White tablecloth, grey life
The beef stew was good. Helen knew this for certain because shed tasted it three times while cooking and, every time, was happy with the result. Fresh carrots from the market, shin of beef stewed for two hours, garlic added at the very end, just as it ought to be. On the table, shed set candles and a white tablecloththe linen one she kept for special occasions. Fifteen years. That counted as a special occasion, she supposed.
Outside, the evening was drawing in. October in their town was always the same: grey, wet, with the scent of rotting leaves and petrol from the traffic. Helen straightened the fork to the right of the plate, tugged the cloth at the corner, though it was already perfectly straight. She paused in the middle of the kitchen and just stood for a moment, listening to the clock ticking above the fridge.
Victor came home at half eight. She heard him fiddling with the lock, the muffled drop of a shopping bag, the click of the hallway light.
Well, whatve you got then? he called, poking his head into the kitchen, still wrapped in his coat, cheeks red from the cold.
Come in, wash your hands, have a seat. Helen smiled. Stew, roast chicken, and Ive made a salad.
Victor shrugged off his coat right there in the kitchen, tossing it over a chair. He glanced around.
Whats with the candles?
Well, what do you think, Vic? Its our anniversary.
He said nothing, just went to the sink, gave his hands a quick rinse, and took a seat. Helen ladled the stew into his bowl and set it before him. The sour cream was from the butchersthick, just how he liked it.
Victor sniffed, took a spoonful, chewed.
Bit tart.
Helen sat facing him. Is it? I thought it was just right.
Mum makes stew differently. Hers isI dont knowricher, I suppose. Hers just has the proper taste.
Helen picked up her spoon. Eat while its hot.
I am eating. Victor twirled his bowl. Whats the point in a white tablecloth? Youll get it stained.
I wont spill.
Well see. He snorted. Mum always puts out a dark cloth for special occasions. Burgundy, usually. Its practical and it looks decent too.
Helen stared at the candles. The little flames flickered as Victor shifted about at the table.
Vic, she said calmly, today its fifteen years since we got married.
I know.
You didnt say a word when you came in.
He glanced up at her, surprised, almost put out. What was I meant to say? Offer you congratulations? We live together. Its not a birthday.
I suppose not. Just… fifteen years feels
Fifteen years, he cut her off. Now, wheres the chicken?
Helen got up, fetched the roast chicken from the oven, brown and fragrant with herbsjust how Victor liked it.
Its dried out, he remarked, carving himself a portion.
I only just took it out.
You mustve kept it in too long. Mum always uses foil. Hers is juicy, every time.
Helen served herself a little. She ate in silence. A car passed outside, casting a strip of light across the ceiling.
Did you see your mum today? she asked quietly.
Dropped by after work. Why?
No reason. Just wondered.
He glared again at the tablecloth. Shouldnt have used white, Helen, honestly. Cant take things seriously, can you? At mums, dinners always properly laid: matching crockery, proper cloth, bread sliced thin. You he nodded at the loaf, look at that, chunks as thick as bricks.
Helen set her fork down. Not abruptly, just softly, beside her plate.
Inside she felt something clench, then unclench, like a fist.
Victor, she said, and her voice surprised her by being level, do you realise what youre saying right now?
He looked up, mildly annoyed, as people are when distracted from their meal.
What? Im just saying, mum does it better. Its not meant as an insult.
You came in the door. Didnt say anything. Then started picking apart dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I spent three hours cooking, Vic.
So you did. What of it? Am I supposed to applaud? Its what youre meant to do.
Helen was silent a moment.
What Im meant to do, she repeated, tasting the phrase.
Well yes. Youre at home, you cook. I go to work, earn money. Makes sense.
And fifteen years, thats just… nothing special?
Helen, what do you want from me, exactly? Recite a poem? He gave a wry smile. Mum always said: less romance, more order in the house. Thats what keeps a family together.
A candle guttered. Once. As if it, too, had heard something.
Helen stood up. Cleared her plate. Walked to the window and looked down at the damp roofs of the neighbouring houses, at the yellow-lit windows, at the tree in the yard, already nearly bare.
Then she turned back.
Victor, pack your things.
He looked up.
What?
Pack up and leave, please.
He stared as though shed just started speaking Swahili. Then barked a brief, sharp laugh.
Youre joking?
Im not.
Because of the stew?
Not because of the stew.
Then what? Because I mentioned my mum? Helen, thats ridiculous.
