Free Covet by Tracey Garvis Graves Page B

sip of my coffee.
    “It’s so cute,” she said. “Josh looks great, too,” she added.
    “Yes, they both look wonderful,” Bridget agreed.
    After a flurry of final kisses and hugs, the kids boarded the bus when it pulled up at the curb, and we waved good-bye, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The men scattered and I stood there with Elisa and Bridget for a few more minutes, talking about all the things we planned to get caught up on now that school was back in session.
    When I walked back into the house Chris was standing in front of the living room window. He turned slowly when he heard me come into the room. “Are discount stores all we can afford now?” he asked, unable to look me in the eye.
    “There’s nothing wrong with T.J.Maxx. The kids’ outfits are just as nice as anything I’ve bought at Gymboree or Gap, and I paid a heck of a lot less for them. We’re still recovering from a recession. Everyone is cutting back and if they’re not, they should be. We have nothing to prove to anyone.” I took a few steps toward him, but he turned away. “The reality is that your severance and my earnings won’t be enough to keep us afloat indefinitely. I’m just being cautious. That’s all.”
    “Believe me, Claire. No one is more aware of our reality than I am. I’m the one who’s carrying the full weight of it on my shoulders.”
    “It’s not just your weight to bear. It’s mine, too.”
    “It really isn’t,” he said. He left the room and walked slowly into the office, closing the door behind him.
    In all the years we’d been together, I’d never experienced anything quite as heartbreaking as watching the lights of my golden boy fade.



15
    claire
    The doorbell rings while I’m cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. I finally squeezed in a shower after I fed the kids and my hair is wet and combed back. I don’t have any makeup on, I’m naked under my old, pink bathrobe, the one I can’t seem to part with, and I’m not crazy about answering the door in my current state of undress. Why can’t anyone drop by my house when I’m presentable? I glance out the back window. Josh and Jordan are playing with Bridget’s boys and they look like they’re having a good time, so I don’t bother calling one of them in to help me out. The bell chimes again. It’s probably a neighborhood child or someone trying to sell something, so I decide to answer it myself and send them on their way. But when I open the door what I’m not expecting is for Daniel Rush to be standing there in his police uniform. Mortified, I pull the sash on my robe tighter and stutter out a greeting. “Hi.”
    “Hi,” he says, smiling. “I just wanted to let you know that they’ve brought your speed limit sign.”
    “Right now?” I guess it’s true what they say: It’s not what you know, but whom. It’s been less than a week since I spoke to him at the Fourth of July parade, and I wonder what kind of effort he had to exert to move us to the top of the list so fast.
    There are two squad cars parked on the street. I look beyond Daniel and watch as an officer unhooks a trailer—on which the sign is mounted—and wheels it into position. I’m not sure of the protocol for this kind of service; it seems rude to just say thanks and shut the door, especially after he’s gone to the trouble to help us. But I can’t stand here in my bathrobe another minute. It feels all weird and desperate housewifey. Opening the door wider, I say, “Please, come in.” He steps over the threshold. “Could you excuse me for a second?” I ask.
    He nods. “Sure.”
    I run upstairs, flinging off the robe as soon as I reach the bedroom. I’d planned on putting on my pajamas after I cleaned up the kitchen, but I rifle through the laundry basket of clean clothes sitting just inside the door until I find a tank top and some shorts. I step into a pair of underwear and once I’m fully dressed, I walk back downstairs where