Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [101]
“Me too. . . . But I better go now. The kids are running in two separate directions. So we’ll just finish up here and be back by five or so? . . . Does that work for you?” he asks.
His words are innocuous but his tone is detached, with the slightest hint of condescension. It is the way he often talked to me when I was pregnant and, in his words, behaving irrationally—which I must confess was often the case, such as the time I actually cried over our Christmas tree, insisting that it was ugly, disturbingly asymmetrical, even suggesting that Nick unstring the lights and return it for a new one. In fact, I almost feel pregnant now—not physically, but emotionally, in a verging-on-tears, hormonal, utterly needy way.
“Sure. That works,” I tell him, clutching the arm of the couch, hoping that I sound less desperate than I feel. “I’ll be here.”
***
I spend the next hour rushing around, showering, dressing, and primping, as if I’m going on a first date, all the while vacillating between despair and calm, at one moment telling myself my intuition must be on track and then berating myself for being so insecure, having such little faith in Nick and the bedrock of our relationship.
But when my family returns home, there is no denying the chilliness in Nick’s hug, his kiss on my cheek. “Welcome home, Tess,” he says, an ironic suspicion in his voice.
“Thanks, honey,” I say, trying to remember how I interacted with him before all of this began, trying to pinpoint when all of this began. “It’s so good to see you guys.”
I kneel down to hug the kids, both of whom have clean faces and combed hair, Ruby even wearing a pink bow, a small triumph.
Frankie bursts into a mirthful laugh, clamoring for another hug. “Pick. You. Up. Mama!” he shouts.
I don’t bother to correct his pronoun, but instead scoop him up in my arms, kissing both cheeks and his sweaty little neck, warm from all the layers his daddy remembered to bundle him in.
He giggles as I put him down and unzip his coat. He is wearing a mismatched outfit—navy cords with a striped orange and red shirt, the lines and colors slightly clashing, the first sign that their father has been on duty. Once free of his coat, Frank begins to spin in circles, flapping his arms, dancing in his rhythmless, random way. I laugh, for one moment forgetting everything else, until I turn to Ruby, who is doing her best to look miffed, steadfastly maintaining her position that she should have been invited on the girls’ trip, although I know she secretly relishes time with her daddy.
She coolly regards me now and says, “What did you bring me?”
I panic, realizing that I never made it to the American Girl or Disney store as I promised. “I didn’t have a chance,” I say lamely. “I was going to do it today.”
“Oh, man,” Ruby says, her lip curling into a pout. “Daddy always gets us something when he goes away.”
I consider the trinkets that Nick has brought back from conferences, often cheap airport souvenirs, and feel guilty that I didn’t at least save her my pretzels from the plane.
“Rubes. Be kind to your mother,” Nick says, a mechanical reprimand. He then removes his own layers—a jacket, a fleece pullover, and a scarf—hanging everything on a hook by the door.
“She came home early,” he adds. “That’s your surprise. Our surprise.”
“And my surprise was a clean house,” I say, giving him a grateful look.
Nick smiles and winks, taking full credit, although something tells me that Carolyn did the laundry.
“Coming home early isn’t a surprise,” Ruby says.
“Maybe we’ll get you a treat tonight. Ice cream after dinner?” I offer. Ruby is not sold on this, her pout conveying both disappointment and disgust.
She crosses her arms and attempts to negotiate a better deal. “With hot fudge?”
I nod while Frankie chortles unintelligibly,