Page 67 of Fox
She arrives at our table and looks at me. “First time here?”
“Yes,” I say. “I love how versatile your menu is.”
“Thank you. We want to buy local, so we change with the seasons.”
“My wife is a chef, too,” Fox interjects. “She’s a stickler for having a menu that moves with the calendar.”
“Really?” She pulls out the chair across from me and next to Fox. She takes a seat. “Where do you work?”
“Dina’s. Over on?—“
“Dina’s.” Her face changes entirely. “On McFerrin?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ve been there.” She leans forward. “Those crêpes. With the bourbon caramel and the—what is that, a brown butter crème?”
I flush. “Oh…thank you.”
We talk for a moment about food and the challenges of being a chef these days, and I realize this may be the first time Fox is participating in this way in my world.
I always got the feeling that he didn’t like that I cooked at a diner. He wanted something more posh for me. More Bennett-like.
It feels good to know that he appreciates what I do, understands why I work at Dina’s, and…is proud of me. I feel seen by him in a way I haven’t in a long time.
After lunch, we walk, because East Nashville is good for walking.
Its streets are the width of streets that were not designed for traffic as an afterthought, lined with the kind of houses that have been renovated by people who actually live in them, the yards personal.
I have always liked East Nashville because it feels like a neighborhood that is still figuring out what it is, which I find comforting.
Fox knows the neighborhood better than I expect.
He points out a building on Russell Street that used to be a factory and is now home to artists’ studios, tells me about the 2010 flood and how the neighborhood responded, and about the community in it.
He knows this city the way I have always known it—as something living, something with a story under every surface—and I think:this is what we could have been. This is the version that was always available. Two people who love the same city, walking through it like it belongs to both of them.
When we get back into the car, guilt is pushing hard at me.
“Fox.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Tell him now, Lucy, tell him the truth, right here, on this street, in the afternoon light, before it gets harder.
“Thank you,” I say, losing courage at the last minute. “For today.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Then he winks at me. “And it’s not over.”
When we get home, he opens the door, and I gasp.
There are flower arrangements, huge ones, in the living room, the kitchen, and on the dining table.
“Fox?”
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
Tears fill my eyes.
