“You’re…” Nina faded away again.

“Where are you? Are you outside?” Scott pictured her standing on the lawn, holding the phone in one white-knuckled hand. Her brow would be knotted, her eyes wide. “Go back inside, Nina, there’s no one in the woods.”

“Scott? Did you just say someone’s coming here?”

“Yes, but not now. Thursday.”

“Thursday? Who? Who’s coming?”

“A housekeeper.”

“A housekeeper,” Nina echoed, her voice faint.

“Or a gardener. A babysitter. A general dogsbody. She can be whatever you want.” He wandered over to the window and looked down. Outside, a heavy rain lashed at tall buildings and pummeled the road. He listened to the water pouring off the eaves outside and pictured himself out there among the raindrops, free-falling through the air, twisting and turning, riding the currents, and then, SMASH. Hitting the ground and bursting into a billion wet pieces.

“She?”

“Yes. Her name’s Emily.” Emily, Emily, Emily. His thoughts were full of her. He cringed as he remembered how much he’d shared with her over lunch. His upbringing, his father … why had he done that? He needed to be more careful.

Nina said something, but the line crackled again and he didn’t quite catch it. “Nina? Are you still there?” Scott walked into the kitchen and leaned on the kitchen island, resting his elbows on the marble. Huge glass pendants floated above his head like planets. “Nina?”

Silence.

“I’m trying to do the right thing here,” he murmured.

Still nothing.

He bit his thumbnail, pulling the jagged edge between his teeth; it tore but got stuck at the side. He persisted and the nail came loose, blood blooming underneath.

“I know you want me to be there.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But we both know I can’t.”

There was a rustle, and suddenly the line was so clear he could hear every little sound she made. He heard her lips part and her tongue move; he heard the ragged rise and fall of her breath. She was crying.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

Scott closed his eyes. Sliding his elbows over the swirling marble, he pressed his forehead into his hands and let her gratitude wash over him. That’s right, Nina, he thought. You win. Again.

But he knew he was wrong. No one could win.

They would all lose. Every one of them.

My husband stumbles backward, trying to catch the pancake, and I laugh, determined not to spoil our last few moments. I want to send him off in a good mood.

“Ha! Got it!” He teases the pancake onto my plate, where it folds into a messy heap. Frowning, he prods it back into shape.

I watch him closely. He’s just as handsome as the day we met. I love the way his tongue pokes out the side of his mouth whenever he concentrates, like it’s coaching from the sidelines. It really should have its own little hat and whistle.

“Your breakfast is served, madame,” he says in a faux-French accent, presenting the plate with a flourish. Smiling, I grab half a lemon and squeeze the juice over the pancake, adding sugar and then a handful of grated cheese, patting it all down and rolling it up into a cigar shape. He makes a face as I pick it up and sink my teeth into it. It is bliss.

“Gross,” he says, spreading peanut butter on a piece of toast. “And you call yourself a chef.”

“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t qualified yet.”

“And you never will if you keep making stuff like that. You’re abusing our unborn child, you know. It’s probably retching in there as we speak.”

“No, this is what it wants. It told me,” I say through a mouthful of lemon and cheese. “Crêpe Suzette au fromage. All the rage in Paris.”

“Is it now? I’ll have to look out for that when I get there.”

I swallow and make a sad face. “Do you really have to leave us? What if the baby comes while you’re away?”

“It’s only three nights. And that baby isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. It’s very happy in there. It told me.” He walks around the kitchen island and leans over to kiss me.

“Yuck!” I say, instantly nauseous. “Don’t come near me with your peanut-butter breath, you’ll make me vomit!”

“You can stomach lemon, sugar, and cheese, but peanut butter makes you feel sick?” He laughs and nuzzles my neck. “You’re a crazy lady.”

I bat him away, but not too hard. Funny thing is, I’ve never felt so sane. Pregnancy seems to have leveled me out and balanced my hormones instead of stirring them up. I can’t remember ever feeling so clearheaded and full of energy, which is a huge relief as I’ve been planning to come off the medication anyway. I imagine the freedom of not having to take it. I won’t have to lie anymore; I won’t have to hide the pills.

Rubbing the taut skin of my belly, I imagine the little creature inside, all curled up, floating around like a roly-poly astronaut.

“Okay, my love. My two loves, I should say. Daddy’s outta here.” He kisses my head and wraps his arms around my shoulders. Then he bends down and presses his lips to my bump. “Be good in there, little swimmer,” he says. “No parties while I’m away.”

A bubble of panic rises in my chest and pops on my tongue. “Can we come, too?” I plead, only half joking. “Give me five minutes. I’ll pack a bag and we can all move to Paris.”

He laughs. “You, pack a bag in five minutes? I’d like to see you try. And what is your thing with France, anyway? What’s the big draw? Aside from the unusual gastronomic trends, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” I press his hand against my cheek. “I’ve just always wanted to live there. Go to the markets. Sit at little corner cafés. Maybe one day set up a bed-and-breakfast or something.”

“Hmm. Well, let’s just have this baby first, hey?” He kisses my nose, my eyebrows, the tips of my fingers. “In the meantime, I’ve got to go and make some money. I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”

I watch as he grabs the handle of his flight bag and wheels it toward the door, sucking up every movement, every inch of him, banking it for later when I’m alone. In a few moments, he will be gone, but right now he is here with me, in this house that we share, in this beautiful dreamlike life we have built together.

In the hallway, he turns back. “Why don’t you go to the movies later? Get your nails done? Treat yourself.”

I try not to react. He does this sometimes; mocks me. It’s like I test. A test I always pass.

With a final smile, he disappears through the door and his absence rushes in. The lock clicks into place and I am left with my steadfast companions: the Liberty wallpaper, the Italian espresso machine. The Armani occasional chair and the floral-print tea tray that cost almost as much as I used to make in a year.

I swallow the empty spaces, pull the silence close. I blow a heartfelt kiss toward the door, sending it skipping after my husband, and marvel at my own bubbling happiness, my phenomenal good luck.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EMILY

QUERENCIA, EMILY thought. What a beautiful word.

As the SUV passed through the black iron gates at the end of the long dirt track, she found she could hardly breathe. The colors, the smells, the two gleaming houses … a part of her, the part that had worried the whole way from London that Scott’s job offer was too good to be true, backed away with its hands in the air.

She stared, enraptured, as Yves steered the car farther onto the property. He pointed at things as they went, naming them in a flat monotone. Tennis court, basketball court, vegetable garden. Quad bikes, tree house, koi pond.

Taking the left fork around the central lawn, he parked in front of the larger of the two houses. “You will find madame in the gardens,” he said, yanking the hand brake and turning off the engine. He was out of the car before Emily could even respond, stamping away toward a stationary white utility truck half-hidden among the trees. He threw himself inside and the truck pulled away, disappearing back through the gates in a cloud of dust.

Alone, Emily turned in her seat, scanning the empty property. Eventually, she opened her door and stepped down onto soft sand; the whole driveway was covered in it, a fine white powder that squeaked under her feet. There were no signs of life anywhere. No shoes on the porch, no towels slung over chairs, no noise.

She reached into her handbag for the keys Scott had given her in Soho. The emblem on the car key matched that of the SUV. She clicked the lock button and the car made a beeping sound. Holy shit. Apparently, this enormous black machine was now hers to drive. Ridiculous, really, considering she’d never driven anything larger than a Ford Kia. Even more ridiculous: Scott hadn’t verified that she could drive.