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Part 2 — The Date He Was Supposed to Remember

Grant got me into the stockroom because Savannah would not stop asking what was wrong with a Saturday in October. Between bolts of muslin and a stack of gift boxes, he dropped the reasonable voice.

“You filed.”

“Three weeks ago. After the hotel charge you forgot to move.” I kept the booties in my hand so I would have something to hold that was not his sleeve. “Your lawyer was supposed to tell you not to propose, not to transfer anything, and not to set a date before the hearing. October eighteenth. You were served. You signed the green card. I watched the tracking.”

He shut his eyes again, the same gesture as in the boutique, smaller now. “I was going to tell you tonight. Delay it. Savannah doesn’t know about the petition.”

“She knows about a wedding. She announced it in front of a cashier and two women who recognized you from the firm dinner. If your counsel is any good, he is already having a worse afternoon than I am.”

“The baby—”

“Is not a defense to the order. Neither is a diamond.” I looked at the door, where her voice was still bright and getting thinner. “I didn’t come here for a scene. I came for booties for a friend’s shower. You brought the rest.”

When we stepped out, Savannah had one hand on her stomach and the other on the ring, as if both might be taken if she let go. “What about October eighteenth?”

Grant said nothing useful. I did, because silence was how he had gotten this far.

“It’s a hearing. Divorce. Temporary orders. He isn’t free to marry you that day, or any day before a judge says otherwise. The proposal last weekend was a problem before it was a celebration. I’m sorry you heard it like this. I’m not sorry you heard it.”

The smile finally left her. Not for my sake. For the Saturday she had already described to someone. Grant reached for her arm and she stepped back, which was new, and which he felt.

“Claire,” he said, low, “we can still do this privately.”

“We are past privately. You wanted a proper telling. This is the proper one.” I set the booties on the counter and paid for them, because they had never been for her. “October eighteenth, nine-thirty. Your lawyer has the address. Bring the truth you were saving for tonight. Leave the performance here.”

Outside, the street was ordinary. Behind the glass, Savannah was crying in a chocolate-brown dress, and Grant was staring at a date he had treated as decoration. I walked to the car with a pair of cashmere booties that were not his child’s, and a calendar that, for once, belonged to me.