Page 3 of Baby Maker

Chapter One

Calliope

Twenty months later…

Simon, despite his best efforts, is a liar.

My heart hasn’t healed, and Nigel has been gone for 614 days. Yes, I’m counting. Eventually, I hope to forget how many days he’s been away.

I doubt that day will ever come.

In my best friend’s defense, I am better. I’m not the wallowing widow from a year and a half earlier, unable to leave my husband’s gravesite.

Wounds heal, but time only emphasizes the rough edges of the scars left behind.

Scars that no amount of time can touch. Such is my life, twenty months after it ended.

Yes, I’m still breathing, but that’s about as close as I tread to the world of the living most days.

Still, I have my own minor victories. It only took me three months to put on pants. It was a milestone achievement.

But slowly, over the last million months, I’ve begun adapting to my new normal. I hate that term with a passion. There’s nothing normal about spending your life alone when you planned to spend it with the man of your dreams. It’s not like I kicked Nigel to the curb, eager for an upgrade.

He was my everything. I fell in love with him the first time our eyes locked across the pub, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Less than one second to realize the massive role this man would play in my life.

Even Simon recognized our connection for what it was. True love. Unabashed true love.

That kind of love happens once in a lifetime. Mine was stolen at the age of thirty-five. But my life, if you want to call it that, keeps plodding along.

Sometimes when I search my reflection in the mirror, all I see is a face vaguely resembling someone I once knew. I’m awash with emotions and pain, along with the lingering guilt that Nigel should have survived and I should be the one kicking up daisies.

I’m on anti-depressants. Fairly standard, really, for someone in my situation. I swear that’s how the doctor termed it. I damn near slapped his face to the other side of his head.

There’s nothing standard about my situation. Or my life, at this point. Although, referring to it as a life is a bit of a stretch.

My yoga studio is still open and running, thanks to my employees rising to the challenge and taking over my classes. But there’s murmuring amongst the ranks. I hear it, even though I rarely leave the house.

Is Calliope ever coming back?

It’s been almost two years.

I heard she had a nervous breakdown.

That last one is my favorite. As if watching the love of your life slip from your grasp isn’t an emotional execution. Perhaps I should be thankful? Grateful that my life is once again my own?

After offering up these responses to my stunned and well-intentioned colleagues, I realized I’m not fit for human interaction.

Thank God for the internet. I baby-stepped my way back into my yoga practice nine months ago, feeling a release the moment my feet hit the mat.

The mat is my home, even more so than my house. Far more now that Nigel isn’t here, although his presence pervades every square inch of the place. This house was never my choice, but Nigel adored the quaint colonial, along with all the fun upkeep that comes along with owning a home that was built when George Washington was a child.

I’m exaggerating.

He was a teenager.

But the repairs are endless. I’ve gotten quite handy at several of them. However, I made the fatal error of attempting a plumbing repair on my own. It only took the basement three months to dry out. Now it has this wonderfully musty odor, and I have a $7,500 repair bill. Funny, but home insurance simply won’t cover your own cock-ups. That’s strictly an out-of-pocket expense.

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