Chapter 1 · His Ex Wife's Piano Got to Stay While My Desk Was Thrown Away

When I came home, my desk was in the rain, and my husband’s ex-wife was playing her piano in my office.

Tessa stood beside the curve of the black wood, holding her phone up to catch the reflection.

"Mom, play that middle part again," she said.

She meant Celeste.

Grant saw me first from the hallway arch.

He set his drink down on the mantel, but he didn't step away from the piano.

Six weeks ago, Grant had used his folding ruler to measure that exact alcove for my bookshelves.

Now the floor was taken up by a six-foot grand, resting on dark felt pads to protect the oak boards we had scraped together over the summer.

I stood on the slate floor of the entryway, the canvas strap of my work bag cutting into my shoulder.

Outside in the driveway, the cold October rain was drumming against the gravel, splashing straight into the drawers of my drafting table.

Grant had pulled the bolts out to get it down the porch stairs.

One of the metal handles lay three feet away in the wet grass.

"Mara," Grant said.

His voice had that calm, contractor’s lilt he used when a homeowner noticed an uneven tile.

The music stopped.

Celeste lifted her hands from the keys, letting them settle into the lap of her gray trousers.

"You're back early," Grant said, crossing the room with his hands in his pockets. "I thought the university panel ran until seven."

"My desk is in the dirt, Grant."

My voice sounded dry.

Grant stopped two paces away, lowering his chin.

"The movers had a cancellation this afternoon, Mara. If we didn't take the truck today, her piano was going to sit on an open loading dock in Louisville."

"It's sitting in the mud," I said. "Water is running through the split in the middle."

"It’s solid wood," he whispered, his fingers catching my sleeve in a grip meant to look gentle to the room. "We’ll carry it into the cellar tomorrow and dry it out. Don't make an entire house of people uncomfortable over an old table."

I looked past him.

Tessa was watching us, her thumbs resting on her phone, her mouth pulled tight.

I pulled my arm back.

I turned around, walked down the front steps, and stepped into the wet grass by the driveway.

The rain soaked through my sweater in two seconds.

I bent down, took hold of the top drawer of the desk, and yanked it toward me.

The wet wood fought the track, but I put my weight into it until the joints gave with a sharp creak.

The drawer was full of my blue layout pencils, my invoice stubs, and Tessa’s high-school track ribbons.

Muddy water poured over my sneakers.

I carried the heavy box of wood up the steps, pushed past Grant at the front door, and walked into the kitchen.

Thud.

I dropped the dripping drawer directly onto the middle of his freshly sealed quartz counter.

Dirty water washed over the edge of Grant’s leather estimate book.

Grant caught up with me, his face tight.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, grabbing a paper towel to block the water. "That stone isn't cured yet, Mara."

"You chose when to throw it out," I told him, wiping rain from my eyelashes with the back of my hand. "I’m choosing when to bring it back in."

Before Grant could answer, Tessa walked into the kitchen.

She was holding an empty wine glass, her cheeks red, looking back and forth between the wet drawer and her father.

"Dad," Tessa said, her voice thin. "Can you come back in the front room for a second? Please?"

Grant blew air through his teeth, gave me one flat, warning look, and walked out.

I stood by the sink, water dripping from my coat onto my socks.

From the front room came the sound of a fork tapping a glass.

Clink. Clink.

"Everyone," Tessa said, her voice carrying down the hall. "Owen and I made up our minds on the way over. We’re not using the hotel."

The room went quiet.

"We want the wedding here," Tessa said. "On Wrenwood Avenue. We’ll put the aisle on the front lawn, facing the porch."

I heard the rustle of Celeste’s sweater as she stood up.

"And for the processional," Tessa added, "I want Mom and Dad at the piano by the open bay windows. I want them to play the song from my middle-school recital while I walk in."

The guests in the parlor broke into quick, warm applause.

Grant’s laugh was loud and clear: "We'll build the arch on the front porch this weekend, kiddo."

I looked down at the puddle spreading across the kitchen counter.