It doesnt feel ridiculous to me.
“So, youre offended?” He stood up, crossing his arms. “Alright, sorry then. Sit down, have your meal.
No, Vic.
He looked at her. She was calm, standing straight by the window. Perhaps hed expected tears, shouting, a slamming door. Anything but this calm.
Youre serious, he said slowly.
Yes.
Silence. The clock ticked. The candles burned.
Just over a little chat, he began.
Not over one. Over fifteen years of the same chat. Go, Vic. Take what you need nowthe rest you can collect later.
Victor stood for a minute longer. Then he turned and went into the bedroom. She listened as he opened the wardrobe and rummaged in a bag. She remained in the kitchen, sitting, watching the candles. They burned steadily, without a tremble.
When he exited with his bag, he paused in the doorway. Looked at the tablethe white cloth, the stew, the thick slices of bread.
Youll regret it, he said.
I might, Helen replied. Goodbye, Vic.
The door closed. The lock clicked. She sat listening as his footsteps faded away on the stairs.
Then she got up, snuffed the candlesno point burning them nowand washed up. She put the stew away in the fridge. She didnt feel like eating.
The flat smelled of fried onions and a bit of damp, as it always did in October when the stairwell windows stood open and the radiators hadnt properly warmed up yet.
Helen went to bed at half ten. She didnt fall asleep at once. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the neighbours TV through the wall. One thought stuck in her mind: she wasnt crying. Imagine that.
***
Irene Parker opened the door before Victor had time to ring again. She always did, as if she could sense when he was coming, as if she waited just by the door.
Vicky! She spread her hands. Noticed the bag. Goodness, what happened?
She threw me out, he snapped.
Who? That one? Irene Parker stood back, waving him in. I told you, Ive always told you, Victor! Come, come, I made you soup, potato and chicken, just how you like it.
He took off his shoes, went into the kitchen, sat. The flat smelled of food and of that peculiar odour found in old people’s homesa little mothballs, a little medicine, overlaid with the scent of the kitchen.
His mother bustled at the stove, chattering non-stop.
I saw right from the start she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Victor, you see? Cold women never have childrenits not a coincidence. Thats how nature works. Here, have some bread.
The bread was cut thin, in even slices. Victor glanced at it and, without knowing why, remembered that Helen always sliced hers thick.
Mum, he muttered, dont start, please.
What? Im only pointing out the truth! Fifteen years she had you, whats come of it? No children, no proper household. Here, try the soup.
The soup was hot and rich, just like she said. Victor ate in silence.
The first days passed like a dream. He went to work, came home, ate dinner with his mother, watched TV. Irene cooked every day, with enthusiasm. She brought out cutlets from the fridge, set a plate before him, insisted: You must eat properly, youre looking all grey lately.
On the third day she unpacked his bag herself while he was at work.
Dont wear that shirt anymore, its crumpledI saw she informed him at dinner. Ill iron the blue one, it suits you.
I like the grey, Victor said.
Doesnt matter if you like it. Blue is better.
He said nothing. Ate his cutlets, finished his tea. His mother cleared the table and told stories about the upstairs neighbour who walked out on her own and is happy enoughthinly veiled comments about Helen, but Victor wasnt listening.
After a week, his mother decided his shoes were falling apart and that they must go shopping Saturday.
Mum, my shoes are fine.
I can see, Victor. The soles coming off.
Theyre not.
They are. I said, were going Saturday.
On Saturday off they went. She fussed over the choices, had him try on pair after pair she liked, not what he wanted. Hed wanted black, plain ones. She picked out brown ones with a decorative buckle.
These are lovely, she declared.
I dont like them.
Oh, dont be a child, Victor. These are better, thats all.
The shop assistant looked away. Victor checked his reflection in the full-length mirror by the tilla middle-aged man in brown shoes with a buckle looked back at him, expressionless.
He bought the brown.
In the evenings, Irene sat opposite, reminiscing about his childhoodwhat a good boy hed been, how shed raised him alone, how hard it all was, and how Helen never appreciated any of it. Victor nodded along.
Sometimes he thought about the white tablecloth. About the candles. He couldnt understand why shed set them, why it had seemed necessary. Fifteen yearsso what? What was there to celebrate?
Yet he found himself thinking about it.
And about how she hadnt cried, hadn’t shouted. Just stood at the window, calm, and told him to leave. He couldnt understand where that calm came from. Hed expected something else, had grown used to something else.
