Author: Kristan Higgins

There he was, just disappearing around a display of cheerful dolls all dressed in purple leotards.

“Mommy!” said a little girl. “I can see that man’s—”

“OMG!” I shouted as loudly as I could. “Justin Bieber is right outside! I just saw Justin Bieber!”

The air split with high-pitched squealing, and suddenly, several dozen girls stampeded for the door. I dodged, twisted, got a little trampled, but then again, I just saved about a hundred girls from learning far too much about the aging male anatomy. Dodging shrieking females, I ran to where Mr. Lowery had disappeared. Coco barked as I passed a tired-looking security guard (who obviously wasn’t all that good at her job!). “No dogs in the store, ma’am,” she said wearily.

“Yeah, and no naked old men, either, but that’s what you have, so let’s shake it, okay?” I called over my shoulder. There was an escalator in front of me, a hallway to my right. I hesitated, then charged up the escalator, and there he was, right in front of gift wrapping. His thin white hair was disheveled, his shoes filthy. The young woman behind the counter apparently couldn’t see that he had nothing on below the waist except Nikes, because she asked very sweetly, “And what can I do for you today, sir?”

“Mr. Lowery?” I said. He didn’t turn my way. The security guard arrived, panting a bit. “Can you get him something to wear?” I whispered.

“Like what? Felicity’s nightgown?” she muttered. “My shift ended two minutes ago.”

“Be helpful,” I said. “Random act of kindness, okay?” I cleared my throat. “Mr. Lowery? Ted?”

He turned, and my heart broke a little.

“Hi,” I said. “How are you? Haven’t seen you for a while.” I smiled past the lump in my throat. He didn’t much resemble the man I once knew, that smug, confident schmoozer who neglected his firstborn son. No. This man was confused, lost and old before his time.

“Do I know you?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’m your son’s wife,” I said.

“Jason? Jason’s married?” He frowned.

“No. Not yet. I’m Nick’s wife. Harper. Remember?”

“Nick?”

“Yes. Your son Nick. Your oldest boy.” I smiled again and approached slowly—after all, this guy had been dodging NYPD all day, and I didn’t want him cavorting through the store, flashing little girls.

“Oh, yes. I have boys. Sons.”

“Good guys, too. Handsome like their dad, right?”

He smiled at that, and I saw a hint of the man he’d once been. “That’s a nice dog,” he said, reaching out to pet Coco. Bless her noble heart, she licked his hand and wagged, and Mr. Lowery smiled. “Can I hold him?” he asked.

“Sure. But she’s a girl.”

“I only have sons,” he said.

The guard came back with a blanket. “Best we could do,” she said, much less grumpily.

“I’m gonna call Nick, okay, Mr. Lowery? He’s been on a trip, and he’s dying to see you,” I said.

The man who was once my father-in-law looked up at me and grinned, the ghost of his old personality flitting across his face. “Call me Ted.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

THREE HOURS LATER, I was alone in the very comfortable sitting room of the Roosevelt Center, Coco snoring on my lap. She was happy—she ate a cheeseburger as big as she was, then morphed into a therapy dog, charming the residents with her tricks of paw-raising and leaping straight up and down. Nick had been busy getting his father settled, then had to go off with the director to fill out forms, receive apologies, inspect the alarm system and God knew what else.

I sighed, bone-weary. It was hard to believe today had begun with Nick and me in bed together, somewhere in the heartland. Yesterday (yesterday!), I’d seen my mother. Less than a week ago, my sister had gotten married. My father was getting divorced, and God only knew what would happen to BeverLee.

I thought of my little house in Menemsha, of sitting on the deck with Kim and a glass of wine, the sound of the water splashing against the hulls of the fishing boats, the wind shushing in the long grass. It seemed like a lifetime since I’d been home.

Apparently, those thoughts were just too much to be wrangled with, because I dozed off. Next thing I knew, Nick was kneeling in front of me. “Hey,” he said with a smile.

“Hi,” I answered, lurching upright. “How’s your dad?”

“Sleeping. He’s doing okay. He was a little dehydrated, but otherwise, fine.” He looked at me, and the clock seemed to stop. “You were great today, Harper,” he said. Then he put his head in my lap and closed his eyes, and a wave of love washed over me so big and strong it took my breath away.

“Well, chasing after pantsless men has always been a hobby of mine,” I whispered. “There’s a website for us. PantslessMenLovers.com.” I stroked Nick’s hair, and as always, the glints of silver in the dark brown gave me a pang. Who took care of Nick? I wondered. He looked after everyone else…Christopher, Willa, his father…and, for this past week, me. Well, for tonight, anyway, I’d take care of him.

“You ready to go home, big guy?” I asked.

Nick looked up, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah. As fun as it’s been, I’m ready for this day to be over.”

We got a cab, and when Nick gave the address, my mouth fell open. “Really?” I asked.

He shrugged. Maybe he blushed, though it was hard to tell in the erratic light as we headed downtown. Coco yawned, then jumped as a horn blasted.

Twenty minutes later, I saw that it was true.

Nick had never moved from the building where we’d lived together.

As I got out of the cab, the screech of the subway split the air, just as it had so many years ago. Coco twitched and shivered in my arms.

