Much Ado About You

I sat with my chair pressed to Roane’s, huddled into his side, his arm around me, fingers caressing the skin below the short sleeve of my blouse as we considered the latest quiz question.

Joining us at our table were Caro, Viola, and Lucas. As they discussed with Roane whether or not the Oasis single that hit number one in 1996 was “Some Might Say” or “Don’t Look Back in Anger,” I considered my youthful friends and how far we’d come in such a short period of time.

I’d love to say Roane and I fell back into our relationship with ease, but we’d both burned each other’s trust, and there had been moments over the past few months when we’d been a little unsure of each other.

In those first few months I’d questioned him about where he’d been, what he was doing, not realizing that over time those questions began to feel like an interrogation. Finally Roane demanded I stop, and I discovered Roane didn’t “do” loud arguing. He just walked out, thus putting an end to my raised voice.

I did apologize, and more self-aware than before, I promised him and myself that I’d let it go, that I’d do better.

And I did.

However, our wedding was last month, and when his parents made it clear they were unhappy about how quickly things were moving, Roane became tense around me, tiptoeing on eggshells. It finally occurred to me that he was afraid the conflict might send me running again. That hurt, but I understood his concern, and there was nothing I could do but prove him wrong.

Which I did. I smiled at the white gold band nestled beside my engagement ring, my gaze flickering to the wider white gold band on Roane’s left hand.

He couldn’t wear it at work, but he never forgot to put it on when we socialized.

Despite Roane’s parents’ concerns, they attended the wedding, they made nice, and they were coming back for Christmas, so I saw that as my chance to show them that Roane and I hadn’t made a mistake marrying so quickly.

As for my mom and Phil, they adored Roane. We flew them over for the wedding, and they fell in love with Alnster and my husband as rapidly as I had. They’d already booked a stay at a holiday home in nearby Bamburgh next summer and were staying for three weeks. We’d told them they could stay with us, but I think they wanted not only to give us privacy but to have their own. I kind of got the impression that since Mom’s return from rehab, she and Phil were rediscovering each other. And it was good.

Greer, of course, had the baby. A little baby girl she and Andre named Evangeline. I’d flown out to see my namesake four weeks before the wedding. She was cute as a button, but she cried a lot. Despite my “advancing” years, Roane and I had already tabled the kid discussion. We would try, but not for a few years yet. Seeing baby Evie scream and cry every other hour, I’d been grateful for that decision and in awe of my best friend.

We were sad she couldn’t make it to the wedding, but Roane and I were planning a trip out there next year so we could visit them and then drive to Indiana to see Mom and Phil. And to show him where I grew up.

It was certainly different from where Roane had grown up.

I’d, of course, been inside Alnster House, that huge sandstone mansion belonging to my husband and his parents, named by the ancestor who’d built the place back in the seventeenth century. It had been added to and renovated over the centuries, and if I thought it was awe inspiring on the outside, it was nothing compared to the interior.

Marble floors and staircases, huge oil paintings, beautiful sculptures. The public rooms were like rooms in a museum. The family rooms on the second floor, although opulent with Aubusson carpets and Chinese silk wallpaper, were more comfortable and welcoming.

We’d had the wedding reception at the house, making use of the ballroom.

Yes, it had a ballroom.

The first time I walked into Alnster House, I’d felt Roane watching me anxiously. All I could do was hold his hand and smile reassuringly. That mansion wasn’t him. That’s why he lived in the farmhouse. The house, however, was his legacy, and maybe one day we’d have to move there with our kids, but for now I was getting a huge kick out of redecorating our cozy farmhouse. I’d even convinced Roane to hire an architect so we could start opening up the spaces to make it free flowing and modern.

“It’s ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger,’” I said, tired of listening to the back-and-forth.

My friends stared at me, uncertain.

I huffed, holding up my hand. “Who is the only person here who remembers 1996? Some of us”—I turned to Roane—“had only been walking for, what, two years?”