days.”

  “Three days?” Sarah stiffened and dropped the blanket from her shoulders. “Three days.” Her voice came out shrilly. “What about Philip? What about work? What about the lobster mac and cheese?”

  At the last question, Sarah’s mother pursed her lips.

  Okay, no one else cared about the lobster mac and cheese.

  “Philip hasn’t called.” Mom picked up the blanket and returned it to Sarah’s shoulders. “Only Meredith.”

  A blurred memory filled Sarah’s mind. Meredith. She’d called her friend after Philip left. Sarah cried into her shoulder. Meredith told her everything would be okay.

  Bastard, Meredith said. What a bastard.

  “I told your boss you’d be out a few days.” Mom furrowed her brows. “That you’re sick.”

  Sarah flopped onto the bed. Thank God. At least Mom hadn’t told Mr. Rosen the truth—that her husband had left her for another woman. Heaviness weighed down her shoulders. Definitely a bastard.

  Her mom sat beside her and rested a palm on Sarah’s knee. “This breakup isn’t your fault.”

  Fault. Philip used that word—three months ago, sitting in their bedroom. Sarah could still see the goose-down comforter on the edge of the bed and could feel the bright winter sun streaming through her bedroom window. “Nothing implanted,” she’d said in a flat tone.

  Philip rubbed her knee. “It’s not your fault, honey. These things take time.”

  Sarah swatted the tears from her cheeks but didn’t respond. Of course, this failure was her fault. The doctors had been clear enough in their diagnosis. “We have to start again.” She found her voice. “Have to harvest more eggs. I’ll work overtime to pay for it.”

  Philip sighed and stood, running his fingers through his hair. “I think we should take a break.”

  “What do you mean, a break?”

  He had walked toward the entry to the hall, the light from the sun casting a long shadow in front of him. “A break from the doctors. A break from trying.”

  The memory faded. Obviously, his idea of a break had also included a break from monogamy. She smacked her thigh. “Stupid jerk,” she muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Mom shifted her weight, the bed squeaking.

  “Sorry. I mean, I should have seen this betrayal coming.”

  Mom frowned. “You had a lot on your mind.”

  Sarah ignored the comment. If she had to deal with any more empathetic comments about her failure to conceive, she might just burn down the house herself. “What am I going to do?”

  “You can stay here. Keep me company while you figure out things.” Sarah narrowed her eyes. No way in hell she was moving back home.

  Mom stood. “Just temporarily. While you get settled.”

  Sarah softened her gaze. Mom always meant well, but did she have to be so damned mommy-like?

  “Eventually, you’ll meet someone else. Someone with the same goals as you.”

  And so damned optimistic? Sarah clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms. If her father were still here, he’d know what to say. He wouldn’t treat her like a twelve-year-old. She bolted to her feet and held Mom’s gaze in her glare. “Who would that be, Mom? What man who wants a family seeks a wife who can’t give him children?”

  “Oh, Sarah.” Mom’s finely lined lips fell into a frown.

  But the response confirmed the truth. She would not have her dream. Not now. Not ever.

  ****

  The next day, Sarah dragged her feet over the wide-planked floor of the National Gallery of Art. She hadn’t bothered to pick up a map in the marbled column rotunda—she knew the way. In a small gallery in the west wing, the caramel wood paneling offered the perfect backdrop to the renowned Dutch collection. Landscapes and still lifes in vivid colors decorated the walls.

  Sarah shuffled past them to the one she always visited. Vermeer’s Woman Holding a Balance. The room was empty, as Sarah often found it, and she assumed her usual position—an arm’s length in front of the piece that was no bigger than a standard computer screen. Air conditioning rushed past Sarah’s bare ankles. She reached for her jacket to pull it closer around her shoulders but found only her cotton blouse. She snickered. Of course, she wasn’t wearing a jacket—no one in D.C. wore a jacket in the thick of summer.

  The woman holding a balance always wore a jacket. Her cheeks were always smiling. Her scales were always in balance.

  Sarah stared at the painting. Soft light cast a shadow over the blue fur jacket and highlighted the swell in her belly. Tears filled Sarah’s eyes, and she turned her back on the painting, finding her familiar cushion in the gray sofa in the center of the room.

  She pressed a palm to her stomach. Her womb definitely didn’t hold
a child. Hell, her stomach had scarcely any pudge left to even hint at the fact. Her weight loss was the upside to having a cheating spouse—best diet ever. And balance? She glanced back at the thick-framed painting and scuffed a penny loafer against the floor. Her scales were as off-kilter as they’d ever been.

