My Husband Told His Ex in French I'd Never Find Out novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Pralines

Preston brings home pralines and a lie about Hartford; Aimée asks him to come Monday the 13th, he swears he will, and Solène's French message lights his phone.

On Friday, Preston came home at four with a white paper bag of pralines.

"For my girl," he said, and kissed the top of my head.

They were the good kind, pecan and brown sugar, still a little warm.

He said he'd found them at a shop by the harbor.

The bag had a small blue sailboat printed on it, and the word Nantucket.

I noticed that. I didn't think about it yet.

Preston was in a good mood. He always is before a trip.

He opened his wallet on the kitchen counter to peel off cash for groceries.

"Get whatever you want this weekend," he said.

I reached for the bills.

Behind his driver's license was a recipe card, folded soft and yellow.

It was my handwriting. My first gumbo, from our first winter, when he couldn't stop asking for seconds.

"Roux: brown as a pecan shell. Never walk away from the pot."

He had kept it in his wallet for eight years.

I remembered that winter. Our one-bedroom in the South End, before his mother's money moved us to the big house.

The radiator banged all night.

Preston used to stand behind me at the stove in his socks, with his chin on my shoulder.

He watched the roux go from white to gold to brown, and then he ate four bowls.

"How do you know when it's done?" he'd asked.

"When the whole apartment smells like my grandmother's house," I told him.

Now I turned the card over.

On the back, in his neat small letters, he had written my answer down.

I didn't know what to do with that. So I set the pralines on the counter and didn't touch them.

He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, the way he used to.

He smelled like someone else's cologne. Sweet and expensive. Not his.

"You okay?" he said into my hair.

"Tired."

"You work too hard." He kissed my neck. "Sleep in. Put your feet up. Don't cook for anyone."

He was being kind so that he could leave.

I knew that. My body leaned back into him for one second anyway, and then I made it stop.

"I've got a client thing next weekend," he said. "Hartford. Friday to Monday."

"Hartford," I said.

"Eighteen holes with clients. You'd be bored stiff."

He grinned. He didn't know I had read the chat.

I put two plates on the table, and we ate sandwiches.

"Preston," I said. "Do you want kids?"

He looked up. "Sure. Someday."

"Someday soon?"

He laughed and took a bite. "Sure. They'll go to Exeter like I did and learn real French. Not like." He waved a hand at me. "You know."

"Not like me," I said.

"I didn't say that." He was still smiling. "Your accent is adorable, babe. It's just not the real thing."

I put my fork down.

"I have an appointment," I said. "Monday the thirteenth, at nine in the morning. It's a follow-up with my doctor."

His smile slipped. "Everything okay?"

"I'm scared." My voice cracked on the word, and I hadn't planned that. "I need you there."

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.

"Of course," he said. "Of course I'll be there. I'll drive straight back from Hartford."

He squeezed my hand and looked right at me.

He said it like he meant it.

And maybe, right then, he did.

His phone lit up on the table between us.

A message slid across the top of the screen, from Solène.

"Tu lui as dit pour Nantucket?"

Did you tell her about Nantucket?

Preston turned the phone face down. Fast.

Then he picked up his sandwich again.

"Work," he said.

"On a Friday night?"

"Solène's handling some things for the foundation." He chewed. "She's a lot."

"I know," I said.

He didn't hear how I said it.

That night he fell asleep quickly, one arm thrown over his face.

His phone buzzed twice on the nightstand. Both times the screen showed a little sailboat and Solène's name.

I lay on my side in the dark with my hand flat on my stomach.

There was nothing to feel yet. Just me.

The phone buzzed a third time.

I turned my head, and the preview was in French, plain as a headline.

"J'ai vu le médecin. C'est confirmé."

I saw the doctor. It's confirmed.

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