There was a distinct glint in Robert’s eye. I hadn’t seen it for a while. “But Neva—”

“—won’t be here for forty-five minutes.”

I hesitated, but only for a millisecond.

We could always make more pasta.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, I lay partially naked in my husband’s arms. The sex had been perfunctory and unimaginative, but I fought my inclination to be disappointed. Robert was making an effort. He’d made dinner. He’d invited Neva over. He’d initiated sex for the first time in God knows how long. And given the horrible time he was having at work, the least I could do was pretend to have enjoyed it.

In the corner of the room, a large canvas leaned against the wall, drying. A blend of reds, blues, and purples—an abstract piece, in theory. But who was I kidding? It was so obviously a vagina that as I looked at it, I actually blushed. Had I left it there as a message to Robert? Here I am, a woman with needs. Make love to me before I explode? Was that how things were now?

Before we got married, sex had been our strong suit. Not that I blamed marriage. Marriage changed things, but not in the way I’d expected. I hadn’t considered myself the marrying type, thinking it was a foolish ritual for people who required material security. I thought it would make me feel trapped. But it didn’t. In fact, with Robert’s surname where mine used to be, I felt invincible. Where I once had weaknesses, I now had Robert, the perfect yin to my yang. I’d always been excellent at anecdotes, but until Robert came along, they often fell flat when people wanted supporting “evidence” or worse, “studies.” With Robert by my side, he’d unobtrusively fill in the gaps in my arguments with “evidence,” shutting up all the naysayers with his gentle, authoritative tone. And afterwards, as we lay in each other’s arms on the sofa or the kitchen floor or wherever it was that had taken our fancy that night, we’d drink wine and marvel at what a perfect pair we made.

When I became pregnant with Neva, it was the beginning of a funny patch of our sexual relationship. I initiated a sex-free first trimester for fear of miscarriage, and though I didn’t encounter any resistance from Robert, things began to change. Without that intimacy, I noticed Robert was less affectionate with me, less likely to tell me his innermost thoughts. Once we were out of the “danger zone,” we did resume intercourse, but it was different somehow—more of a necessary release than a way of connecting. And the more my belly grew, the less effort Robert made. I’d thought after Neva was born things would go back to normal, but they didn’t.

What Robert lacked in the bedroom, he made up for in attentiveness to his daughter. He adored her. I’d expected that he’d love her, of course, but having no father of my own in the picture, I’d never had a point of reference. Neva returned his feelings. The way she settled in his arms, the way she lit up when he entered the room—it was something I hadn’t foreseen. Something wonderful. It was a shame, though, that during this period, sex slipped down a couple of rungs on our ladder of importance. It simply wasn’t a priority.

By the time Neva left home we’d fallen into what I believed was a typical pattern of noticing that it had been a while between drinks and deciding we may as well get on with it. The frequency wasn’t desperate, and I still had the odd orgasm, so when I complained to my friends, they simply rolled their eyes and said they wished they had my problems. And outside the bedroom, Robert and I still had our laughs. We cuddled at night and, occasionally, held hands in the street. We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and Robert always put thought into the messages he wrote on the card. I’d asked myself more times than I could count if this was enough, and I’d come to the conclusion that it was. But now that Neva was gone and my mother was happily involved with Lil, lovemaking was creeping back up my list of priorities. So, I should have been pleased that Robert was initiating sex, even average sex. Why instead did I feel like I’d been kicked in the guts?

“Shall we finish getting dinner ready?” he asked after a minute or so of obligatory cuddling.

I rolled into a sitting position, invigorated as I remembered Neva was on her way. “Yes. Neva will be here soon.”

I stood, letting my dress fall over my hips to the floor. The doorbell rang.

“Oh. Here she is!”

Robert stomped toward the door and I hurried into the kitchen. The pasta was ruined yet again, so I tossed it out and flicked on the burner again. Our third attempt. While I waited for it to boil, I checked my reflection in the microwave. A little disheveled perhaps, but no more than normal.

As I stirred the meatballs, Neva and Robert rounded the corner. She delighted me by planting a kiss on my cheek. “Hi, Grace.”

“I’m glad you could fit us into your busy schedule.”

“Sure. Can I help?”

“Just sit down and relax,” I told her, pointing at a bar stool. “I’ll take care of everything.” But Neva and Robert were already halfway to the dining room, lost in their own world of conversation. I watched them through the pass-through—Neva smiling, Robert’s arm casually strewn across her shoulders. It irritated me no end.

“Red, Robert?” I called out.

He paused, mid-conversation. “Please.”

“And you, Neva?”

She half turned, but her eyes remained locked on her father. “Juice, please. Thanks, Grace.”

As I poured their drinks, I continued to watch them. They were so relaxed, so at ease. Robert showed no signs of worry over his job and Neva, no concern for her baby’s apparent lack of a father. As they talked, they mirrored each other—scratching the same ear, crossing the same leg. It was a habit I’d always found endearing. I should have been pleased that Neva had such a kindred spirit in her father. But today, for some reason, it hurt.

When dinner was ready, I set their plates down and took a seat at the head of the table. They were talking about politics or the economy or something. But I would put a stop to that.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Enough about politics. Why don’t you tell us about work, Neva? Any interesting births today?”

Neva and Robert exchanged a look. I frowned. “What?”

“You’re not interested in hearing about the new state senator, Grace?” Robert asked. “Mr. Hang Seng?”

“Puh-lease,” I said. “No.”

“What do you think about the new minority leader, Grace?” Neva asked. “Ms. Dow Jones?”

“Dow? Frightful name.” I forked some pasta. I hoped I could turn the conversation onto baby names, and then, with any luck, the baby’s father. But when I looked up, Neva and Robert were snickering. “What? What?”

All at once, the penny dropped: They were mocking me. “You weren’t talking about politics,” I said slowly. “Were you?”

Neva and Robert were now full-on laughing. I glared at Robert and he registered it. “Sorry, Grace. I’m sorry.”

Neva’s face straightened. “Yes, sorry, Grace.”

“Yes, well,” I said. “I should think so.”

Neva and Robert bowed their heads. And the mood, which had been happy and playful was soured. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had a talent for killing Neva’s joy, it seemed.

“I must admit I’m relieved,” I said, wanting to fill the silence and pep up the mood. “Dow Bradley is terrible name.”

I hadn’t intended to be funny, but I noticed the corner of Robert’s lip starting to twitch. Then, so did Neva’s. Before long they were chuckling, and even though I knew it was at my expense, I did too. I was powerless against laughter. Even the smallest little snicker, particularly in the most inappropriate of situations, was all it took to set me off. Now my mouth curved upward and giggles forced their way out from between my clenched lips.

I pasted on a silly grin. The night was young, and with all the laughter and good feeling, perhaps we’d find out the father of the baby yet.