By the end of the first month, his mother had his days mapped out. She didnt call it an itinerary, but shed say, Youre at the doctor TuesdayIve booked you in, Thursday were seeing Aunt Jean, she invited us, Friday dont be late, Ill bake a pie, and I dont like waiting.
Victor ran late on Friday because of a meeting at work. He phoned his mother, told her. She kept chattering as he sat on the bus home, holding the phone to his ear, staring at his own reflection in the dark glass.
The pie was ready. It was good. Everything was tasty.
But Victor sat at the table and felt something pressing on his chest. Not painjust a weight, always there, quietly, as if there was just a little less air in the room than he needed.
***
For the first three weeks, Helen lived in a haze.
She went to work, came home, made herself something simple for supper, ate, then went to bed. Evenings were worst, because the flat was quietand at first it was frightening; then it was just quiet.
Her friend Amy phoned every other day. Hel, how are you? Are you coming over? Helen replied, Im alright, no need. But Amy showed up that first Saturday anyway, bringing wine and biscuits. They sat in the kitchen till two in the morning, Helen talking about the candles, the stew, the perfection of Victors mums tablecloth, Amy listening and occasionally muttering, What a sod. It made Helen feel slightly better.
You did the right thing, Amy said at the end of the night. Absolutely right, Helen.
Im scared, Helen admitted.
I know. Itll pass.
After Amy left, Helen stood in the lounge, eyeing the heavy navy curtainsVictor had picked them about eight years ago, saying, They block the light properly, practical. There theyd hung ever since. Helen had never thought much about them. Just curtains.
Next day she took them down, though it took ageshad to stand on the table to wrestle with the track. She folded them away in the cupboard. The room changed; even the dull October light, cold and grey, was better than the dark smother of thick velvet.
She rearranged the sofagot Mr. Paul, her kindly old neighbour, to help. The sofa now stood under the window, and the sunlight hit it differently.
It felt odd, but pleasing.
Shed started sleeping better by the end of the second week. Not perfectly, but no more staring wide-eyed at the ceiling until three a.m.
Nothing changed at work. Helen was a good accountantprecise, dependable, never late, her paperwork always immaculate. Her colleagues respected her, especially Mrs. Green, the head accountant: a formidable woman, always with her pearls, who never discussed herself but clearly valued Helens work.
At the end of October, Mrs. Green called her into the office.
Helen, she said briskly, Im leaving next year, going to live with my daughter. The director wants you to take overhead accountant.
Helen was silent for a moment.
Me? she finally said. Not that she didnt understandshe just needed to say something.
Yes, you. I know who works around here. Ive been thinking about this for a year. Take the offer.
Helen rode home on the bus pondering the idea. Chief accountanta different responsibility, a new kind of pressure. The thought had always frightened her a bit. Victor once said, Whyd you need a career, I earn enough? and shed quietly agreed.
Now, gazing past the zipping streetlights, she thought: why not?
November was busy. She started small home improvementsrepainted the bedroom a pale yellow, swapped out the curtains for linen, airy ones. Bought a new lampshade, a warm orange, and used that instead of the overhead glare. The flat, bit by bit, became hers.
She bought some pots of geraniums, set them on the sill. The scent was fresh and green, just right with the linen curtains and the soft yellow walls.
She and Victor sorted out the formalities through solicitorsit was smooth enough. The flat was hers; he made no claim. He behaved quietly, no dramas. Maybe persuaded by his mother, maybe hed simply had enough himself.
In December, Helen accepted the chief accountants job. Mrs. Green shook her hand.
Well done, she said. And for the first time in all the years together, gave her a sincere, warm smile.
Helen spent New Years at Amysbig crowd, kids, dogs, stacks of potato salad. It was fun and, in an odd way, a little sad, the way holidays can be. She sipped her champagne, watched the fireworks, and reflected: the year was over, and she was alive. More than aliveshe was fine.
***
Winter didnt go well for Victor.
His mother decided he needed a doctor. She booked him in to see the GP, the cardiologist, the gastroenterologist. You dont look well, Victor. Lets get everything checked. He went. The doctors found nothing much, said, Youre not doing too badly for your age. His mother shook her head, disappointed, as if shed been hoping for something to worry about.
He grew irritable at work. Colleagues noticed. Peters, whom he smoked with on the stairs, once asked,
Whats up with you?
