All the Difference Page 3

  Thanksgiving found Molly sitting in a cavernous dining room in Montgomery County, making small talk about sweet potatoes.

  She remembered how miserable she’d been, how uncomfortable and long the hours were. No one who lets herself be bullied is going to be happy with what happens next. Molly was used to huge, chaotic, loud holidays with her big family. That afternoon, it was just Molly, Scott, and his mother seated around a quiet table draped with russet-colored linen, sipping their chardonnay from hand-cut crystal. They asked each other to please pass the fresh cranberry sauce while Scott’s father threw tantrums in front of the Cowboys game in the next room. No quiet dog under the table waited for a dropped crumb. There was no teasing or jostling for the last piece of pie. It was just the three of them, a small turkey from the caterer resting on heirloom china, and Sade playing in the background. The Sade is what put Molly over the edge.

  So she sneaked off to the bathroom to read texts from her brothers, even though each quip, every update about Uncle Frank’s whiskey intake, and one voice mail from her goddaughter Samantha sank Molly more and more into a homesick funk. Scott, of course, had noticed, and they’d gotten into a huge argument about it on the car ride back to the city. Scott said she was being selfish. Molly thought he’d cornered her. When Scott parked his car in front of her house, he was still shouting while Molly got out on the sidewalk in tears. He’d sped his fancy little car away before she could even slam the door.

  They’d spent two weeks apart, although Scott had left daily voice mails. At first the messages were kidding, trying to blow the whole affair off as a silly misunderstanding. And then her silence must have gotten to him, because he quieted down. He began to apologize for yelling. With a gentle voice, he said he regretted taking her away from her family on such an important day. She started to think that maybe she was just overreacting, that she’d been responding to an ultimatum that wasn’t really there.

  So one day she picked up the phone. He came over, and they curled up on the sofa together to talk. He was humble and chagrined, and she’d felt understood. He smelled like soap and fresh cologne, and had brought her a large bouquet of red dahlias and a thin bracelet of white gold. She was comforted by how gentle he was with her. When he placed his arm around her shoulder, she let him. When he leaned in to brush his lips against hers, she didn’t resist.

  That was six weeks ago. Molly felt the contents of her stomach roll over inside her. She remembered how they’d ended up lying together that evening, under a blanket beside the lit fireplace, their clothes scattered around them, heads on throw pillows that had fallen off the sofa. She recalled feeling satisfied but strangely guilty, like she was a kid who’d stolen a cookie out of the jar right before dinner. She hated him. She loved him. And neither one of them had bothered to get a condom from the bedroom.

  A sudden clatter of applause and cheering brought Molly back to the present. Jenny had turned on the television, and the host was counting down the seconds until midnight. Molly blinked her eyes hard and stood up straight. She worked her way through the throng of people in front of the big fireplace over to Scott, who was draining the last drops from a glass of champagne.

  It was time, Molly thought. She would tell Scott, and they would take the new year to let the news settle, figure out what to do next. She wouldn’t rush life this time, wouldn’t plan, would allow all the jagged edges of her fears to soften up on their own. It would be okay, Molly thought. So she didn’t know what would happen next. She was having a baby. It would be okay.

  Molly saw Scott catch her eye. He flashed a wide grin and set his empty flute on the cluttered mantel. He patted his pants pockets, like he was afraid he’d misplaced his wallet, before reaching his hands out to Molly to draw her closer. She saw that his chest was still slick with sweat, and he swayed just a bit in his British-made shoes.

  “. . . nine . . . eight . . . seven!” Dan and Jenny were bouncing up and down a little, noisemakers at the ready.

  “Hey, babe, you found me!” Molly saw Scott’s eyes crinkle in the way that always made her heart skip a little bit, and smiled back at him. He leaned down to her ear and raised his voice.

  “I have something I want to talk to you about. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “. . . six . . . five . . . four!”

  Molly caught a glimpse of the fawning women Scott had been dancing with earlier and cocked her head with a thin smile. “Looking hard or hardly looking?”

  “Huh?” Scott squinted.

  “. . . three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” Molly’s friends threw handfuls of confetti in the air, making her cringe at the sight of the mess, and started blowing their noisemakers. Couples kissed and friends hugged each other. Jenny and her college roommate began singing a very drunken version of “Auld Lang Syne” while the televised crowds in Times Square danced in the streets.

  Scott moved closer to her, and she felt his arm snake around her waist, once again drawing her in.

  “Oh, never mind,” Molly said. She wrapped her hand around Scott’s neck to move his head toward hers. “Come here.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I actually have something I need to tell you, too.”

  Scott’s lips brushed Molly’s, and a familiar warmth spread through her like the heat she’d feel from a fresh cup of tea, though a spiked one, hot toddy–style. He pressed her body to his, hands on her hips, pulling her tightly against him. His fingers moved up the sides of her body and along her bare arms, trailing until they came to rest on her hands. He clasped them in both of his and moved them down to rest against his heart. Molly raised her eyes to look at her boyfriend through the haze the candle smoke had created and saw that his green eyes, murky now through the cloud of alcohol, were focused only on her own. It was going to be okay.