  Clearly, hanging the print in her cubicle hadn’t helped. Having it pinned to her bulletin board at Central Elementary hadn’t helped, either. Maybe the print had helped back in college—that was when she’d bought it. At least then she could balance her art with her studies.

  “How did I know I’d find you at the Vermeer?” A voice echoed off the high ceilings.

  “Meredith.” Sarah found her best friend standing above her. Dressed in yoga pants with bleach spatters and a sweatshirt with purple juice stains, Meredith looked like she’d been through a kiddy battlefield.

  “Your mom told me you were here.”

  “Of course, she did,” Sarah snapped. She stood to embrace her friend, and warmth seeped into her chest.

  “How are you?”

  Sarah shrugged and fought back tears.

  Meredith motioned for her to sit again then joined her on the couch. “That you are here is funny.” She reclined, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles. “Appropriate given the news I have.”

  “News?” Sarah sat as straight as she could in the soft cushions. Did Meredith know something about Philip? About Amanda? Her stomach soured at the name of Philip’s mistress.

  “Well, an idea.” Meredith scanned the room. “You know, you’ve been coming here as long as I’ve known you.”

  Recalling their college escapades, Sarah smiled. Dragging Meredith to the gallery had been almost as fun as sneaking into the opera. Well, almost.

  “Do you remember when we had that grand idea to backpack through Europe?” Meredith asked.

  Sarah laughed. “Yeah, after graduation. But then you abandoned our plans in lieu of marriage”

  “Don’t remind me.” Meredith groaned.

  Sarah frowned. “At least yours is still going strong.”

  Meredith rolled her eyes and pulled a flyer from her purse that read, International Teaching Posts.

  “They’re probably already staffed for next year.” Sarah gave a dismissive wave. “It’s mid-June.”

  “Come on. When did you turn down a dare?” She parked a hand on her hip and whisked the paper in Sarah’s direction.

  Sarah cocked an eyebrow. She could think of a few—skinny dipping in the college fountain and toilet papering their Geology professor’s office came to mind.

  “Okay, maybe that was me. But it’s worth a call, isn’t it?”

  Taking the paper from Meredith, Sarah held it up. She stared at the words. International. Teaching. Escaping D.C.—hell, the country—couldn’t be a better idea. And teaching? Sarah couldn’t recall a day she didn’t miss being in the classroom. She relaxed her hand around the cool sheet, and the paper warmed in her grasp. A tingling rushed her fingers, and a smile crept to her lips. “Yes,” Sarah whispered. “I suppose it is.” Perhaps a bit of Vermeer’s light had pierced the darkness inside her after all.

  ****

  “O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma!”

  Sprawled on her leather couch, Sarah shoveled microwave popcorn into her mouth. How did Meredith stand these cheesy show tunes? Catchy melodies or not, if Sarah had to watch one more overly choreographed dance, she might toss Meredith’s prized Rodgers and Hammerstein collection out the window. Besides, the box of old DVDs did nothing for the realtor’s recommendation of “staging to sell.”

  Sarah reached for the remote, but a sound at the front door stopped her. She jumped to her feet, held the remote in dagger position, and tiptoed to the foyer. Before she reached the door, it flew open.

  Philip stepped into the foyer.

  Sarah froze, and her heart pounded. When was the last time she’d seen him? Hell, spoken to him? Was the conversation about the listing price of the house or about who would keep the vacuum? Of course, he hadn’t come for casual conversation, or, God forbid, to reconcile.

  “Sarah, I didn’t think you were home. The house is dark.” He narrowed his eyes on her raised hand.

  She gave a strained smile and lowered the remote. “I was watching a movie.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he smiled.

  Her heart rate quickened, and she combed fingers through her hair. The motion dislodged a piece of buttery popcorn, and it fell to the floor.

  His smile broadened.

  What an impeccable smile. Sarah couldn’t help but return it with one so wide and so tense, her right cheek twitched. Why hadn’t he called first—given her time to clean herself up?

  Philip bent down and picked up the popcorn. “I was on my way to a ball game.” He stood. “Just stopped by for my jerseys. Guess the movers forgot them.”

  The muscles in Sarah’s face relaxed, and she cast her gaze over Philip’s shoulder. In the driveway, his car idled. Amanda—the floozy—sat in the passenger seat, applying a coat of mascara. He’d brought her along? He should have left her home to glue on her false lashes and touch up her tacky highlights. Sarah swallowed a growl. “Let me get them for you,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Not waiting for his response, she started up the stairs. If he wasn’t here to talk, then she didn’t want him careening through the house, scrutinizing her untidiness, and leaving his alluring scent of balsam and cinnamon in the bedroom.

