Used-To-Be Lovers. Linda Miller Lael

started biting. Bri caught two, Matt reeled in a couple more, and then it was time for lunch.

      The telephone rang as Sharon was preparing sandwiches and heating canned soup.

      “It’s Gramma!” Matt shouted from the front room.

      “Tell her your dad isn’t here,” Sharon replied pleasantly.

      “She wants to talk to you.”

      Sharon pushed the soup to a different burner, wiped her hands on a dish towel and went staunchly to the telephone. “Hello,” she said in sunny tones.

      “Hello, Sharon,” Maria responded, and there was nothing in her voice that should have made her difficult to talk to.

      All the same, for Sharon, she was. “Is there something I can help you with?”

      “Michael’s birthday is next week,” Maria said. She was referring to her youngest son; Tony was close to him and so were the kids.

      Sharon had forgotten the occasion. “Yes,” she agreed heartily.

      “We’re having a party, as usual,” Maria went on. “Of course, Vincent and I would like the children to be there.”

      Sharon’s smile was rigid; her face felt like part of a totem pole. She wondered why she felt called upon to smile when Maria obviously couldn’t see her.

      A few hasty calculations indicated that Bri and Matt would have been with Tony on Michael’s birthday anyway. “No problem,” Sharon said generously.

      There was a pause, and then Maria asked, “How are you, dear? Vincent and I were just saying that we never see you anymore.”

      Sharon rubbed her eyes with a thumb and a forefinger, suppressing an urge to sigh. She regarded Vincent as a friend—he was a gentle, easygoing man—but with Maria it seemed so important to say and do the right things. Always. “I-I’m fine, thanks. I’ve been busy with the shop,” she responded at last. “How are you?”

      Maria’s voice had acquired a cool edge. “Very well, actually. I’ll just let you get back to whatever it was that you were doing, Sharon. Might I say hello to Bri, though?”

      “Certainly,” Sharon replied, relieved to hold the receiver out to the girl, who had been cleaning fish on the back porch. “Your grandmother would like to speak with you, Briana.”

      Bri hastened to the sink and washed her hands, then reached eagerly for the receiver. The depth of affection this family bore for its members never failed to amaze Sharon, or to remind her that she was an outsider. Even during the happiest years she and Tony had shared, she’d always felt like a Johnny-come-lately.

      “Hi, Gramma!” Bri cried, beaming. “I caught two fish and the floors got all flooded and this morning I thought things were okay between Dad and Mom because they slept together….”

      Mortified, Sharon turned away to hide her flaming face. Oh, Bri, she groaned inwardly, of all the people you could have said that to, why did it have to be Maria?

      “Right,” Briana went on, as her words became clear again. “We’re having—” she craned her neck to peer into the pan on the stove “—chicken noodle soup. Yeah, from a can.”

      Sharon shook her head.

      “Listen, Gramma, there’s something I need to know.”

      An awful premonition came over Sharon; she whirled to give Bri a warning look, but it was too late.

      “Was my mother pregnant when she married my dad?”

      “Oh, God,” Sharon moaned, shoving one hand into her hair.

      Bri was listening carefully. “Okay, I will,” she said at last in perfectly ordinary tones. “I love you, too. Bye.”

      Sharon searched the beautiful, earnest young face for signs of trauma and found none. “Well,” she finally said, as Bri brought in the fish but left the mess on the porch, “what did she say?”

      “The same thing you did,” Briana responded with a shrug. “I’m supposed to ask Dad.”

      Sharon allowed her face to reveal nothing, though Tony had long since told her about his tempestuous affair with Carmen and the hasty marriage that had followed. She had always imagined that relationship as a grand passion, romantic and beautiful and, of course, tragic. It was one of those stories that would have been wonderful if it hadn’t involved real people with real feelings. She turned back to the soup, ladling it into bowls.

      “I guess I could call him.”

      Sharon closed her eyes for a moment. “Bri, I think this is something that would be better discussed in person, don’t you?”

      “You know something!” the girl accused, coming inside and shutting the door.

      “Wash your hands again, please,” Sharon hedged.

      “Dad told you, didn’t he?” Briana asked, though she obediently went to the sink to lather her hands with soap.

      Sharon felt cornered, and for a second or two she truly resented Bri, as well as Carmen and Tony. “Will you tell me one thing?” she demanded a little sharply, as Matt crept into the kitchen, his eyes wide. “Why didn’t this burning desire to know strike you a few hours ago, when your father was still here?”

      Briana was silent, looking down at the floor.

      “That’s what I thought.” Sharon sighed. “Listen, if it’s too hard for you to bring this up with your dad, and you feel like you need a little moral support, I’ll help. Okay?”

      Bri nodded.

      That afternoon the clouds rolled back in and the rain started again. Once more, the power went out. Sharon and the kids played Parcheesi as long as the light held up, then roasted hot dogs in the fireplace. The evening lacked the note of festivity that had marked the one preceding it, despite Sharon’s efforts, and she was almost relieved when bedtime came.

      Almost, but not quite. The master bedroom, and the bed itself, bore the intangible but distinct impression Tony seemed to leave behind him wherever he went. When Sharon retired after brushing her teeth and washing her face in cold water, she huddled on her side of the bed, miserable.

      Sleep was a long time coming, and when it arrived, it was fraught with dreams. Sharon was back at her wedding, wearing the flowing white dress she had bought with her entire savings, her arm linked with Tony’s.

      “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” the minister asked.

      Before Sharon could answer, Carmen appeared, also wearing a wedding gown, at Tony’s other side. “I do,” Carmen responded, and Sharon felt herself fading away like one of TV’s high-tech ghosts.

      She awakened with a cruel start, the covers bunched in her hands, and sank back to her pillows only after spending several moments groping for reality. It didn’t help that the lamp wouldn’t work, that rain was beating at the roof and the windows, that she was so very alone.

      The following day was better; the storm blew over and the electricity stayed on. Sharon made sure she had a book on hand that night in case her dreams grew uninhabitable.

      As it happened, Carmen didn’t haunt her sleep again, but neither did Tony. Sharon awakened feeling restless and confused, and it was almost a relief to lock up the A-frame and drive away early that afternoon.

      The big Tudor house was empty when they reached it; Mrs. Harry had done her work and gone home, and there was no sign of Tony. The little red light on the answering machine, hooked up to the telephone in the den, was blinking rapidly.

      Sharon was tempted to ignore it, but in the end she rewound the tape and pushed the Play button. Tony’s voice filled the room. “Hi, babe. I’m glad you’re home. According to Mama mia, I need to have a talk with Bri—I’ll take care of that after dinner tonight, so don’t worry about it. See you later.” The tape was