Which is not a bad analogy, all things considered.

“SEE!” Elodie screams.

“See what?”

She shoves the phone in my face.

Ah. Not “see.”

Sí.

Chloe said yes.

“She said yes!” Elodie and Amelie start screaming and jumping in the air, as if I’d just won something on a game show, or caught a foul ball at Fenway.

My heart is imitating them, silently.

“I am done talking about this,” I say, mustering my air of authority.

“It’s not like we’re going to ask you any details. I mean, E,” Elodie declares.

“We’ll make sure we don’t stop by for food or laundry on Friday night, though,” Amelie announces, winking at me.

“But I do have to come and do laundry for my big trip,” Elodie says to herself.

A sharp inhale from Elodie makes me turn and look.

“What if you date a woman who wants kids?”

“I have kids.” I’m confused by this statement.

“I mean more kids.” They share bright-eyed excitement at the thought. Where is their brother? Jean-Marc is the cynic in the family. He’s also my only kid who doesn’t live in Boston right now, which automatically makes him my favorite. Three in college at the same time.

The job at Anterdec needs to be solid.

And here I am, asking a colleague out for dinner, and possibly jeopardizing it. Someone who is adopting a baby in the next few months.

“I have plenty of kids. Don’t need more.”

“Be upfront, Dad. Don’t string her along.”

“It’s a business dinner,” I growl.

“Let’s go pick out what he’s going to wear on his date!” Elodie shouts, as she sprints down the hall. Amelie darts into my bedroom as I watch her sister double back, turn off the washer, take out the sopping clothes and load her own in.

That one is going to be a lawyer some day, folklore major be damned.

Chapter 9

Chloe

Friday night. After a week packed with three bachelorette parties, two divorce celebrations, one widow party (yes, we were surprised, but freedom comes in many forms) and a state elevator inspection that took more of my time than it should have, here I am, ready for Nick.

A blue and white pencil skirt in a diamond pattern. White T shirt. Silver hoop earrings, and lots of bracelets. Wedge sandals, which were a good choice because the sidewalks in this neighborhood are uneven brick. Nick holds my arm when I wobble. I love these sidewalks. All sidewalks should be made like these. Wobbling is good.

We decide on an outside table, and order Margaritas. It’s a beautiful mid-summer night, warm but not humid, and the sun is still out, the July nights still long and festive. Boston’s not usually known for its authentic Mexican food, but this place is supposed to be changing that.

“One more good meal before you start your life sentence of chicken nuggets?” Nick smiles.

“Even if Jessica’s right about that, it will be worth it,” I say seriously. “I want this baby so much, Nick, and I’ve waited so long for her. Anyway, I am never feeding my child a Happy Meal. Ever. She is only going to eat organic food, and I am going to make everything myself, so I will know exactly what she’s getting.”

“Well, that’s admirable, Chloe.” He looks… amused? “Any other plans?”

“No big plastic toys,” I answer. “Just natural materials like wood and paper and cloth. And not too many toys. I want her to use her imagination. Be creative. And no princesses.”

“No plastic,” Nick repeats. “No princesses.”

“Right,” I say.

“You are really just very beautiful,” he says, as if that follows.

I look into his smiling blue-green eyes. “Did you have, um, basic…principles for, you know, raising your kids?” I stammer.

He bursts out laughing. “Yes. Absolutely. Life vests on boats. Helmets on bikes and skis. Stay off the roof.”

“No, seriously,” I say. “You must have had some ideas?”

“Any ideas that we may have had about children went out the window pretty quickly,” he says. “We had three babies in twenty-five months, and we were practically kids ourselves. Then, when I became the only parent on the scene, the kids were three and five. I just wanted to keep them busy every minute, so they wouldn’t notice their mom was gone.” He makes a face. “I actually thought that was possible.”

“That must have been torture.” I want to hear more, but I don’t want to cause him pain.

“Well, it kept me busy, too,” he says slowly. “I didn’t want to notice she was gone, either.”

He signals the server for another round, and points to the empty basket of chips. More, please. More of everything.

I lean forward on my elbows, waiting.

“She went back to France, you know. Simone, my wife. Ex-wife. She said she wanted the man she married. She wanted a lover, not a daddy. And it turned out, she’d found him.”

“What does that mean?”

“She had reconnected with her lover from university days at the Sorbonne. He ‘saw her as a woman.’ Not a mother.”

“Oh Nick.”

He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

“She left her children.” I can’t quite make sense of it. I’ve devoted years to finding a child to love, and she walked away from hers.

He looks self-conscious. “Let’s talk about something happy. Let’s talk about you.”

Two more rounds of margaritas, one bowl of guacamole, and a very large platter of fajitas later, Nick asks for the check.

We’ve learned a little more about each other. He loves bluegrass and cowboy songs (go figure). He speaks fluent French (not surprising). He has done an ocean crossing, can explain Fermat’s Theorem (it was wasted on me), and has run for town office (he lost). He is deathly afraid of alligators. Somewhere around margarita number three, I discovered that he lost his virginity at age seventeen, to the neighbors’ Spanish nanny. This resulted in a lifelong love of olives.

In return, I shared my deep love for the color white in all its many variations, my obsession with Miles Davis, and my entire bucket list, including the part about backpacking in Patagonia. Before margarita number four he stops, begging off to be able to drive, but I keep going. So it’s possible that I may have told him (oh dear god) about the Power Underwear Theory. My virginity he already knew about. Yep. Charlie.