  “Molly,” Scott said.

  She took in his face, startled by the expression she saw there, and opened her mouth to respond. Scott shook his head at her, and placed a light finger against her mouth. The sweat from his skin felt cold against her lips.

  Before she could move, Scott dropped down on one knee. His lips were moving, but Molly couldn’t hear what he was saying. One of his hands grasped both of hers, and the other held a small, black velvet box. The box was open, and inside something glittered in the candlelight, flashing against the black silk. People around them started to catch on and back away, creating a small clearing around the pair. Molly looked at Scott’s earnest face, at the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, then down at the brilliant diamond ring on display. Wowza, she thought. That thing is big.

  She opened her mouth again, started to say something, then closed it. Molly looked up from Scott’s face and met Jenny’s eyes. Her friend was standing beside Dan with her arms crossed against her chest, watching her with an expression Molly couldn’t read. Molly’s own face felt slack, blank. She could hear the tinny sounds of the revelers in Times Square cheering through the television.

  She’d thought it was going to be okay.

  Molly looked back down at Scott, who had shifted his weight off of his knee and onto his other foot. He repeated the words.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Scott dropped the ring a little and raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  January

  If She’d Said No

  She heard the rumbling sound like it was an echo from another life, rolling in on soft waves at first, then growing louder as she became more aware of it. Her eyes were closed, she realized, and she kept them shut, staring at the absolute blackness in front of her. It was so calm here, so peaceful, and she didn’t want to leave this spot. The rumble grew, though, thrashing around between her ears now with a determined force. Molly’s eyes flew open.

  She’d been snoring.

  Molly blinked a few times, then turned her head to the right to see the other women in the clas
s coming out of corpse pose. Without moving, she watched the yoga instructor across the room give her a serene smile before she touched her palms together in front of her bird-frail chest. The lithe woman bowed to the group facing her.

  “Namaste,” the teacher said. Her soft voice floated across the room and over the faint rumbles still resonating in Molly’s head. The other students were sitting up now, legs crossed with measured grace in front of them, mirroring the instructor’s movements.

  “Namaste,” they replied. As if they’d uttered a secret code, the relaxed atmosphere of the room disintegrated. The students began rolling up their mats, chatting to each other in subdued voices. Molly continued to lie in place on her back, her legs splayed in savasana, her palms thrown open to the ceiling in a gesture of hopeless resignation. She stared upward, lying in the back of the room while the rest of the class filed out, throwing her curious glances on the way.

  She was so tired. The muscles in her body were heavy against her bones, and she felt like she couldn’t move them if she tried. But she didn’t want to try. She didn’t want to leave this darkened room and walk back into the cold daylight of a noisy street. She didn’t want to go home to her empty house. It was too quiet there. Way too quiet.

  The yoga instructor unplugged her phone from the speaker system and the music came to an abrupt stop. Molly sensed her hop down from the stage in the front of the room and heard her whisper something like good-bye as she padded away. The door clicked shut, and she was alone.

  Molly rolled over to her side and closed her eyes again.

  A week later, Center City was noisier than Molly expected it to be on a Saturday afternoon. The sidewalks were filled with people scurrying along, weighed down with the holiday packages they were returning and the groceries they needed to replenish now that their refrigerators were empty of leftover turkey and half-eaten pie. Couples strode hand-in-hand against the breeze while parents steered their children through the crosswalks. Occasional office workers, work bags thrown over their shoulders, trudged out of offices on their way underground to catch SEPTA trains to the suburbs. Molly was rooted to the sidewalk, working her way through a bag of M&M’s while the rest of Philadelphia moved around her. She was staring at the window display of the store in front of her with a sort of curious fascination when its door swung open. The mechanical bell sang a weak alarm.

  “Why, Molly Sullivan, is that you?”

  Molly heard the voice, the bright tones of it tripping across the frigid air of Chestnut Street like a stone skipping across a shallow lake. Molly didn’t turn her head. She chewed the last bit of chocolate until it was nearly liquid and shoved the empty bag deep into a pocket of her peacoat, all the while keeping her gaze straight ahead of her, buying time.

  The voice belonged to Scott’s mother.

  Molly was standing in front of a maternity store.

  “Shit.” Resigned, she whispered the word, then turned to face her would-be mother-in-law.

  “Monica!” Molly’s voice was loud and high, and she stopped to take a breath, the smile on her face so artificially wide she could feel her eyes squinting closed. “Yes, yes, it’s me!”

  Molly reached forward to grasp Monica’s elbows with her hands when she approached. Scott’s mother kissed both of her cheeks, and Molly recognized the scents of hair spray and Chanel No. 5 that the statuesque woman wore like a suit of armor.

  “Well, just look at you,” Monica said, and stood back to hold Molly at arm’s length. “My goodness, darling, you just get more beautiful every time I see you. I swear, you’re positively glowing. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

  The skin on the back of Molly’s neck flushed hot.

  “Oh,” Molly said. “Um, thanks? It’s probably just this new yoga class I’ve been trying out.”

