Page 9 of Because of Blake
“Yep.” I shift my stance to block her view. I know it’s not a big deal, but nosiness irritates me. “We’re unpacked, the kids started school, and I think I’m getting used to working part-time.”Shit.I shouldn’t have said that last part.
“Part-time? How wonderful. Do you work certain days, or shorter hours?”
I feel my fake, cheery expression drop slightly. “Days. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”
Joanna’s eyes gleam as they widen momentarily. “Oh, perfect. I don’t have any plans on Tuesday. Why don’t you come over for a coffee, hm?”
Well, crap.My avoidance tactics have been all for naught, and I think I’ve exhausted every excuse in the book. “Sure,” I say, reluctantly.
“Fantastic. How about you come over around nine?”
My eyes widen. “In the morning?”
Joanna chuckles and waves me off like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Well, you can’t very well have coffee at nine at night.”
Tuesday morning, I cross the street to Joanna’s house, my stomach wrenching. I hate this song and dance of meeting new people. It always ends up in the same place; with them pitying me and my kids, while I fume at the universe for cheating us out of happiness.
I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before pressing the doorbell. The chime barely finishes before Joanna whips the door open. It’s like she was watching out the window for me.
“Maggie, hi. Come on in.” Joanna steps aside to allow room for me to enter. “Don’t you look nice.” She turns to close the door, and I roll my eyes.
I’m sure I lookvery nicein my plain white t-shirt, stylishly frayed jeans, and Converse sneakers. “So do you.”
She scoffs at my compliment and runs her hand over her perfectly positioned “messy” bun. “No need to lie. I know I’m a hot mess right now.” Her button-down, pink blouse side-tucked into her perfectly creased black slacks begs to differ. “Let’s go sit in the living room, shall we?”
Joanna ushers me through the foyer and into a spacious room which isn’t lacking in the style department. White wainscoting covers the lower half of each wall beneath navy blue and white striped wallpaper, as accents of cream and gold are spread throughout the décor. Two large Ficus trees flank the patio door, which opens up to a large deck.
Taking seat on an oversized, white couch, she pats the cushion next to her. “Have a seat.” She pours coffee into a mug. “How do you take yours?”
“Oh, um, lots of sugar and cream, please.” I almost can’t take my eyes off this exquisitely decorated room. And I thought my house was nice. “This is beautiful, Joanna.”
“Thank you. I worked hard on it. Such is the life of an interior decorator.”
“Is that what you do?” I sit down and take my mug from her, lifting it up to smell the heavenly aroma.
“Mhm. It’s so much fun. I could come over and do a consult for you, if you’d like. We could give your house a makeover.” She beams at me like a child waiting for their parent to say it’s okay to have ice cream before dinner.
I shake my head and take a sip of my coffee.Good God, this is delicious!“It’s nice of you, but I think moving was a big enough change. How long have you been decorating?”
We chat for several minutes about how flexible and lucrative Joanna’s job is. She tells me about her husband, Mark, and his job as a financial planner, including the many wonderful opportunities it provides. While I don’t mind having the conversation geared toward her instead of me, the bragging about her and Mark’s sensational life grows tiresome.
“This coffee is excellent, Joanna. Where do you get it?” My question isn’t only a change of subject, I’m genuinely curious for the future of my taste buds.
Joanna’s eyes widen as she looks at me over the rim of her mug, the corners of her mouth turning up before she answers. “Mark and his co-workers are part of some coffee trading group. It’s international, so we get coffee from all over the world at prices you wouldn’t believe. I’d be happy to send you home with a bag.” She furrows her brow. “But you have to have a grinder, since we buy strictly whole bean. It’s the only way to do it.”
“Ah, I see. I don’t have a grinder, but thank you for the offer.” Suddenly, the bag of pre-ground grocery store coffee sitting in my cabinet seems inadequate.
“Oh, I wish I’d known. I could’ve included one in your welcome basket.” Joanna sips the last of her coffee and sets her mug on the table. “So, Maggie, I noticed it’s just you and the kids in the house. What’s the story there?”
I nearly choke on my drink. She jumps right in, doesn’t she? “I’m a single mother, Joanna.”
While I know exactly what Joanna is asking, the death of my husband isn’t something I like to talk about. Over the years I’ve learned to give vague enough answers to skirt the elephant in the room. So, until someone comes right out and asks where Charlie is, I’ll play dumb.
Joanna purses her lips, glancing down at her lap. “Where’s Mr. Hansen?”
I’m taken aback at Joanna’s forwardness. It’s slightly relieving to know I won’t be exhausting myself by trying to circumvent the story, but it doesn’t make the words any easier to say. I swallow the lump in my throat and avert my eyes to my coffee mug, running my finger around the rim. “He passed away.”
I hear Joanna gasp. “I’m so sorry. When?”