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Neil had offered to cook dinner, but I’d asked our housekeeper, Julia, to do it. Neil had known Ian since college and maintained a casual friendship with him for years. If things went badly, it had the potential to get really awkward, and I didn’t want to put any added stress on him.
When the doorbell rang, we hurried to the foyer. Julia had already gone home, and the smell of the dinner she’d left in the warmer was competing with my nerves for control over my very confused stomach.
“Neil Elwood, you bastard!” Ian said with a broad grin as he held the door for Gena. “’Come by the house.’ This place isn’t a house, it’s a fucking row of condos.”
I loved Ian’s Glaswegian accent. Combined with his easy charm, it made him seem impossibly friendly.
“Hi.” Gena laughed as she stepped inside. Neil only had to lean down a little to give her cheek a kiss; the woman was a ginger Amazon. A very elegant Amazon, in a teal scoop-neck sheath dress and shiny black pumps that matched the thin belt around her waist. I had the weirdest thought that I could lose a set of car keys in her cleavage.
Ian shook Neil’s hand effusively as Gena slipped her coat off. She met my eyes with a smile, shifted her shoulders, and put on a coquettish parody of her own voice. “Well, my my, Sophie. Is this for us?”
I blushed to the roots of my hair. She was so friendly and familiar, like we’d known each other a long time, though we’d only met once, and briefly.
“Sophie, my dear,” Ian said, taking my hands and kissing my cheek. “You look incredible.”
His hands were so goddamn beautiful, and I had to consciously remind myself that holding them too long would be trés creepy. “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Yeah?” He said, raising his eyebrows. “Well, my wife is good at redecorating. She’s flipping husbands instead of houses now.”
“Stop,” Gena said with a chuckle and a shake of her head. “Thank you for having us, your home is lovely.”
“Why don’t you show us around?” Ian prompted.
“Good idea. Neil, why don’t you take them? I need to get dinner out—” I tried to explain, but Gena eagerly chimed in with, “Oh, Sophie, let me help you with that.”
“Excellent, I’ll give Ian a look around, and you and Sophie can get acquainted.” Neil gestured down the hallway. “Ian, would you like a tour, or the bar?”
“That second one.” Ian clapped Neil on the back, and snickering at their own joke, they headed off together.
“Those guys.” Gena’s smile was one of those perfect, long smiles that showed just the right amount of teeth. Her berry lip gloss could have been a tragedy on her pale, freckled skin, but she’d found the exact shade that worked for her. She followed me toward the kitchen. “How long have you been with Neil?”
“Two years.” I stopped and considered. “I think cancer years might count for ten.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. How long have you and Ian been together?” I asked as we passed through the hallway.
“We’ve been together for eight years, but we’ve only been married for three.” She lowered her voice and leaned her head conspiratorially. “There were some speed bumps.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I pushed open the kitchen door and said, “Do you want to get the wine and the glasses? The wine is in the cooler in the island, and the glasses are up there. If you can’t find them, just open everything up, I don’t care.”
“Oh, Sophie. You are just a slice of the Midwest, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “You have no idea how good it is to be around people I understand.”
“You’re from Chicago, right?” I asked, grabbing a potholder.
“Aurora,” she corrected. “Of course, to anyone who lives in New York—”
“It’s the same thing,” I finished with her. “Wait, how did you know where I was from? Ian told me where you were at Emma’s wedding.”
Every time Gena moved, it was with this innate grace that people were either born with, or weren’t. I was on the weren’t side. She reached up for some glasses. “I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, but I read your book.”
It still amazed me that anyone had read my sad cancer narrative. I’d written it when I was at my lowest point, believing that Neil was dying. Distancing myself from it had been a survival tactic, and whenever it was brought up again, I was surprised. “Oh. Well, thanks for reading it.”
“I think it was incredibly brave, writing what you did. I know when I was twenty-five, I couldn’t have shared my life so eloquently.” She took a bottle from the cooler. “Do you have a corkscrew?”
“Oh, yeah. Shoot.” I reached for the sommelier corkscrew in the drawer. “I have no idea how to use this. Neil does it for me.”
She took the corkscrew, scored the foil on the top of the bottle, and had the cork out with a flash of her wrist.
