It was said he was good to her, bought her the house of her dreams, taught her how to buy clothes from runway shows in the city, took her to restaurants where meal prices never appeared on her menu. He opened doors for her, stood when she approached or left the table, spoke politely and endearingly to her in public, spoke even more lovingly to her in private.

It was said she enjoyed his old-fashioned chivalry, soaked it up the way a poppy soaked up the sun, delighted in the one-of-a-kind jewelry he had made for her on special occasions and not so special occasions—like her 33^rd and a half birthday, and the completion of her fourth week of tennis lessons, and because the fifth of the month happened to fall on a Wednesday, which happened to be the same day she was born.

It was said his adoration allowed her to blossom, to feel secure enough to go to college and study twelfth century poetry, not that she would ever need a degree, but if graduation made her feel good about herself, he was all for it—even if good-about-herself only meant proving to her parents that she could amount to something.

When she returned from a Thanksgiving visit with her family and told him the trip made her sad, a sadness she wouldn’t talk about, couldn’t talk about, he arranged a surprise sojourn for her to Hawaii. He couldn’t allow her to sink back into the blues, couldn’t allow her to believe she was worthless—a belief she held before she met him. A belief heaped upon her every time she visited her parents.

It was said she couldn’t have children, although he desperately wanted to leave his business to an heir, someone to carry on his family name—everyone knew he had no siblings. He never blamed her for what she called the failure of her body. However she was, his love for her was as constant as the blood flowing through his veins. 

Still, he held the tiniest of hope, that down the road, she would consider adoption, even while he understood that at this delicate stage of her life, she needed to party with friends more than care for a child. But he was a patient man. That patience had allowed him to develop his business from a young boy’s dream into the mature corporation he currently oversaw. That patience had allowed him to succeed while his competitors crumbled. He would wait, and pray for an heir, and content himself with knowing that whatever she needed, he could provide.

His attorney, under his direction, set up an arrangement, a Will of sorts, whereby if no heir came, his young assistant would take his place; his wife, of course, would continue to prosper, to reap the benefits of his toil, the benefits of his sacrifices, the benefits of every heartbeat he poured into his life’s work.

So, when she told him she needed to visit her parents during Christmas and wanted to go alone, as she often did—contending his worldliness and sophisticated manner, no matter how gentle and unassuming, made her parents feel inferior, and when they felt inferior they took out their frustrations on her—he bought her a first class ticket and drove her to the airport himself.           

She called him on Christmas Eve to say she was fine and that she loved him, calling from a number he didn’t recognize and almost didn’t pick up the phone to answer. A restaurant, she said. She had to get out of the house. She’d call again in a few days, she said. Her parents were pressuring her to stay for New Year’s.

He spent those few days at the office, the house too big and lonely without her, hoping she was able to resolve whatever it was she needed to resolve with her family.

A few days passed.

And a few more.

He ate his meals with the telephone on the table, ready to snatch it up with the first ring, finding himself deflated when it was a customer wishing him a Happy New Year. And when, finally, long into the night, he nodded off in his chair, the phone by his right hand, and morning light greeted his opening eyes a few hours later, he forced himself into the kitchen, fixed a breakfast of oatmeal, raisins, and skim milk, and tried to keep worry from interfering with his digestion.

Afterwards, he pretended to read the newspaper, seeing words which made no sense, envisioning all sorts of family upheaval. Screams and accusations. Slammed doors. Car crashes. If something had happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. He should have gone with her, to protect her from harm.

The phone rang and he jumped, relief, like a tsunami, flooding over his body. It was the jeweler. The emerald necklace he’d created was, as promised, finished in time to present to the lucky woman on New Year’s Eve. Would the gentleman care to examine the finished product? Would he prefer to pick it up in person? Or, would he prefer a courier deliver it to his office? Perhaps to his residence?

It was said her father answered the phone when he called. No, she wasn’t there, should they expect her? The whole family would be there for New Year’s Eve, she wouldn’t recognize Little Brian, he’d grown so much since her last visit.   

Why didn’t he come, too? They’d love to see him. He shouldn’t be such a stranger. They were beginning to think he was holding their daughter hostage.

Her father’s warmth chilled him.  

The detective he hired took a mere seventeen hours to trace her to Costa Rica where she’d set up residence with her college professor. He didn’t pursue her, although he spent every unoccupied moment with her in his mind.

He resumed his life, believing no one noticed a change in him, but behind his back, the young assistant corrected careless errors, his barber ignored the sudden increase in gray hair, the maitre de stopped asking if the food displeased him when barely a morsel was eaten. The maitre de, a woman close to his age, took to sitting with him when she was able, and invited him to join her at the theatre.

It was said it took thirteen months to get back to eating a complete meal.

Fourteen months to accept the maitre de’s invitation.

Fifteen months to decide to let his assistant take over the office—Might as well transition now, the maitre de suggested, so you can travel, do what you want while you still have your health.

Sixteen months for him to return the emerald necklace to the jeweler, and that, only after staring at the clear, cool stones for an entire night and reflecting how much they reminded him of his wife’s eyes. 

Seventeen months, seventeen protracted months, for him to admit she had pierced his heart when she left, so that the flow of his life’s blood rushed through the leak and washed away in the current, until his heart drained, drained almost empty. Almost.

Seventeen months.

It was said it took seventeen months for his wife to tire of the professor, or for him to tire of her.

The far corners of her eyes sprouting small lines, skin tanned from living in a one-room bungalow on the beach, having become weary of platanos and mangos and tequila; making love anywhere and everywhere—on the sand, against the boulders, in the thicket of overgrown weeds, under bohios, behind the market,in the car behind cafes, feeling more like a vessel than a cherished treasure; detesting the fleas and mold and the professor’s devotion to poetry; growing offended by the stink of his body, the carelessness of his promises, the unreliability of his word, she appeared at her husband’s door, the lost treasure returned.

Hello, she said, her face brimming with expectation. She hoped she hadn’t made a  mistake, she said, by coming back.

She lowered demure lids over emerald eyes. What could she expect, she said. But based on what they had—

It will take time, she said. Time. And Patience.

Her lips trembled, stretching and retracting as if not sure they should smile, as if they needed his smile to allow hers to unwind. To relax. To grow.

She twisted the hem of her white shirt. The white shirt—an old-fashioned empire—gathered under full breasts. Wrinkled white slacks told the story of her long journey.

Her extended belly added the final chapter. 

He stood with one hand on the door knob, the other on the door frame, and shifted his gaze from her belly to the space beyond her, a space full of light.

I’m sorry, she said and touched his arm, lightly, a feather’s kiss.

His gaze returned to the vision standing there before him, offering a future, a patch for the gash in his heart.

Who’s there? the maitre de called from inside the house.

An answer flashed across his mind, an answer too cruel and distasteful to say: A beggar. The ungentlemanly thought shamed him. He could say, My wife, a fact that still held true, and the maitre de would understand, but the words stopped somewhere in his throat and he no longer had the heart to force them to life.

She rested her hands on the child growing within her. The heir he could adopt.

A pain pricked his chest, and he lifted his gaze up to the sun—the source of all life, it was said. A magnificent sun. Glaring white, its borders hazy against the milk-white sky.

His eyes blurred. Water gathered along his bottom lids.

Hon, who is it? the voice inside the house asked.

It’s . . . It’s . . . He cleared his throat and started again, I don’t know.

And with that, it was said, he nodded once—a small, discreet nod—and closed the door.

– Marjorie Brody

Note: This piece was first published in the inaugural edition of the Short Story America Anthology (2011).