“Are you happy?” I asked him once.
The question caught him off guard.
He examined his watch before answering.
“I’m successful.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
For a moment I saw the younger man I had married, the one who used to draw ridiculous floor plans on restaurant napkins and promise we would grow old someplace with a view of the sea.Then he looked away.
When we landed in Charlotte, he walked behind me through the crowded concourse, still speaking about how different my life must be without the Whitcomb name.
I checked my messages.
Priya had sent a photo of three identical raincoats draped over the back seat of her car.
I knew the girls would run when they saw me.
They always did.
I had arranged for Priya to keep them near the baggage claim, where the open space made it easier for little legs to find their way.We reached the arrivals hall together.
