Free Crazy Love You by Lisa Unger Page A

was a fire in the fireplace; her mother’s amateur oil paintings on the wall. And we talked—like, really talked—about life and the world, and current events. There was zero bickering, no arguing. There were no lashes of anger, subtle trading of insults. They liked one another—husband and wife, parent and child. Megan’s father asked about my work, my process, the union of art and story. I found myself waiting for someone to get impatient, to say something crappy. But no, nothing. There was one light nudge from Megan’s mom about when Meg might think about moving on from her nanny job and “get more serious” about her writing. Megan still hadn’t let me read her novel, but I knew it had to be good. She had a writer’s soul—she was a compassionate observer, a careful, gentle person, a beautiful spirit who saw a reflection of that beauty in everything around her—even me.
    â€œIt’s a good job for me right now,” she said to her mom, without a touch of defensiveness. “I can write when Toby naps and at night. You don’t want me to move home, do you?”
    Her mom smiled. She was a stunner like her daughter—dark hair, fair skin, a kind of radiance that was more than the sum of her features. She wasn’t someone you’d hit on, exactly. But Julia was someone you would admire, like a painting or a sculpture.
    â€œI’d love it if you moved home,” Julia said. And anyone could see that she meant it, in a kind of girlish, let’s-have-a-slumber-party way.
    â€œBut that’s not the way you raised me, is it?” Megan lifted a glass to her mom, gave her a mischievous grin.
    A mock sigh. “I suppose not. See, Ian, when you raise a strong, independent child to honor her own ideas—that’s what you get.”
    â€œBesides,” said Megan. “Toby makes me a better person—more loving, more patient, more forgiving. And I think those things make me a better writer.”
    â€œJust wait till you have one of your own,” said her mother. She laid a hand on her daughter’s and the moment was almost too sweet to be real.
    My inner skeptic railed and raged inside. No one’s family is like this! he said. It’s an act! My own family, even at the best of times, had been the exact opposite of this one. I suppressed the urge to do something horrible, like knock over a glass, just to see how they all reacted. Would anger flash across Julia’s face, or annoyance across Binky’s? Would Megan rush to clean it up, worried that the peace had been disturbed? Would a thousand little fissures be revealed? Truth dwelled in the first moment of surprise. It had a way of pulling back the curtains. But I behaved. I didn’t want to break the spell.
    â€œMom,” said Megan, blushing. She cast her eyes down, pushed some gnocchi around her plate.
    â€œNo rush, dear,” said Julia. “I’m just saying.”
    Julia was a real woman, with a full, lush body and thick tresses. There was just enough gray—slivers of white throughout—to know the color, still rich in tone and natural highlights, was natural. She ran a hand down the back of Megan’s hair, a gentle, loving gesture. No clinging subtext, no nitpicking or teasing.
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    Megan and I cleared the table and did the dishes together. It was easy—easy to be with her, easy to be with them. As I was rinsing the dishes, the red of the sauce mingling with the orange of the squash and the pearl white of the soap bubbles in a beautiful gory swirl, Megan came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my middle, resting her head against my back.
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor being here,” she said. “It means something to me.”
    â€œTo me, too,” I said. I turned around and took her into my arms; she rested against me. Megan did a lot of hugging, a lot of