Nothing, Victor replied.
Something at home?
Nope.
Peters shrugged and left. Victor stood alone, looking down at the grimy yard. The snow lay grey and trampled, stained with oil. He didnt want to return to his job, or go home to his mother, or go anywhere.
He thought: where did he actually want to go?
No answer.
His mother greeted him every night with supper. It was caring, he knew that. But always attached to it was a plan: what to wear, where to go, when to be home. If he was late, shed ring. If he didnt pick up, shed ring again. Afterwards came the message: Im worried, Victor, where are you?
One night in February, he stayed at Peters to watch the football, have a beera rare bit of male company. He got home at half past ten.
His mother was waiting in the kitchen in the dark; as he entered, she flicked the light on and glared. It made him feel ill at ease.
Where have you been?
Mum, I told you Id be late.
Be late she mimicked. Thats not proper notice, Victor. I didnt know where you were. I was worried. My blood pressures gone up.
Mum…
Eat up, Ive left you some. She set reheated cutlets in front of him. And keep your phone on. I rang three times.
I didnt turn it off, I just didnt hear it. We were watching the match.
Football, she repeated, with a tone that made football sound like a public disgrace.
Victor ate, staring at the table.
He was aware now that hed started making excusesfor everything, everywhere. Why he was late, why this shirt, why he hadnt called, why he didnt want dinner, or why he did.
He remembered once saying, proudly, My mother always knows whats right. Strange, nowalmost embarrassing.
In March he tried looking for a room to letnothing fancy, just close to work. He mentioned it to his mother.
She wept.
Not loudly, not accusingly, just a quiet, steady tear. So its awful here, is it? Im in your way, eh? I see, Victor.
He didnt take the room in the end.
At night, he sometimes dreamed of Helennot romantically, just her doing something in the kitchen, or in the car, nothing special. Hed wake and stare at the ceiling back in his mothers flatnothing but ceiling there.
Hed wonder what she was doing, how she was.
And then think, Oh, shes probably found someone better.
That, oddly, annoyed him.
***
February was unexpectedly bright. The snow stayed white and clean, and on her way to the bus stop, Helen would screw up her eyes against the sun, thinking it was time to get some decent sunglassesshed always meant to.
She bought thempink, thin-framed. Tried them in the shop mirror and laughed, finding herself both silly and happy.
Work was busy. The new responsibilities werent easy, but she managed. Some nights she worked late, discussing reports with her boss, Mr. Turner, a practical, rather taciturn sort, who valued precision and was clearly pleased with her.
Colleagues treated her well. The junior, Daisy, looked at her with open admiration and often brought her coffee, unasked, just setting it down with a shy, Here you go. Helen would thank her; Daisy would blush.
In March, Amy convinced her to come along to a friends birthday party. Helen wasnt keen: strangers, noise, the obligation to make small talk. Amy cajoled her: Come on, Helen, you need to get outyoull like it, I promise.
Natalie, the hostess, was cheerful and welcoming, living in a spacious flat with two cats and an enormous ficus plant. There were about a dozen guests. Helen stuck near Amy for the first half hour, then began chatting to the woman beside her, a maths teacher, and they spent the evening discussing books.
Alex was sitting opposite. She hadnt noticed him at firsta quietly composed man, a little greying, in a simple grey jumper. He spoke little, listened carefully, and smiled whenever something amused him.
Later on, they happened to be next to each other by the window, cupping mugs of tea. He asked something; she replied; conversation flowed, light and unforced. He was an engineer, working in project design, single for four years since his wife died of cancer. He mentioned it simply, with the calm of someone who had lived through it.
Known Natalie long? Helen asked.
Through her ex-husband. He moved away, but I stayed friends with Nat. And youre Amys friend?
Since uni.
Its good, having friends like that, he remarked.
Very, Helen agreed.
They swapped numbers, with no expectations. Three days later he messaged: coffee? She said yes.
They met in a small café near Helens work. Talked for two hours. She told him about her divorce; he listened, not interrupting or offering advice. Then he shared some of his own story. They left together, stood outside in the chill. He asked if he could call again; she said he could.
A walk by the river followed; then a film. One evening in April he invited her to dinner.
***
Alex lived on the top floor of an old brick building. Helen climbed the stairs, clutching a bottle of wine, thinking: Ill walk in, see the chaos of a bachelor flat, and pretend not to mind. She was naturally nervous, bracing for judgement and scrutiny.
