“Smart.”
“Also—” She lifts her left hand, displaying a simple gold band. “From my pretend husband. Oh, and…”
She taps her phone, awakening the lock screen to display a photo of a man with a wholesome catalogue-model grin. He stands in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, an ax resting over onebroad shoulder. On his left, a pile of firewood, on the right, a brown Labrador.
“Hubby,” she says.
I twist the phone upside down to view the picture. He looks a bit like me—dark hair with some gray, over forty, tall.
The screen darkens. I slide the phone back toward Natalia. “You have a type.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Did I say the type might beme, kleine Hexe?”
She frowns, her nostrils flaring, then tucks the phone into her purse. As she reaches again for her butter knife, I intercept her left hand, curling her fingers over my own and surveying the little “wedding ring.”
“Hmm, your imaginary husband must be a pauper. You deserve far better.”
She gives me a sardonic look. “Yeah, well. Not a ton of money in lumberjacking.”
I skim a thumb across her knuckles, then release her fingers. There is the briefest pause before her hand slips from mine, as if she too is grieved to break our contact.
“Who is it—in the photo?” I can’t help asking.
She chews and swallows the bite of bread in her mouth. “Some random guy I found on Google images. I’ve named him Ethan. He kinda looks like one, don’t you think?”
“I’ll trust you on that. You’re the writer.” I take another piece of bread and tear it in half before folding and dipping it. “I suppose you’ve dreamed up a full history.”
“Oh, heck yeah. You know me.”
After saying it, Natalia freezes momentarily with her handen route to the artichoke dip. She meets my eye as if to check whether I’ll offer a comeback. In truth, we know each other both quite intimately at this point and… not at all.
I register the faint pink of her blush and give her an out while focusing on the food. “Tell me about Ethan. I love a good story, and after your confession in Melbourne—how you enjoy watching and imagining the lives of strangers—I have every confidence you’ve generated a creative narrative for your beloved husband.”
She finishes the last inch of her wine. “We’ve been married six years. He got me Sparky—that’s the dog—as a puppy for our first anniversary. He went to college for three years because he was planning to be an architect, but his father got sick and Ethan had to drop out and go back home to rural Oregon to take over the family lumber business.”
Hearing Natalia’s mention of the sick father, I wonder if Phaedra has told her about Edward’s headaches or his trip to Switzerland to see a specialist. But Natalia’s mood is so light, spinning her little fiction, that I can’t imagine she’s borrowed a sorrowful detail from her friend’s life.
“We got married in front of the old sawmill. Super rustic. Charming.”
“Indeed,” I agree.
“The wedding cake was a zucchini cake, decorated with wildflowers.”
I emit a surprised half-laugh and nearly choke on a bite of food. “Isn’t that… it’s a vegetable, yes? A courgette?” At Natalia’s nod, I ask, “Do people make this intocakes, truly?”
“Good lord, you’ve never had zucchini cake?”
“Thankfully not. Though I enjoy steamed courgette with fish.”
Natalia rolls her eyes. “You would. So healthy.”
She plucks up the last baguette slice and surprises me by flipping it lightly at me, discus style. I catch it easily and tear it in two, offering half to her.
We each eat a final bite of bread and dip. Tired as I was an hour ago, I now feel almost radiant with energy. A thought arises:This is what it was like to remove your armor—do you remember?A needle of guilt over the small disloyalty to Sofia pierces me. My smile falters for a moment before I rally.
“What else?” I prompt Natalia. “Where was the honeymoon?”
