Free I Knew You'd Be Lovely by Alethea Black

they’d never refurnished the nursery. Janet’s therapist had advised her to make room for a child in her life, to visualize and prepare, to attract success by assuming success. So Felix had refinished an old mahogany sleigh crib that had been his father’s, and Janet had bought onesies, baby-björns, and a rocking-chair’s worth of stuffed bunnies, lambs, and giraffes at stores with names like Babycakes and Little One. They’d even had a local artist decorate the walls with scenes from their favorite nursery rhymes in low-fume paints. On one wall stood a little match girl whose hair and tiny flame were the same color as the whorls of stars on the ceiling—a silvery butter. In the end, neither of them had had the heart to take it all away, paint over the stars. So they just kept the door closed, à la Miss Havisham.
    She was unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands dropped to his belt. The cheerful speediness of her movements stilled and excited him. He kissed her forehead as she worked off his shoes. He hadn’t seen her like this in a long time. Maybe it was the wine; he made a mental note to ask the host for the vintage.
    Afterward, she curled away on her side of the bed, the sheet up to her chin. He moved over and put his hands on her shoulders. They were quavering.
    â€œJanet,” he said.
    She kept sobbing. “I’m sorry,” she said, without turning around. Her voice sounded strange and faraway.
    He took his hands off her. “For what?” he said.
    â€œI was reading this book and it said: ‘When you don’t forgive someone, it’s like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.’ ” She wiped her nose with the sheet. “But what if the person you can’t forgive is yourself?”
    He exhaled. For a second he’d thought he was about to hear her confess to an affair, potentially ending his marriage and his premonitions in the same breath. Instead it was just the old pain, rearing its graying head. Their pain was aging along with them.
    â€œThen forgive yourself,” he said.
    She reached for a Kleenex. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
    â€œSure it is,” he said, taking her hands. “I, Felix, forgive thee, Janet.” He waited. “Now it’s your turn to forgive you.”
    â€œYou know I hate it when you get like this,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice.
    He pulled her hands behind her back. “Say it,” he said. “Like you mean it. Or I’ll keep you as my prisoner forever.”
    She started to speak, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her eyes filled again. He felt her body go limp. Then, a moment later, she did it.
    â€œI forgive you, Janet,” she said quietly, barely breathing the words.
    He drew her into an embrace. “You can still be my prisoner,” he said into her hair. Then he released her andlooked at her seriously. “We need to redo the nursery,” he said.
    Things were good between them for the next few weeks. But Felix had a secret, and Janet was catching on. Why was he keeping a tape recorder under his pillow at night? How come he kept calling in sick to work when he wasn’t really sick? What was making him so edgy? He told her the tape recorder was in case something came to him in a dream. Janet laughed. As if the illogic of dreams were worth remembering. He explained that work had become stressful and boring—if it was possible to be stressful and boring at the same time—and that his stomach really had been bothering him. Janet looked him over and said she knew what he needed. He needed a vacation.
    The plan was to go snorkeling off San Diego, stay in a bed-and-breakfast, eat clam shooters and drink white wine, sleep till noon. It was not as relaxing as it sounds. It was bad enough to be on an airplane when you felt Something Big was about to happen, but the baritone in the row behind them was some sort of amateur