Waiting For Ethan

MEETING ETHAN

“What's your name?”

“Ethan.”

In all the ways I have fantasized about meeting Ethan, it was never like this. I thought I would recognize him instantly. I imagined him shorter. I pictured his hair darker, his features more chiseled, his teeth white, straight, and evenly spaced. We'd both be dressed elegantly, certainly not wearing old sweatshirts and baseball caps. I never imagined we'd be breathing in the greasy fumes of bacon or the sugary scent of syrup. I assumed I'd be sipping Chianti or champagne, not slurping hot chocolate. Sometimes I even envisioned fireworks in the distance exploding in a star-filled sky, not sand trucks whizzing by a diner window on a dismal gray day.

I never figured out exactly what I would say, but I knew it would be something corny like “I knew you would come” or “You were worth the wait.” And he wouldn't think it was weird. He'd know exactly what I was talking about.

Here in the actual moment, though, I just stare across the table and try to repeat his name, but it gets stuck in my throat.

“Let me guess. Your ex-boyfriend's name is Ethan?”

Not my ex-boyfriend. My future husband. For just a moment, I consider saying it aloud, telling him about Ajee and her prediction, but then I imagine him sprinting for the exit before I can get all the words out.

“It's my favorite name,” I finally say.

Waiting for Ethan

Diane Barnes

LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book began as a challenge to participate in National Novel Writing Month and has since gone through several iterations. I might not have started it if Julie Peterson hadn't encouraged me to participate. Thank you, Julie, and thanks to everyone who has read part of any version.

 

I must express special gratitude to Alan Hurvitz, who offered constant support through every draft. Heartfelt thanks also to my writing group at the Hudson library, especially Tiana, Neville, Martha, Amanda and Steve. You helped me maintain my confidence throughout the entire process.

 

My instructors at Grub Street, Lisa Borders, Michelle Hoover and Stuart Horwitz, as well as fellow workshop participants asked key questions early on that helped me work out the story. A huge thank you to Laurel King and my classmates at the Worcester Art Museum who were ambitious enough to read an entire draft and provide valuable feedback.

 

As I was writing this novel, I had the great fortune to attend a writing workshop taught by Elizabeth Berg. In addition to meeting my literary idol Elizabeth, I met seven other extraordinary women who made me feel like a rock star every time they critiqued my work. Thank you Ann, Barb, Celia, Carol, Lynda, Molly and Vicki.

 

Susan Timmerman, thanks for letting me run ideas by you on our walks and for your never-wavering interest in my characters and story. Tricia Brown, thanks for lending your keen eye.

 

To my agent Liza Fleissig, THANK YOU for helping make my dream come true, but more than that, I really appreciate how responsive and kind you've been through the entire process, even before you read my manuscript and decided to represent me. To the readers at Liza Royce Agency, thank you for liking my manuscript enough to bring it to Liza's attention.

 

Finally, thanks to my family, the one I was lucky enough to be born into and the one I was smart enough to marry into. I am grateful for your support throughout the process and your understanding every time I said, “I can't today. I'm writing.”

2012

“N
eesha Patel's grandmother ruined your life.” That's what my mother says when I point out the obituary. She mutters to herself in Italian, glances at the picture in the newspaper, and then goes right back to making the list of things she wants me to check on when she and my father make their annual exodus to Florida later that day. I slide closer to her on the couch and begin reading the article out loud:

At the mention of the great-grandchildren, my mother looks up from her notepad and frowns. Finally, I think, she's going to show some sympathy for the Patels. I even think I see tears in her eyes. “It sounds like both Sanjit and Neesha have children.” I nod, trying to picture my old friend with kids, but all I can see is a lanky fourteen-year-old girl with a long dark ponytail and a mouthful of wires. “Their grandmother is the reason I'll never have grandchildren of my own.” Although her words sting, they don't shock me. I am thirty-six and single. My mother long ago abandoned all hope of me ever getting married and having a family, and for this she blames the deceased, a woman I haven't seen since I was fourteen.

“What's going on in here? You're supposed to be packing.” My father appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a golf shirt and holding the driver I gave him for Christmas two weeks before. He can't get to Florida fast enough to start playing again.

“Neesha Patel's grandmother died.”

My father raises his eyebrows. “Recently?”

“Last week.”

“She must have been well over a hundred. She was ancient when she lived here.”

“The paper says she was ninety-two.”

My father rubs his chin. “That means she was only sixty-nine or seventy when they moved to Texas?”

“Right, Dad. Your age. Ancient.”

“I'm only sixty-seven, Gina, and I feel like I'm twenty.” He steps away from the stairs and takes a halfhearted swing with his golf club. “It's being active that keeps me so young.” He winks. “May I?” He points at the paper, so I hand it to him.

My mother sighs. “Why did they even bother to publish her obituary in the Westham paper? They haven't lived here for almost twenty-five years. People don't remember her.”

I glare at my mother. “Mom, everyone remembers Ajee. She was a hero in this town.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “She was a nosy old woman, Gina. That's all.”

I stand and walk to the living room window. The Patels' old house is directly across the street. The Murphys live there now, but someday Neesha will be back. Her grandmother said so. She said it the same day she told me I would marry a man named Ethan.

 

As we load the last of the suitcases into my parents' car, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy make their way across the street. My father mutters something incomprehensible under his breath. Mr. Murphy makes a beeline up the driveway and heads straight to me. “Gina.” He hugs me tightly as if he hasn't seen me in ages. “Are you still on the market?” I nod. “What's wrong with young men today? If I were just a few years younger ... But don't you worry. Every pot has a lid.” He passes on similar pearls of wisdom every time I see him, which is about once a week when I visit my parents.

Mrs. Murphy follows about four steps behind her husband and zeroes in on my mother. She waves a picture in the air above her head. “I just have to show you my grandson before you leave, Angela.” She reaches the passenger door where my mother is standing and hands her a snapshot of a newborn baby. “Born yesterday. Isn't he beautiful?”

My mother looks at me pointedly, and I feel my stomach begin a gymnastic act. How is it possible that Kelli Murphy, the seven-year-old sniveler I babysat for, is a wife and parent, while I'm not only single but haven't had a meaningful date in the last three years?

My mother turns her attention to the photo and then smiles at Mrs. Murphy. My father looks at his watch. He wants to be in Virginia in bed by 10 p.m. because he has a 7:30 tee time tomorrow morning.

“He's a big boy,” Mrs. Murphy says. “Nine pounds, six ounces.”

“He's beautiful,” my mother says.

“He looks like me,” Mr. Murphy adds. “Spitting image.”

My mother laughs. My father opens the driver's side door.

“They named him Ethan.” By the look on my mother's face, you would think Mr. Murphy just said his grandson was named after Bin Laden.

“That's a great name,” I say. My mother won't make eye contact with me.

“It's an old name that's come back around,” Mrs. Murphy says.

My father leans into the car, puts the keys into the ignition, and starts the engine.

“We have to get going,” my mother says. “Congratulations on your grandson.”

The Murphys wobble back down the driveway, and my dad jumps into the driver's seat. My mother hugs me. “Strange we should hear that name on the same day we learn of Ajee's death,” she says. But I don't think it's strange at all. It's a sign from Ajee.
Don't worry
, she's saying.
Your Ethan will be here soon.

As the car starts to pull out of the driveway, my mother opens her window. “Gina, if some nice man asks you out this winter, promise me you'll say yes, no matter what his name is.”