Free What We Hold In Our Hands by Kim Aubrey Page A

Katya’s paintings made Barry’s eyes light up. Liz did used to say that André was old-fashioned. When they were dating, she had seemed to like that about him, liked how he’d worn a tie when he took her out to dinner, and opened the car door for her. But sometime during their marriage, it had become a deficit, a sticking point.
    Braden said, “We’re singing a song for Remember Day in the gym. Can you and Mommy come watch me?”
    â€œSorry, Bradie, I have to work.”
    â€œCan you ask Mommy?”
    â€œI guess so.” A brief spasm shot through his chest, a mere twinge of what he’d feel if he phoned Liz. Even if he called her, she might not show up, too busy with her new job in acquisitions, paying ridiculous sums of money for paintings that looked like nothing at all. There’d been a picture of one in the paper yesterday—a plain blue canvas with a snaking yellow line. The brashness of it had made his eyes itch. Katya’s paintings had an abstract quality, but they always suggested something real.
    He grabbed hold of Braden’s hand, gently squeezing it. “I wish I could be there to hear your class sing.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Mommy will come.”
    â€œShe may be busy.” She didn’t see enough of Braden, but the little she did was too much for André. He begrudged her any part of the comforting burden of their son’s love.
    â€œGoodnight.” He kissed Braden’s forehead, and turned off the light.
    With the dark came panic like a rush of water into his lungs. He had to breathe slowly and deeply to make it recede. Tomorrow he’d talk to Liz. Right now he wanted to fall into bed and forget. He heard the kettle hiss. Bridget was off the phone, making herself a hot drink. He’d tell her she had to smarten up if she wanted to stay. But when he entered the kitchen, she was washing the dishes.
    â€œDo you want some tea?” she asked, her face flushed and smiling, as if she’d been on the phone with a boyfriend.
    â€œNo thanks. Braden and I had hot chocolate.”
    Even the back of her neck where it met her shoulders was pink. He remembered kissing Liz in that exact spot while she stood stirring cake batter. He’d felt her muscles move under his lips as she leaned back against him.
    Bridget was wearing a T -shirt and flannel pyjama pants. He wanted to stand close behind her, to lift the T -shirt off over her head. But she was nineteen, exactly half his age, and Braden’s nanny. He felt nauseous with fatigue and confusion. If only he’d worked up the nerve to ask Katya out.
    â€œGoodnight.” He headed for the stairs, rubbing his neck.
    André didn’t mind the morning drive. He listened to the all-news channel, and reviewed his schedule for the day. But his drive home that night killed him. As his Jeep crawled along the highway, his bones aching, he kicked the day around in his head. There’d been a client’s complaints, a hint from the senior partner that he wasn’t clocking enough hours, a co-worker’s snide remark about his choice of tie: “Wife pick that one out for you, Andy?” Had that been deliberate cruelty? Did the man realize that André no longer had a wife?
    â€œYou hate it there,” Liz would have told him. “When are you going to start your own practice like you’re always saying?” He’d put off phoning her all day. He’d have to call tonight. After dinner. He hoped Bridget had remembered to cook the fresh salmon he’d bought at the market.
    When he opened the door, Bridget was sprawled across the sofa, reading a novel, while Braden sat inches from the blaring television. He wondered what Katya was doing right now, tried to picture her relaxing after work in soft, old jeans like the ones Liz used to wear, but he couldn’t envision her surroundings, and realized he knew nothing about her life outside of class.
    â€œTurn that