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“Annabel,” Thom said aloud, and Emily took a step back from him.
“Yes, just hearing you say that name aloud has reinforced my decision,” she said, laughing, then coughing.
“What decision?”
“Oh, to change my name. I mean, to use a different name.”
Before she left the office, she said, “Thank Wendy again for me for dinner.”
“I will,” he said, and watched her depart, her toes pointing inward, and spent about thirty seconds trying to remember what that was called, before coming up finally with that odd phrase “pigeon-toed.”
That night, after dinner, Thom went out onto the porch with a whiskey. There was still some light in the sky and even though the temperature had dipped, Thom was comfortable in his jeans and cotton sweater. Wendy stepped out to join him, and Thom said, “Summer’s coming.”
“You call this summer?”
“Well...” Thom said. He’d grown up in New England, while Wendy had mostly lived out west, leaving her in a constant dispute with Massachusetts’s weather patterns. “Grab a sweater and come join me. Maybe a drink as well.”
She said something he didn’t quite listen to, then retreated into the house. He assumed she’d told him that she was going to watch television but was surprised when she returned with not only a sweater but half a glass of red wine.
“Oh,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“Usually when I suggest something, you do the opposite.”
“Is that really true?”
“I don’t know,” Thom said. It was his new answer to everything. He was in his fifties and somehow felt like the world had become a bigger mystery to him as he got older.
“Are you excited for our trip?” Wendy said, settling down onto the metal spring chair that Thom was convinced was about to break.
“I am,” Thom said. “What made you think of booking it?”
“Remember when Jason was young and we used to always say how much we missed taking spontaneous weekend trips? Well, now he’s gone, and we don’t even have a cat anymore, so what’s stopping us?”
Thom sipped at his whiskey and considered asking Wendy if the trip was to commemorate where their love story had begun. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask that question. Maybe it was thefear that she’d look at him blankly, having forgotten all about that part of their life. Instead, he said, “You have a fan, you know, of your poetry.”
“Do I?”
“You know Emily, the new secretary?”
“Yes, I know her. She had dinner here.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Of course. Did you know she’s read your poetry?”
“She mentioned it that night. She readSpecifics Omitted.”
Thom wondered if they’d already talked about this but didn’t want to ask. Instead, he said, “Her real name is Annabel.”
“What do you mean?” Wendy said, straightening up a little in her chair.
“Emily is her middle name. She told me today. I was thinking about it because... Well, it’s a poetic name. Your favorite poem, right?”
“Not quite my favorite poem, but yes.”
Thom watched Wendy turn her head to look out through the screened porch toward the cove. There was a tiny scrap of light left in the sky and he could just make out her profile, the slope of her nose, her pursed lips, the jut of her chin. She was deep in thought, and Thom had a familiar feeling—at least it was familiar of late—that he had missed something important. “Are you thinking of getting in touch with Judy while we’re there?” he said, to change the subject.
“Who’s Judy?”