My Composure After Divorce Became His Greatest Torment novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Kindest Woman in Boston

Celia visits Thea's pharmacy with tea and an apology and asks a dosing question for 'a friend's little boy'. The trust Harrison set up was funded eleven weeks ago.

On Monday morning the woman my husband was leaving me for brought me ginger tea at work.

I was behind the counter of the Mass General outpatient pharmacy, counting out a blood thinner for a man in a Bruins cap.

"Excuse me," a soft voice said. "Are you Thea?"

I looked up and knew her at once.

Celia Huntington had honey-colored hair in a low twist and a pale pink coat.

Harrison kept a photo of her in a drawer in his study, and I had found it in our first year and put it back without a word.

In the photo she was laughing.

In person she looked tired and kind, and she was holding two paper cups.

"I know I'm the last person you want to see," she said. "I only wanted you to hear this from me. I never meant to be the reason for any of it."

"That's generous of you," I said.

"Harrison told me you've been so sick." She set a cup on the counter and slid it toward me. "Ginger and lemon. It helped me once."

I looked at the cup.

Then I looked at her.

"Thank you," I said, and I meant it, which surprised me.

"Can I ask you something while I'm here?" Celia leaned closer and dropped her voice. "You're a pharmacist, and I feel silly asking."

"Go ahead."

"A friend's little boy is four. He has a fever that won't come down after the children's Tylenol. How long should she wait before taking him in?"

It was a plain question, and I answered it.

"If it's over a hundred and four, or he's drowsy, or he won't drink, she goes in tonight. Otherwise she doses by his weight, not his age, and calls his pediatrician."

"By weight," Celia repeated. "That's very helpful."

She smiled at me, and her eyes were wet.

"You're so good at this. He's lucky to have had you."

She said it as though I were already gone.

"Take care of that baby," she added, and she walked out through the glass doors.

Eileen Keane came around the corner with her scrubs half tucked in and a granola bar in her teeth.

Eileen was a labor and delivery nurse, and she was the only person at the hospital I told things to.

She took one look at the cups.

"Who was that?"

"Celia."

"The Celia?"

"She brought me tea."

Eileen took the second cup out of my reach and sniffed it.

"Nobody brings the wife tea unless she's already moved her things in," she said. "What did she want?"

"A dosing question."

"For whom?"

"A friend's little boy."

"Huh," Eileen said.

She set the tea down and looked at me for a long moment.

"You're very calm for a woman who got served on Thursday."

"I got a trust account and a free apartment."

"Thea."

"I'm fine, Eileen."

"You're not fine," she said. "You're pregnant, and you're managing him."

I didn't answer, because a woman in a wheelchair was waiting for her insulin.

My phone buzzed against the counter twice before ten.

The first text was from Harrison.

Did you eat breakfast?

In three years of marriage he had never asked me that.

I typed: Yes. Thank you.

The second text was from the doorman on Marlborough Street, telling me my keys were ready.

The deed had gone through on schedule, and I hadn't heard a word of protest from Harrison's side.

At noon I went into the break room and opened the envelope the lawyer's office had couriered over.

Inside were the trust papers I had barely glanced at all weekend.

I read them slowly, the way I read a prescription I don't trust.

My name was in the first line.

Harrison's signature was on the last page.

Under it was a date stamp from the bank.

I read the date again.

Then I checked it against the calendar on my phone.

The trust had been funded fourteen weeks ago.

That was months before the brass letters.

That was months before he told me anything at all.

And it was the week he stopped coming to bed.

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