Still a little stunned to be back in the neighborhood, I stared at the building as Nick got our bags from the trunk of the cab. Same pillars, same tall, narrow windows. Nick hit the code on the panel and opened the front door, and as I stepped into the foyer, the same cool smell of stone greeted me. And cabbage. “Don’t tell me Ivan still lives here,” I said.

“I’m afraid so,” Nick answered.

We went up the stairs—four flights, same as when we’d lived there. My heart pounded at the memories…a lot of lonely days, a lot of doubt and fear and homesickness.

A lot of missing Nick.

Inside, though, everything was different, and that…well, that was a relief. I put Coco down, and she trotted off to explore and sniff.

Previously, the apartment had occupied a quarter of the fourth floor in a cramped, awkward design, but the co-op builders had made what had been four apartments into one. Gone were the graying plaster walls, the linoleum that peeled up in the corner of the kitchen, the tiny closet where we’d had to stuff our coats.

Instead, the apartment was much more what you’d imagine for a Tribeca co-op—exposed brick walls, distressed hardwood floor. Nick had always suspected that under the cheap carpeting lurked oak, and while he’d planned to find it, he’d never had time. At least, not while I was around. There was a generous galley kitchen with stone counters and stainless-steel light fixtures, a counter with two very modern-looking stools. A small but comfortable office, impressive computer screen and an entire wall of books on architecture. Dark leather couches in the living room punctuated by steel and glass end tables. On one wall hung an old black-and-white subway sign listing the stops of one of the lines.

“Pottery Barn?” I asked.

Nick shot me a look. “Original, thank you very much. So. This is it. What do you think?”

“It’s very nice, Nick. Very…you.”

“Thanks.”

And it was…or I guessed it was. Back when I knew Nick, he’d wanted all this so much—to prove himself to his father, to be successful at the job he loved, to be financially secure, well regarded. But it was freaking me out a little, too, to be in the home where we’d been, forgive the honesty, so miserable.

We looked at each other for a minute. “You hungry?” I asked. “I’m excellent at making peanut butter sandwiches.”

“That’s okay,” Nick said. “I ate at the nursing home.” Drat. I’d kind of been looking forward to cooking for him. So 1950s of me. “Do you want anything?” he added.

“No, I’m good.”

We stood there another beat or two, and it occurred to me that maybe Nick felt a little uncertain, too. Should we cuddle? Shag? I was fairly grimy. “Well, how about a shower?”

“Absolutely. Right this way.” Down the hall—we’d had no hall, it was too small for that—and into a wicked awesome bathroom tiled with speckled brown granite. A glassed-in shower area, a sink that looked more like a piece of modern art than somewhere to spit toothpaste. “Towels are here,” he said, and there they were, plush and inviting. “Anything else you need? I’ll put your suitcase in the, um, in the bedroom.” So he was nervous. For some reason, I found that quite the turn-on. Aw…he was blushing, and his hair was standing almost straight up, so many times had he run a hand through it in frustration and fear this long day. Right now he looked both hopeful and weary.

I turned on the water and stood for a second, watching it gush out of the generous showerhead. “Nick?”

“Yeah?”

I undid the first button of my shirt. “Wanna save water?”

He looked at me for a second, then smiled, that flashing, transforming smile. You see, back when he was a grad student and I was in college, back before so much had gotten in our way, that had been our little joke—save water, wash up and oh, yes, maybe indulge in a little steamy sex, as well. “We are in a drought,” he said, then crossed the small distance between us, wrapped his arms around me and moved so that we were both in the shower, fully clothed and now soaking wet. I smiled against his mouth and then unbuttoned his shirt and did my best to take care of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE NEXT MORNING AFTER breakfast (bagels, of course… New York did have a few things going for it), Nick called the nursing home to check on his father. While he was on the phone, I booted up my laptop and checked my messages. There was my real life, waiting for me to return. Tommy was still in wedded bliss with his faithless wife and had attached a picture of the two of them standing in front of the Gay Head Light. He was smiling. She was not. I grimaced, wondered if it would be crass to advise him to get checked for herpes, and typed a brief, noncommittal reply. Theo was curious as to when I’d grace the office with my presence (code for get your ass back here). I reminded him that I had nine weeks of time off accrued and would be happy to point out the firm’s policy on vacations in the manual I myself had written a few years back. I also wrote Carol a note with a cc to Theo, telling her that if Theo didn’t relax, she was free to slip him a few horse tranquilizers and we’d just see what that did to his golf game.

There was nothing from Dad—that wasn’t a surprise…I don’t think the man had ever sent me an email or called of his own volition. But nothing from BeverLee, either, which was unusual. And nothing from Willa, which struck me as ominous.

With a glance down the hall at Nick, who was speaking now to a doctor, I logged in to my credit card account. Just for the heck of it. There, dated yesterday, was a $108 charge to Bitter Creek B&B in Rufus, Montana. Huh. Well, good. The kids had left the great outdoors for a shower and a bed. Couldn’t blame them.

In the past when she used my credit card, Willa was always very specific about what exactly she’d be doing…not asking permission, but letting me know she wasn’t going wild, either. This was a first.

My computer beeped; an email from Carol. Horse tranquilizers administered. Miss your grouchy ass. Where the hell are you?