First Comes Love (34 page)

“I'm not nervous,” she quickly says.

I shoot her a skeptical look and say, “C'mon, Mere. How could you not be nervous?”

“I'm just not,” she insists. “I'm a little apprehensive, maybe….I mean, she's sort of a stranger.”

“She's
completely
a stranger. We haven't laid eyes on her since Daniel's funeral….I don't even think I talked to her
that
day.”

“You didn't talk to
anyone
that day,” Meredith says with an accusatorial edge.

I ignore the dig, and ask her if we should have a signal.

“A signal for what?”

“A signal for ‘let's get the hell outta here.' ”

Meredith purses her lips and shakes her head, adamant. “No. No signals. We have to be warm and engaging—no matter what….We have to make a good impression…for Daniel….You know?”

It occurs to me to accuse her of being too wrapped up in appearances (which she is) or to point out that if Daniel really is up there watching us, our making a good impression on Sophie surely would be among the least of his concerns. But the last thing we need right now is another tiff, so I simply say, “Yeah. I guess so.”

A few minutes later, we arrive at Sophie's building on Central Park West. Meredith and I get out of the cab and walk into the marble lobby of a stuffy doorman building.

“Movin' on up!” I start singing the theme song from
The Jeffersons,
mesmerized by a big crystal chandelier.

Meredith hisses at me to
stop it,
as the doorman smiles, then asks if he may help us.

“Yes,” she replies, her voice high and prim. “Could you please tell Sophie Mitchell that Meredith and Josie are here to see her?”

He nods briskly, picks up an old-fashioned telephone, and says, “Yes. Hello, Dr. Mitchell. Meredith and Josie are here….Very well. Will do.” He hangs up, points to the elevator, and says, “Ninth floor.”

Mere thanks him, and we head that way. Once inside the elevator, we wait for both sets of doors to close—the outer, then the inner accordion-like grate—before lurching upward.

After a slow ascent, we grind to a stop, and the doors open in reverse order into a small vestibule flanked by two apartments. Before we can select the correct door, one swings open, and there stands a surprisingly faded version of Daniel's Sophie. I'd still characterize her as attractive, in a Euro sort of way, and she is wearing a very chic jumpsuit and pointed patent flats. But she has a less-than-svelte figure and heavily sun-spotted skin.

“Hello. Come in, come in,” she says, her voice exactly as I remembered, her English accent undiluted by so many years in the States. I can tell she's nervous as she steps forward to give us each a stiff, arm's-length hug, in our birth order. “It's so nice to see you both again.”

“It's nice to see you, too,” Meredith says.

“Yes, thank you for having us over,” I add as Sophie leads us into her living room. I note that there are about a dozen places to sit, including an L-shaped sectional, two huge armchairs, and several plush ottomans, yet no television in sight. I have a sudden random recollection of her telling us that she wasn't allowed to watch it growing up.

“You have a beautiful home,” Meredith says.

“Thank you,” Sophie says. “We just completed a renovation. This used to be the dining room…but nobody entertains that way anymore….” She laughs, then adds, “And I still can't cook.”

I catch the
we,
and feel sure Meredith does, too, yet still see no signs of a husband, or a child for that matter, though I do see several framed photos of the boy from her Facebook page.

We follow Sophie into her all-white contemporary kitchen, as she asks what we'd like to drink. “A cocktail? Or a glass of wine?”

Meredith and I both say sure, we would love a glass of wine.

“Red or white?” she asks.

“Whatever you have open,” Meredith says, until Sophie insists that we choose.

“Red would be great, thanks,” I finally decide, when I notice that Sophie is drinking red. Her stemless lipstick-stained glass rests on the counter next to an artfully arranged charcuterie board. She may not be able to cook, but she certainly can entertain.

“And for you, Meredith?” Sophie asks with a charming lilt.

“Red would be
lovely,
” my sister says, sounding pretentious.

