“The work won’t get done by itself,” he pointed out.
“But it also doesn’t need to be done right now, does it? It’s late.”
The ground sausage behind Nick popped and he turned around, picking up the spatula and stirring it. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but she wanted to see it. He stirred in silence until, finally, he set the heat to low and put down the spatula. Then, he turned around, his face serious but gentle.
“Sarah didn’t want me to work and she wanted children from the minute I met her,” he said. His words were more careful than they usually were. It was clear he was choosing what he said very cautiously. “Do you want to have more children?” he asked, out of the blue.
“Um… Yes. I do. I want lots of kids. But only if I find the right person and we have them together. I don’t want to raise them all by myself. Raising Max is hard enough sometimes.”
Nick nodded, his face full of unsaid thoughts. “I know what you mean about finding the right person. Sarah wasn’t the right person for me, and it’s a lonely, guilty existence when you’re with someone who wants different things. I’m never going to have kids and that’s just the way it is. But she’s moved on, and she has her family now, so she’s happy.”
Abbey had heard the rest of what he’d said, but one particular statement had nearly knocked her backwards even though she’d heard it before: I’m never going to have kids and that’s just the way it is. Even though she knew that she couldn’t change him, she wished that she could.
“Never?” she asked. “You seem very sure that you’re never going to have kids.”
“I am sure.”
“How do you know? You don’t like children?”
“It isn’t that.”
“I know it isn’t. I’ve seen you with Max.” She moved closer to him. “Last year, I got the flu. I was so sick I could hardly move. Max, only five years old, rubbed my back for a whole hour until he fell asleep. I dozed off too, and when I woke up, he’d taken his blanket and left to go to bed for the night, but before he’d left, he’d placed a box of tissues next to me. He was only five, but he’d learned that when people need us, we should take care of them. That’s what we do for people we care about. Who will take care of you when you have the flu? Certainly not your work.”
He didn’t answer but his eyes were unstill as he looked down at the counter. Would he ever understand? They were drinking wine, cooking together, acting like two normal people do when they enjoy each other, but would it ever work between them? Sarah hadn’t changed his mind. Who was Abbey to think she could?
“It’s not as easy as you make it seem,” he said, finally. “My father tried to do both and he failed. I don’t do well with failure. I almost fell prey to that same life, but I managed to escape it. The protectiveness you feel for Max—I’d feel that for my own child, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing that kind of guilt when I had to put in the hours that I do. The only way to make the kind of money I do and have this amount of success is to work at it. Corporations don’t sell themselves. And if I’m not there, someone else is, and sales will get lost. In this market, people don’t work nine to five. They work around the clock. I can’t let my father’s business fail.”
“You are very loyal to your father.”
He nodded.
“What’s your favorite memory of him?”
Nick smiled and took a sip of his wine before answering. “I was probably four or five. We went sailing one evening on Martha’s Vineyard. It was chilly, and we all had to wear jackets, but the sun was so bright. I remember my dad wearing sunglasses. I hadn’t seen him wear them before. He rarely took vacations with us, so this was a treat. We sailed out and anchored in the water. We ate dinner on the Nantucket Sound that night—grilled lamb chops. As the sun went down on the water, its reflection turned the ripples bright orange, and the water looked like it was on fire. I remember, because it got colder after the sun went down, and I thought to myself how it should be warmer with all that orange so close to us. My father wrapped us all up in quilts that he’d bought for my mother in town, and I remember her, all bundled in one, scolding him gently about them getting dirty on the boat. He teased her about letting her children freeze for the sake of the quilts and she relented with a huff. He bought her new ones the next day and we kept the ones we’d used on the boat. We used them every time after that.”
“That’s a beautiful memory,” she said.