She rang.
He opened the door. The flat smelled of applessweet, warm, with a hint of cinnamon.
Come in, Alex smiled. I got ahead of myselfput an apple tart in the oven. Hope thats alright?
Sounds perfect, Helen said.
The flat itself was nothing fancylived-in, not polished for guests: books and tools shared a shelf, a newspaper lay on the kitchen table. No staged tidiness or show.
She helped with the saladchopping tomatoes while Alex sliced cheese. They chatted, sometimes fell silent, but it was a comfortable silence.
Helen caught herself waiting: in a moment hed say, Wouldve been better with cucumbers, or Wrong dressing, or just eye the table the way Victor used to for fifteen years.
But he didnt. They sat down, he poured the wine, looked at the table, then at her.
Thanks for coming round, he said.
Just three words. Simple. No strings.
Helen looked down at her plate. Something inside her let go, gently, for the first time in ages. As if shed been holding everything up, and now it was alright to put it down.
Out the window, evening settled in. The streetlights outside shone on the budding branches. The tart puffed in the oven, apple scent filling the kitchen.
They talked for hourschildhood memories, how Helen had once wanted to teach but ended up in finance; Alex about his project restoring old buildings. Helen liked that ideaputting broken things right.
When she left, Alex walked her to the stairs and said, Im glad we met.
On the way home, Helen didnt think of himnot just him. She thought about the tart, and about how it was possible to visit someone and not brace for criticism. To just have a meal, and afterwards, to leave lighter.
***
Summer was quiet and good.
She and Alex saw each other often, but there was no rush. He didnt push; nor did she. Theyd go to the market on weekendsshed buy herbs and cream, hed pick out fish. Cooking together was something new, and pleasant: not the lonely chore, not bracing for nitpicking.
One night in July she stayed overtoo late to bother going home. In the morning he made coffee and brought it to her in bed. Not cinema romance, just practical affection. He sat beside her.
Working today? he asked.
From midday, she said.
Fancy an early market trip? Should be some cherries in by now.
Helen took the coffee in both hands. The summer morning was bright and blue, the air fresh, swifts crying somewhere above. For a second she felt tears prick her eyesnot from sadness, but something else, a realisation of well-being.
Id like that, she said.
By autumn, Alex suggested she move in. No big speech, just as they washed up one evening: Helen, shall you move here? Id like it, and theres plenty of space. I think itd suit you.
Ill think about it, she replied.
Of coursetake your time.
She took two weeks, then said yes.
In November she moved. She rented her own flat out rather than sell it, brought her books, the geraniums, the orange lampshade, the linen curtains. Alex rearranged his shelves to make room for her things. They lined up their books on the shelfhis technical manuals, her novels, all mixed, and it looked right.
In December, they registered their marriage. Quietlyjust Amy and Alexs friend Steve as witnesses. Afterwards, the four of them went for a meal; it was happy and funny, and Amy wept, insisting it was from joy.
In January, Helen found she was pregnant.
In the bathroom, she stared at the test for a long time. Then sat on the edge of the bath and just remained there for ten minutes, not moving.
She was forty-three. Shed resigned herself to not having childrenVictor never wanted them, or she didnt, or neither of them did; in any case, theyd never once had a serious conversation about it. The doctors had never said no; shed just convinced herself it wasnt to be.
And yet.
Alex was in the study, working on something. She stood in the doorway. He sensed her presence and turned.
One look at her face.
What is it? he asked quietly.
She held out the test. He took it, read it, watched her. Silent for a moment. Then he stood and wrapped his arms around her, held tight for a long time.
Its good, Helen, he said at last. Its really good.
She buried her face in his shoulder and, at last, wept. Properly, not holding back, unlike shed done for years. Alex didnt flinch, didnt say, Calm downjust held her tighter, murmuring, Its alright, its alright.
***
April came again. Once more, Helen strolled along the riversidenow unhurried, winced a bit for the bumpand Alex walked with her, sometimes steadying her by the elbow.
Six months along now. Everyone at work knew. Mr. Turner had congratulated her: Well done, Mrs. Parker. Your job will be here for youdont worry. Daisy watched her now with a new kind of respectthe way young women look at those who know how to live.
The flat they called theirs was filling with new thingsthe babys bits and bobs: a cot waiting to be assembled, a moon-shaped night light, a little drawer of tiny clothes. Sometimes Helen would open it, just to see, to touch. There was something real, solid about it.
