"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the house—but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down."
"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. Shit." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup. "From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too." He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.
"How wonderful to have a baby," she said in a low voice. "Emma—how wonderful."
"She is," Oliver apologized.
"Are you happy?"
"I guess so," he said.
She turned. "Oh, Oliver!" She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future—impossible problems—but they were their problems.
"God, I love you," he said, stepping back.