Pocketful of Sand

I don’t look back at the woman. I don’t want to meet her eyes. I don’t want answers to the questions rolling through my mind, like how does she know Cole and who is she to him. Besides, I imagine that I already know.

“I think he was working on the cottage across from mine today,” I explain, brushing Emmy’s hair back from her face to give myself something peaceful to focus on. She leans her head back against my chest so that she can look behind us at the stranger asking about Cole. I don’t. I don’t want to look at her.

The gasp I hear, though, draws my gaze anyway. The woman is even paler than she was when she walked in and she’s staring at Emmy like she’s just seen a ghost.

Just like Cole did the first time he saw her.

She places the tips of her trembling fingers over her lips as she watches my daughter. After several tense seconds that feel like hours, she turns her shocked eyes up to mine. Tears are welled in the corners. “Do you know Cole?”

I nod. Yes, I know him. I know his touch, I know his kiss, I know his heartache.

She nods, too. And judging by the pain I see in her eyes, she knows how well I know him, too. “Okay then.” I watch her pull herself together. Straighten her spine, raise her chin, wipe one stubborn tear from her cheek. “Thank you.”

And with that, she turns and walks gracefully out the way she came.

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I’m numb as I take groceries from the back seat and carry them inside. What feeling I have left in my heart freezes the instant I see the sleek black SUV pull to a stop in the driveway. My eyes meet the woman’s, the same woman who came into Bailey’s. The same woman who knows Cole. The same woman who I’m pretty sure is his ex-wife. But why is she here? What does she want with me?

I smile, pausing with bags dangling from my fingers, the cold wind whipping through my hair. I watch as she climbs out from behind the wheel and makes her way slowly to me, carefully picking her way along the snow-cleared path.

“Eden, right?” she asks, obviously noting Jordan’s use of my name earlier.

I nod.

“I’m Brooke Danzer, Cole’s wife. Can we talk?”

Cole’s wife.

Cole’s.

Wife.

Wife. Not ex-wife. Wife. Present tense.

I want to ask why, why we need to talk. I want to tell her that I don’t want to. I want to tell her to get lost. I want to tell her Cole is mine and she has no business here.

But I don’t.

Because I can’t.

He’s not mine and I don’t know what her business is here. I was so caught up in Cole’s story about losing his daughter, I never asked what happened to his wife. I just assumed. I assumed all sorts of things and never confirmed any of them. I just noted that he was alone. Solitary. That he wore no wedding ring and had no connections. And I let the rest go.

Like a stupid child.

I wanted to trust blindly. And so I did.

“Maybe we could go inside?” she asks, shivering noticeably. Her clothes may look nice and probably cost a fortune, but they obviously aren’t very weather-worthy. I want to smirk. I want to tell her to go back to wherever she came from.

But I don’t.

Because, again, I can’t. I have to know. No matter how much it hurts.

“Of course.”

I lead her inside, setting the last of the groceries in the kitchen. “Have a seat,” I tell her as I busy myself getting Emmy situated in her room with a brand new sketch pad and colored pencils for her to draw with. When I return, Brooke isn’t seated, but rather staring out the kitchen window. Toward the house Cole has been working on.

My heart drops into my stomach.

I clear my throat and begin to sift through a bag, pulling out cold items and placing them in the refrigerator. I’m not going to make any overtures. I’ll wait for her to get to the point.

“How long have you known Cole?” she asks finally. She turns toward me. I can tell because of the clarity of her voice, but also because the hair on my arms stands up. Like they’re reacting to her scrutiny.

“Just a few months.”

“How is he?”

I shrug, taking the milk out of a bag and setting it carefully in the fridge. “He’s fine, I guess. I didn’t know him before, so…”

“Right,” is all she says. After a couple of minutes, during which my nerves are about to make my skin bleed, she continues. “Did he tell you about…everything?”

“What’s everything?”

“Charity, the accident. Everything that happened.”

“He told me that she was killed in a car accident. And that he was driving.”

“Did he tell you he’d been drinking?”

I turn and meet her eyes. They’re a beautiful lime green color. Stunning, like the rest of her. “Yes, he did.”

She nods and looks down at the kitchen table. I turn to put cheese on the shelf. “And did he tell you about us?”

My hand freezes on the cheese. Just for a few seconds. “Some.”

“Did he tell you we’re still married?”

“No,” I manage to whisper, even though my heart is in my throat.

Her laugh is bitter. “I’m not surprised.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s cheated on me more times than I can count.”

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest by someone wearing razor-sharp stilettos.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” What else am I supposed to say?