Sophie reaches up, plucking two glasses from her open shelving, then fills them both a little more than halfway. Meredith and I each take one as Sophie lifts hers, a smile frozen on her face. An awkward beat follows as it becomes clear that she is poised to make a toast. “To old acquaintances,” she finally says, looking into my eyes, then Meredith's.

“To old acquaintances,” we echo. I force a smile, as I think of how contradictory the two words are, acquaintances always seeming as if they should be brand-new, either progressing to full-on friendship or falling back into obscurity. Then again, I can't think of a more accurate categorization—so I give her a pass as we all sip our wine. An awkward lull follows, Sophie speaking first.

“So you're a lawyer?” She looks at Meredith.

“Yes,” Meredith says. “Though I just took a sabbatical.”

I cringe at the term, wondering why she didn't call it a “leave of absence” like she has before, as Sophie turns to me. “And you're a teacher?” she asks.

“Yes, I teach the first grade. How did you know that? From Facebook?”

Sophie shakes her head and says, “No. Your mum told me…the last time she wrote….”

“And when was that?” I ask, uncertain of the timing or frequency of their communication, and wondering if Mom's been in touch about a December visit.

“Oh, several years back,” she says. “Maybe two thousand ten or eleven…I can't recall exactly. How is she doing?” Sophie's brow furrows with concern.

“She's fine,” I say. “She got her real estate license.”

“Mmm,” Sophie says, a British response that I've never been able to decipher. Does it mean “Oh, really?” or “Tell me more” or “I already knew that”?

“And I guess you heard our parents got a divorce?” I say.

Sophie drops her eyes, as she says yes, she knew that. “I'm so sorry,” she adds.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel the urge to make it worse. “Yeah. Mom couldn't deal with Dad's drinking. He was on the wagon until…everything fell apart.”

“Okay, then,” Meredith says in a brisk, upbeat voice. “Enough of that.”

I smile, then say to no one in particular, “Okay. Meredith says enough of that.”

“I just think we can find more cheerful things to discuss,” Meredith says under her breath.

I raise my brows, thinking,
Oh? Like the last time we all saw each other, at Daniel's funeral, perhaps?

“Anyway. She sends her best,” Meredith says, which I'm pretty sure is a lie, unless she happened to talk to Mom this afternoon while I was napping.

“Tell her I said hello, too.” Sophie smiles and nods, but can't mask her pained, pitying look. I know it well—it was the way so many people looked at me for so long after the accident—and feel a rush of annoyance, though I know it's not fair. How else do I expect her to look right now? And would I really want her
not
to feel pity?

Silently granting that she is in a lose-lose situation, I pluck a piece of ropy Serrano ham from her appetizer spread, pop it into my mouth, and change the subject. “So?” I say, still chewing. “Are you married, Sophie?”

Meredith interjects with a high, nervous laugh, then says, “Well. That's a little direct.”

“Oh. It's fine,” Sophie says, as I recall one of her letters to Mom about a year after Daniel's death. It was several pages long, both front and back, and written in the most beautiful handwriting, covering every subject imaginable—from her family to her residency to her travels. But there was not one single mention of her romantic situation, only an awkward paragraph about how she still thought of Daniel “every single day.” I remember folding it back up and thinking this should be a given, hardly worth mentioning—and that this seemed to be a sign that she was seeing someone.

In any event, she seems perfectly comfortable with my question now. “I'm actually divorced. But we had a good run…almost ten years.”

“I'm sorry,” Meredith says, bowing her head.

At least he didn't die,
I think.

“Thank you,” Sophie says. “It was hard…but I'm in a good place now.”

I imagine her saying these same words to her ex-husband about Daniel and feel another irrational wave of resentment at just how adept she is at getting over big wounds.

“Do you have kids?” Meredith asks.

“Yes,” Sophie says, smiling. “I have a seven-year-old son. Calvin.”

“Oh, yes. I think I saw him on your Facebook page.”

She smiles, nods, and says, “Yes. That's him.”