Six weeks ago, Grant had asked me what stain I wanted on the parlor floor.

Now they were picking hymns for a room that had already cleared me out.

Chapter 1

When I came home, my desk was in the rain, and my husband’s ex-wife was playing her piano in my office.

Tessa stood beside the curve of the black wood, holding her phone up to catch the reflection.

"Mom, play that middle part again," she said.

She meant Celeste.

Grant saw me first from the hallway arch.

He set his drink down on the mantel, but he didn't step away from the piano.

Six weeks ago, Grant had used his folding ruler to measure that exact alcove for my bookshelves.

Now the floor was taken up by a six-foot grand, resting on dark felt pads to protect the oak boards we had scraped together over the summer.

I stood on the slate floor of the entryway, the canvas strap of my work bag cutting into my shoulder.

Outside in the driveway, the cold October rain was drumming against the gravel, splashing straight into the drawers of my drafting table.

Grant had pulled the bolts out to get it down the porch stairs.

One of the metal handles lay three feet away in the wet grass.

"Mara," Grant said.

His voice had that calm, contractor’s lilt he used when a homeowner noticed an uneven tile.

The music stopped.

Celeste lifted her hands from the keys, letting them settle into the lap of her gray trousers.

"You're back early," Grant said, crossing the room with his hands in his pockets. "I thought the university panel ran until seven."

"My desk is in the dirt, Grant."

My voice sounded dry.

Grant stopped two paces away, lowering his chin.

"The movers had a cancellation this afternoon, Mara. If we didn't take the truck today, her piano was going to sit on an open loading dock in Louisville."

"It's sitting in the mud," I said. "Water is running through the split in the middle."

I looked past him.

Tessa was watching us, her thumbs resting on her phone, her mouth pulled tight.

I pulled my arm back.

I turned around, walked down the front steps, and stepped into the wet grass by the driveway.

The rain soaked through my sweater in two seconds.

I bent down, took hold of the top drawer of the desk, and yanked it toward me.

The wet wood fought the track, but I put my weight into it until the joints gave with a sharp creak.

The drawer was full of my blue layout pencils, my invoice stubs, and Tessa’s high-school track ribbons.

Muddy water poured over my sneakers.

I carried the heavy box of wood up the steps, pushed past Grant at the front door, and walked into the kitchen.

Thud.

I dropped the dripping drawer directly onto the middle of his freshly sealed quartz counter.

Dirty water washed over the edge of Grant’s leather estimate book.

Grant caught up with me, his face tight.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, grabbing a paper towel to block the water. "That stone isn't cured yet, Mara."

"You chose when to throw it out," I told him, wiping rain from my eyelashes with the back of my hand. "I’m choosing when to bring it back in."

Before Grant could answer, Tessa walked into the kitchen.

She was holding an empty wine glass, her cheeks red, looking back and forth between the wet drawer and her father.

"Dad," Tessa said, her voice thin. "Can you come back in the front room for a second? Please?"

Grant blew air through his teeth, gave me one flat, warning look, and walked out.

I stood by the sink, water dripping from my coat onto my socks.

From the front room came the sound of a fork tapping a glass.

Clink. Clink.

"Everyone," Tessa said, her voice carrying down the hall. "Owen and I made up our minds on the way over. We’re not using the hotel."

The room went quiet.

"We want the wedding here," Tessa said. "On Wrenwood Avenue. We’ll put the aisle on the front lawn, facing the porch."

I heard the rustle of Celeste’s sweater as she stood up.

"And for the processional," Tessa added, "I want Mom and Dad at the piano by the open bay windows. I want them to play the song from my middle-school recital while I walk in."

The guests in the parlor broke into quick, warm applause.

Grant’s laugh was loud and clear: "We'll build the arch on the front porch this weekend, kiddo."

I looked down at the puddle spreading across the kitchen counter.

Six weeks ago, Grant had asked me what stain I wanted on the parlor floor.

Now they were picking hymns for a room that had already cleared me out.