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292 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2013
What on earth had Peter seen in her all this time? It was a mystery, wasn’t it, why people loved one another? But she had closed her eyes, resting her head on Peter’s shoulder, remembering the sensation of his gaze on her that day, the heat of it. That old love between them.
They made love before dinner, that business not so easy as it once was, it was true, but then you didn’t really mind so much about that anymore, either. You did the best you could. Yet the old longing was still there between them . When Peter pulled her against him, her back to his belly, when he kissed her neck, ran his hand down her side, following the dip of her waist and the rise of her hip, she still felt that old heat.
It was true, she knew, that being abandoned— not once, but twice, if you counted both the mother who had given her up and the father who had gone to jail— was an indisputable tragedy in her life. Sometimes she thought about the woman who had given birth to her, imagined that she, like Ruth, longed to be reunited, mother and daughter. But mostly she didn’t like thinking about it, about whatever had made the woman who was her mother give away her baby. The idea of it was too close to the abortion Ruth had needed to choose for herself.
That night, they went to bed early. They left the dishes and the cake on the table. In the morning, Ruth threw the rest of it in the garbage can.
A polished silver dish shaped like a seashell rested on the table beside her chair. Books with gilt lettering on their spines filled the shelves on either side of a fireplace, which was neatly swept, two polished brass andirons side by side. The upholstered sofa was lined with tasseled pillows. The window by her chair was open, and outside in the garden, the lacy white globes of flowers glowed in the dusk. Ruth felt that she was in a painting of a world, not a real world. She had never been in such a place.