“That's a cute name,” Meredith says, as I think that I can't picture my brother going for a name like Calvin. But frankly, I can't picture Daniel with Sophie at
all
anymore. Even when I try to adjust his age in my mind—a difficult thing to do—I just don't see them together as she is now.

“Thank you. He's a sweet boy,” Sophie says, perking up the way parents so often do when the subject turns to their kids. “Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter. Harper. She's four,” Meredith replies, a look of pride flickering across her face.

“Oh. That's a
great
age,” Sophie says.

Meredith nods her agreement, then says, “Josie's planning on having a baby soon, too….”

I look at her, surprised, as Sophie asks me, “Oh? Are you pregnant?”

“No,” I say. “I'm planning to do it via donor insemination…soon.”

Sophie cocks her head to the side, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as one of respect. “That's marvelous. Good for you,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. “I'm really excited.”

“You should be,” she says, and as we segue into a lively conversation about pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood, I wonder how long it will be before one of us finally brings up Daniel.

N
EARLY AN HOUR
later, we are seated in a cozy corner booth at Cafe Luxembourg, a bustling bistro where Sophie seems to be a regular. She orders another bottle of wine, which I hope will facilitate a deeper conversation. But by the time our entrées arrive at the table, Daniel's name still has yet to be uttered. I decide that I can't wait another moment. Searching for my opening, I find it when Meredith compliments Sophie's wine selection.

“I'm glad you like it,” she replies. “I actually don't know much about wine, but I've been to this particular vineyard.”

“You don't know much about wine? That's surprising….Daniel used to brag about how worldly you were….” I say, thinking that wine selection seems to fall squarely into that purview.

She smiles, then says, “I think he confused my accent with worldliness. I was actually quite green when I met Daniel.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling oddly jubilant that I finally got her to say his name.

“I
was,
” she insists.

I roll my eyes and laugh, but not unkindly. “C'mon, Sophie. You were a
Yale
medical student…and didn't you go to Oxford and some fancy boarding school before that?”

“Yes,” she says, pushing a carrot with a tine of her fork. “But I was only a day student….”

“Oh, a
day
student.” I smile. “Well, that changes
everything
.”

Sophie laughs at herself, but then grows earnest. “Truly. I grew up in much the same way that you did. Very comfortably, but not lavishly…” She hesitates, then adds, “I loved your family home…and Atlanta is such a
beautiful
city. Urban in some ways, yet so green and lush…You really had an idyllic life—” She stops abruptly, looking slightly mortified. “I mean, that's what I remember thinking when I was there….You know, with Daniel…” Her voice trails off as her face reddens and she looks down at her plate. In other words—when she visited the first time,
not
when she came back for the funeral.

It is so awkward that I can't help feeling sorry for her, and reach out to touch her arm. “We know what you meant,” I say, speaking for my sister, too, as I wonder, for really the first time, about how it all unfolded for her.

“Where were you when you found out?” I say, chasing the question with a gulp of wine.

Sophie takes a measured breath, then another. “I was on my way to Royal Albert Hall with my grandmother. We were going to the Carols by Candlelight. Our little tradition…” She pauses and bites her lip, a faraway look in her eye. “My mobile rang. I saw Daniel's name—and was so excited to hear from him….I'd been gushing about him to Gran—and had been trying to call him since I landed that morning….But it wasn't Daniel, of course,” she says. “It was his friend…Nolan.”

My eyes still on Sophie, I nod and point to my sister. “That's Meredith's husband….”

Sophie looks surprised. “Is it?” she asks.

“My mom didn't tell you that?” I ask, knowing that she must've, and wanting to call Sophie out on forgetting.

“Maybe she did, come to think of it,” she says, now looking at Meredith. “That's so nice. For your family.”

I watch Meredith tense up, her eyes becoming expressionless, almost steely. “Yes. We got married and moved into our family home….” Her voice trails off.

“It
really
is a
beautiful
home,” Sophie says. “And I just love Atlanta.”

“Do you think you would have lived there?” I ask. “If you had married Daniel?”