Love the One You Hate

I know we haven’t discussed the future, but that’s because she shuts me down every time I try to bring it up. It was little stuff, me mentioning a restaurant I’d like to take her to, a cove I think she’d love to see when we go back out on the sailboat. She’d hum or nod, but there was never much excitement. I didn’t think much of it until now, until I wonder if Maren might not be feeling the same way I am.

Back in the city, I flip the lights on in my apartment and make myself a late dinner. I set my phone on the counter and scroll through a few texts from friends before I give in and call the number for Rosethorn.

Patricia answers.

“Hey, it’s Nicholas. Could you get Maren for me?”

“Oh, she’s already gone up for the night. She was complaining about a headache. Should I see if she’s still awake?”

“No. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Would you just make sure she has my cell number if she needs to reach me?”

“Of course, and I’ll tell her you called.”

It doesn’t do any good. Maren doesn’t call me back on Monday or Tuesday. I feel like an idiot worrying about her incessantly. Part of me wonders if it slipped Patricia’s mind to tell her I called. Maybe she never gave Maren my number so then Maren couldn’t call me. Then I remind myself that if Maren wanted to speak to me, she could easily ask anyone in the house for my number.

My associates think I’m on edge about an upcoming appeal hearing.

I don’t correct them. I work late, only bothering to leave my office when my eyes begin to ache from reading. On Wednesday, I start looking into the process of clearing Maren’s criminal record. She’s innocent, but proving that isn’t necessarily the path of least resistance. She can’t try to expunge the felony because it hasn’t been ten years since the end of her sentence. I’ll have to settle for asking for a mistrial and starting over, or I could seek a writ, but I won’t know which option is best until I see the court records. With some luck, I’ll be able to find an error from scouring through the clerk’s and court reporter’s transcripts of Maren’s case. I have an associate call down to the courthouse in her old district while I get back to work.

On Thursday, I still haven’t heard from Maren, so I cave and call my grandmother.

I don’t usually call during the week, especially not during work hours, so she’s surprised to hear from me.

“Oh dear, what’s wrong? Are you in the hospital?”

“No.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, I’m working. Is Maren there?”

“She’s out in the garden, reading.”

“How does she seem?”

She hums in thought. “Oh, perfectly happy. She just got back from playing tennis with Tori and she has a few piano lessons with the students from St. Michael’s this afternoon. Do you want me to go get her for you?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to tell her you asked after her?”

“No.”

“Well, all right. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Positive. I gotta go.”

On Friday, I cut out of work earlier than usual and arrive in Newport by five PM. Rosethorn is bustling with activity when I stroll into the kitchen. Chef’s rolling dough. Patricia’s polishing silver. My grandmother is sitting with an interior designer in the yellow drawing room, flipping through fabric samples.

“—water damaged. I tried to have them cleaned, but it was no use. I’d like to replicate them, but I know that will be hard. The original fabric is over two hundred years old.” I walk into the room and draw her attention. “Nicholas! I wasn’t expecting you until after dinner.”

“I knocked off work a little early,” I say as I walk toward her to give her a kiss on the cheek and then introduce myself to her designer.

“Did you? How rare. It doesn’t have anything to do with Maren, does it? Because you’ll be sad to find that she isn’t here.”

My gut clenches. “She’s gone?”

My tone surprises her. “Not gone, dear—not yet at least. She’s just out with Tori and Mary Anne. I think she said they were going to get drinks somewhere.”

“She didn’t mention where?”

“Frank drove her, so I’m sure he knows.”27MarenLobster rolls are heaven on earth. No—lobster rolls with fries and a cold beer are heaven on earth. I’ll never be able to repay Tori for introducing me to The Mooring and its outdoor patio.

“Cheers,” Tori says, clinking her beer with mine and Mary Anne’s.

I take a sip just as the sea breeze blows up off the water beside us and whips my hair around. I set my glass down and throw my hair into a high ponytail so I can concentrate on what’s most important: this food.

I reach for my roll again, anxious for another bite. “I can’t believe I’ve been here all summer and haven’t had one of these lobster rolls yet.”