Each morning, shed drink tea at the window, watching grass poke through the earth below, scent of damp soil and the first hint of apple blossom from the neighbours garden. All was well and tranquil.
But sometimes, especially at night after Alex had drifted off and she lay awake, feeling the baby move, she thought of the past. Not with painmore like old photographs: that was a life, with those people. There was a sadness to it, though she couldnt say for what. For those fifteen years that had passed, perhaps. Or maybe just for her younger self, who had tried so hard, cooking stew and spreading out a white tablecloth.
She didnt know what had become of Victor. Amy had seen him once at the supermarkethe looked older, apparently. Helen nodded, said nothing. She wished him no harm. He was just part of a different story nownot hers.
***
Victor sat with his mother in the kitchen.
It was April outside, but inside the flat always seemed wintry: thick curtains shut out spring light, the same old odds and ends crowded the shelves, and the same old odour hoveredmedicine, strong soup, and something older, mustier.
Irene was at the stove, stirring soup and talking, as she always did.
Youre looking peaky again, Victor. I keep telling yousee a proper doctor. Not that lot at your work surgery, useless the lot of them. I asked about a good cardiologist at surgery number seven. Ill make you an appointment.
Mum, Im fine.
You cant judge that for yourself, she insisted authoritatively. Men never notice till it’s too late. Your father was the same, always said he was finelook what happened.
Victor stared at the table.
On it was a blue and white checked tableclothpractical, stainproof, just as his mother liked.
She set the bowl before him.
Eat up while its hot. Buckwheat today, with beef. You like buckwheat.
I do, said Victor.
He lifted his spoon. The soup was good. His mother could cook.
Victor, she said, sitting opposite with her tea, have you thought about what I said? About Linda?
Victor raised his eyes.
I havent.
Well you should. Decent woman, a widow, owns her own flat. She asked after you.
Mum.
What? Youre forty-five, Victor. A man ought not to be alone, its not natural.
Ive got a woman, he replied, surprising even himself.
She looked at him.
Where?
Nowhere. He looked down again. I just meanyou dont need to try to set me up with Linda. Ill sort myself out.
How can you, if you just sit here staring into space? she clicked her tongue. I can see, son. Still thinking about her, arent youHelen. But why? She threw you out. About women like thatwell, you know what people say
Mum, he interrupted, and something in his voice caught her off guard.
They were silent, the clock ticking on the wall. A bird, sudden and insistent, called from outside.
Eat up, before its cold, his mother said at last. Who else would feed you like this, except your mum?
Victor stared at his soup.
The soup was good. That was true. His mother was right about that.
He ate, and thought. He thought about that night in Octobercoming home irritable and tired, picking at the tablecloth, at the stew, the bread, the chicken. About how Mum knows best had been his refrain.
He hadnt understood it wasnt about the tablecloth. What it was about, he was only beginning to realise now. Too late, as people do who never learn in time.
He was in a cage. The word came to him abruptlyhe nearly dropped his spoon when he thought it. A cage. He used to believe Helen had built the cageher wrong way of cooking, her nature. But in fact, shed done nothing of the sort. Shed been giving way, always giving way. The cage was his own; hed carried it from his mothers flat to his marriage, and now, back here again.
Is it nice? his mother asked.
It is, Mum, he replied.
Good. You seeI always knew. Youd never manage without me, Victor.
He didnt answer.
Outside, the bird was growing louder. Spring pressed in at the windows, a fine strip of unnecessary April sunlight slipping around the heavy curtains.
Victor slouched over his bowl, finishing his soup.
***
That evening, Helen stood on the balcony of Alexsno, theirflat, gazing at the sunset. Her bump was big and unwieldy, making standing awkward, but she wanted the fresh air. Below, the earth smelled of thaw, of promisethe kind that only comes with spring.
Inside, Alex was on the phone with a colleague, speaking softly and purposefully. On the kitchen table sat two mugshers and hisand the orange lamp glowed warmly, the same one shed brought with her.
She put her hand to her bump. The baby shifted, slow and gentle, evening-style.
Hello in there, she murmured.
She was a bit scared. She was happy. It was a quiet, restless, honest kind of happinessno guarantees, no sweet nothings, just this: an April sunset, the smell of earth, the warm glow from inside, and a little life stirring inside her, waiting for its moment.
Helen stood a while longer.
Then she went back indoors.
