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“Where would you like me to go?” she asks.
I hesitate. I’ve honestly not given much thought to where she should stay. I suppose she could sleep in the guest room until my mother comes later this week. But after that, I’m not sure where. While the one-level, open-plan house is sprawling, close to five thousand square feet, it is not equipped with a lot of bedrooms. The two additional ones were converted into Ned’s office and a home gym.
“Why don’t we chat in the living room for a bit? And we can go over a few things.” I haven’t had time to write up an agenda and have no real clue what I expect of her. Except to take care of Isa whenever she wakes up at night so Ned and I can get some much-needed sleep.
Adjusting Isa so she’s cradled in the crook of her arm, she reaches for her duffel and accompanies me into the living room.
“I’m sorry, I move like a snail,” I titter.
“No apologies needed. You’ve just had a C-section, and with your condition…”
“I’m hoping I’ll get better soon.” Though it’s only been three days since I came home from the hospital, the truth is sometimes I feel like I won’t. Some women, I’ve read, never recover from PGP. I haven’t shared that with Ned.
“With rest, you will. I’m here to help you.” As we step into the living room, she asks, “Where would you like me to sit?”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
She makes her way to the low, slick leather couch that faces the floor-to-ceiling fieldstone fireplace. With Isa still in her arm, she takes a seat, folding one slender ankle over the other, and placing her duffel bag on the floor beside them. My legs and back are killing me, but I remain standing.
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m good. I stopped at Whole Foods for a salad on my way here.”
A small wave of relief washes over me. I’m glad she’s eaten because the pickings in our kitchen are next to nothing. Our refrigerator and pantry haven’t been stocked since Rosita abruptly left for El Salvador last week. I couldn’t expect Ned, who’s never shopped for food or cooked a day in his life, to run out for groceries after flying in from France late Sunday night. Since I got home from the hospital, I’ve been surviving on protein bars, and the few frozen things that remain in our almost empty freezer.
“Hon, come sit.” Her voice warm and inviting, she pats the cushion next to her.
“Um, it’s hard for me to sit on that couch.” My eyes flit to the ugly-as-sin recliner.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you up.”
Reluctantly, I do as she asks and sink into the low-slung couch. I’m going to be stuck here for life.
She gently rocks a contented Isa while her eyes skitter around the room, flitting from corner to corner. “By the way, your house is spectacular.”
My gaze follows hers as she takes in the spacious high-ceilinged main room, with its sleek contemporary Italian furnishings, an amalgamation of shiny leather, glass, and brushed metals. Only the abstract art on the walls gives it any color, the recessed lighting its only warmth.
“Thanks, but it’s really my husband’s house, not mine.”
“Ned.”
It’s not a question. The way she says his name makes it sound like she knows him.
“Yes. You know him?”
“No. You mentioned his name during our phone interview.”
“Oh, r-right.” I must be losing my mind. Or it’s the brain fog again.
“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“Believe me, he’s looking forward to meeting you even more.”
She smiles. “Oh, and by the way, I’ve brought you something.” She glances down at the duffel bag, then unzips it. Without letting go of Isa, she manages to extract a medium-size box that’s gift-wrapped in pink-and-white print paper. A shimmering pink bow tops it off.
“What’s this?” I ask as she places it on my lap.
“A baby present.”
