Chapter 2

I had only been to Rocheston Bay once before.

Three years ago, right after we received the keys, I had stood in the living room with the floor plan in my hands, excitedly discussing renovation ideas with Christian.

Now, as I stepped inside, I barely recognized the place.

Tamara handed me a pair of slippers. "Make yourself at home. I'll turn on the lights first."

She moved through the apartment with practiced ease, switching on lights, drawing back curtains, and scooping a pile of clothes off the couch before carrying them into the bedroom.

I remained in the living room.

The door to the small room by the window stood open. Inside were an easel, paints, and an entire row of storage cabinets.

Tamara noticed my gaze and smiled. "That's my studio. I didn't even ask for it. Chris kept complaining that I always painted at the dining table and got paint everywhere, so he cleared out a whole room just for me."

Three years ago, I had liked that room too. My studio was just getting off the ground back then, and I had mentioned that I might occasionally edit footage at home.

Christian had dismissed the idea without a second thought. "Home is for resting. Don't bring work into it."

I never brought it up again.

Tamara had already made her way over to the photo wall. She waved me over. "Nat, can you take a look? Which angle do you think works best?"

Photos covered the wall from edge to edge: their first trip together, birthdays, New Year's celebrations, moving day, and the day Fortune first came home.

I raised my camera and slowly panned from left to right.

Two years of memories were pinned to the wall piece by piece.

Tamara pointed to one of the photos and laughed. "This one's from our first day here. The place was such a mess you could barely find a spot to stand."

A date was written in the corner. April of last year.

That same week, Christian had told me the company was under lockdown to finish a project and asked me not to come by.

I had dropped off fresh clothes for him twice. Both times, his assistant had come downstairs to collect them.

As it turned out, Christian hadn't been staying at the office at all.

I lowered my camera slightly. "This one's good. Keep it."

Tamara had just reached for the photo when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and answered with a smile.

"Hey, I'm home."

My grip on the camera tightened for a moment.

I knew the voice on the other end of the line almost better than my own.

"Did you drink the soup? I brought it over specially this afternoon. Don't leave it in the fridge and forget about it again."

Tamara glanced toward the kitchen.

An insulated container sat on the counter, with a sticky note still attached to the lid: [Drink it while it's hot.]

I recognized his mother's handwriting too.

Tamara laughed into the phone. "I drank it, I drank it. You worry more than my own mom does."

A laugh came from the other end. "I only worry because you have a sensitive stomach. Come over for dinner with Chris this weekend. His dad hasn't stopped talking about the snacks you brought last time."

Tamara chatted with her a little longer before hanging up.

She caught me watching her and looked slightly embarrassed. "Chris' mom is really sweet. We'd barely been together when he brought me home to meet her."

I said nothing.

Just a week ago, his mother had called me herself to tell me not to pressure Christian about marriage.

"Natalie, you have to understand him. He's at a critical point in his career. You've already waited eight years. A little longer won't hurt," she had claimed.

So it wasn't that she didn't care about her son's marriage. It was simply that I had never been the daughter-in-law she wanted.

Tamara seemed oblivious to my reaction and continued chatting. "That's just how she is. Every time she comes over, she tries to fill the entire fridge."

She opened a cabinet to look for a picture frame while I followed her, taking a few more shots of the living room along the way.

As I panned the camera toward the entryway, I spotted a cardboard box against the wall.