  “Well, I must be doing something wrong, then,” Monica laughed, “because I’ve been doing yoga for years, and I don’t look as healthy as you do right now. My Lord, girl, even your hair is radiant!” She shook her head in delight. “I must get the name of your studio. Whoever’s responsible for doing that to you must be able to work wonders with a middle-aged lady like me, right?”

  Molly pressed her lips together to stop a hysterical giggle from rising out of her throat. She felt like she’d walked onto the stage of a very bad play.

  “Well, Molly, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.” Scott’s mother stood straighter, throwing her shoulders back so that her Burberry coat fell from them in a straight, well-tailored line. Molly found herself mirroring her actions, and sucked in her bloated stomach as best she could. She was regretting the last of those M&M’s.

  “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Monica continued. “What brings you here today? Has that best friend of yours finally decided to settle down and have children?”

  Molly glanced toward the clothes in the window beside them. She’d been looking at an expensive sweater dress, imagining what it would be like to see the swell of her own belly outlined by the narrow coffee-colored cable-knit.

  “No, no, Jenny’s not pregnant yet, though I’ve been wondering that myself. I’m just preparing for the day it happens, I suppose.” Molly tried to laugh, but the sound got lost in the cold air. She shifted her weight. She wanted to lie down.

  Monica took a gloved hand to her hair, patting the straight blond bob. She looked at the dress Molly had been admiring, then let her gaze fall over the other winter-weather outfits on display. The faceless mannequins stood poised in the window like they owned it, their round, symmetrical stomachs perched on too-tall, too-thin frames like balloons taped to street signs. She turned back to Molly.

  “I couldn’t wait for the day it was you.” Monica tilted her head, as if waiting for the words to meet Molly’s consciousness. “I was just thinking that, the whole time I was in there, getting a little something for my niece’s girl. I wished it was you.”

  Molly’s glance fell on a diamond bracelet clasped over the kid leather gloves covering Monica’s wrists. The flashing jewels winked at her in the harsh sunlight.

  “It’s not too late, you know,” she continued, and when Molly looked back at her, she was shocked to see a plea in Monica’s eyes. Molly had never known Monica to beg for anything. This was the woman who’d maneuvered her way to the top of the best architectural firm in the city before she’d turned forty. Monica usually got what she wanted. “I’m sure you and Scott just had a silly misunderstanding. You could patch it up, couldn’t you?”

  Molly shook her head. She had her reasons for walking away from Scott, even if she wasn’t ready to articulate them to the intimidating woman standing in front of her.

  She glanced at the window display again. She really liked that dress.

  “Monica . . .”

  “No, don’t tell me.” Monica held up her hand. “I can’t imagine that you two could really be over for good. Just think about it, okay? About coming back to my son?” She reached forward and took hold of Molly’s bare fingers in her own.

  “I miss you.” She looked at Molly with a sad smile. “It was nice having a daughter around.”

  Molly nodded. She felt like a tourist who’d gotten lost and couldn’t understand the accent of the person giving her directions. She’d stepped into a country that seemed an awful lot like the place she’d come from, but was still foreign enough to make her homesick. It was an unsettling feeling, being surrounded by everything familiar, but not belonging to any of it. Her eyelid started to twitch.

  “Well.” Monica dropped Molly’s hand and sighed. “In the meantime, how about I take you out for a cappuccino? What about that lovely café we used to always go to after our shopping trips? Just for old times’ sake? I drove the Jag in today, the blasted old thing, but it’s parked right around the corner. What do you say?”

  Molly looked down at her shoes. A young man with a scruffy beard passed by very close to them. Monic
a shifted her purse to the other shoulder, her gaze still on Molly, waiting.

  “I—I can’t, Monica. I’m sorry.” Molly’s mouth had gone dry, and the words caught in her throat. She longed for a cappuccino, with extra foam and a design swirled into the top by a trained barista. But coffee would have led to dinner, with wine by the bottle and desserts with French names, and the platinum credit card always, always, being passed to the server without ever a glance at the check’s total.

  Molly thought about the empty rooms waiting for her at home. There was a Chinese take-out menu lying on the kitchen counter. She’d ordered an old Cary Grant–Audrey Hepburn movie, which was resting on a table next to the TV.

  “I have to get back,” she said. “I have plans tonight.”

  After they said their good-byes Molly turned around, headed to wait for the bus to Rittenhouse. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and watched the cracks in the sidewalk, careful to avoid the tree roots that had broken though the surface. Doubt filled her mind like water seeping into the compartments of a sinking ship. Molly knew what she was steering away from. What she didn’t know was what was ahead of her, and if she could stay afloat.

  “Molly . . . here! Let me get that for you!”

  Jenny rushed up the wide stairs that led to the front door of Molly’s rented brownstone just as Molly lost her grip on two of the full grocery bags she’d been trying to shift in her arms.

  “Damn it,” Molly breathed. Jenny stood beside her as they watched the bags hit the edge of the steps and burst open like romaine-filled piñatas over the concrete sidewalk. At least fifty dollars in wasted produce scattered around Molly’s parked car. With an angry swipe of her hand, Molly pushed back the long bangs that had fallen over her eyes.