  “I heard you’re leaving town,” he called up the stairs.

  Sarah reached the closet. His side was bare, except the collection of sports jerseys hanging in the far corner. “A couple weeks.” She didn’t elaborate. She shoved the jerseys into a duffel bag, placing the red one on top, and headed toward the stairs.

  “Isn’t a showing scheduled for tomorrow? You might want to tidy up the place.”

  Sarah paused, hanging her foot in mid-air above the top step. Tidy up? You leave me for some bimbo and expect me to slave away every time a showing happens? She gripped the straps of the bag tighter, crept back to the bedroom, and tiptoed into the master bath. Under the sink, she found a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner with the words “NOW WITH BLEACH” emblazoned on the front.

  “The game starts in twenty,” he shouted.

  If the bottle were Philip’s head, Sarah would have bashed it against the mirror. She did the next best thing, opening the duffel bag and squirting the cleaner inside. She smiled—an earnest, ear-to-ear smile. Whoever said revenge was overrated? That person didn’t know a thing about cheating husbands. She closed the bag and trotted down the stairs. “Enjoy the game!”

  “Thanks.” Philip took the bag.

  Sarah whirled and headed back to her movie, humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” until the gentle thud announced the closing door.

  Maybe her future would be beautiful after all—especially if that future included Philip despairing over the ruin of his favorite sports jersey.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday afternoon tea at Meredith’s had been a staple in Sarah’s schedule for the better part of a decade. Meredith provided the tea—a strong black blend with a carafe of half-and-half on the side—and Sarah brought a treat for them to enjoy. The treat was often freshly baked, but since her kitchenware was now packed in boxes in Mom’s basement, today she’d splurged on confections from a popular Georgetown bakery.

  She opened the pink box containing four gourmet cupcakes: one for herself, one for Meredith, and one for each of Meredith’s two children. For Amber, her friend’s five-year-old daughter, she selected chocolate cake with strawberry icing, and for Steven, her three-year-old younger brother, she’d chosen vanilla on vanilla with rainbow sprinkles. Sarah smiled, cut Steven’s into quarters, and placed them into a small plastic bowl. Amber would only lick off the frosting, so she handed the cupcake to her in its paper wrapper.

  The children ran off with their sweets to the den, adjacent to the kitchen.

  “No crumbs!” Me
redith called after them. She topped her tea with cream before taking a seat next to Sarah at the counter. “They’ll miss you.”

  Cupping the warm drink in her hands, Sarah leaned forward on her elbows. She tried to recall when she had gone more than a week without seeing her friend’s young children, but she could only think of her extended vacation with Philip, just after Steven was born. The relaxing cruise to the Caribbean was the last trip they’d taken together. They’d walked on the beach hand-in-hand and wasted away mornings snuggling in bed. The two weeks had been a stark contrast to the struggles they’d encountered afterward with the in vitro attempts for a family like Meredith had, and Sarah didn’t.

  Sarah pushed away the thought and looked across to Steven and Amber. That today would be the last time she would see them made her chest ache. “I’ll miss them, too.” Her voice cracked, the bittersweet memories cinching her throat.

  Meredith nudged Sarah’s side. “Don’t look so drab. You’re off for a year to explore Italy. You’re going for adventure…to find yourself.”

  Her friend’s dreamy gaze meant she probably fantasized about some romantic nonsense. Sarah took a sip of her tea. “I will be working, you know. My visit’s not like I’m on an all-expenses-paid vacation or something.”

  “Would you stop grumbling? It’s going to be great. I’m jealous.”

  Sarah winced.

  Meredith pulled back her hair in a ponytail, exposing gray hairs around her hairline.

  Another reminder to Sarah that time was passing her by.

  “Aunt Sarah!” Amber called from the den. “Come have a tea party with us!”

  She forced a smile, grabbed the cream cheese-frosted carrot cupcake and her cup of tea, and raised an eyebrow toward Meredith. “My playmates await.” Sarah headed for the den.

  Meredith rolled her eyes. “I swear, sometimes I think these visits are more for the kids than us.”

  Sarah sat cross-legged at the spot on the carpet where the kids had already set up plastic teacups and saucers. She dined alternately on her dreamed-up scone and the actual calorie-laden miniature delicacy then she passed around a pink pot filled with make-believe sugar. Why couldn’t she pause this moment in time—encapsulate the memory of Steven counting the sprinkles on his cupcake and Amber asking if she could trade her cake for his frosting? Talking to them on the phone, video or otherwise, wouldn’t be the same as being here with them.