Read Online The Law of Bound Hearts by Anne Leclaire - Free Book Online Page B

the cutting.
    There were so many traditions surrounding the wedding cake. According to her research, the bride and groom fed each other cake as a symbol of how they would care for and nurture each other throughout their new life together. Originally, she’d learned, small cakes were piled, one on top of the other, as high as possible, and then the newlywed couple kissed over the tower of cakes, trying not to knock them down. If they succeeded, it meant a lifetime of prosperity. So many traditions designed to ward off the perils of life.
    Sam should have done that. Was that her mistake? Not to have stood by a cake and joined hands, held with her beloved a broad sterling knife, kissed over a tall cake. Would that have been enough?
    She’d been wrong earlier. She wasn’t done with crying. She bent her head to her hands and wept.
    This was how Lee found her.
    He came up behind her, wrapped her in his arms.
    She let him hold her, felt the comfort of his embrace, felt his thighs against hers, his muscles as strong as pilings beneath a dock.
    His touched his lips to her head. “I think it’s time you told me,” he said into her hair.
    â€œTold you?”
    He rocked her. “About your sister. About your ‘falling-out.’ ”
    She closed her eyes, leaned back against him. “I don’t know where to start.”
    â€œAt the beginning.” He lifted her hair back from her face, kissed her temple. “Just take your time. Start at the beginning.”
    What was the beginning? This was the problem. Sam wasn’t even sure exactly when or how it began. She was only sure of the betrayal of the end.

Libby
    It was such a betrayal, this failing of her body. No one could understand how such treason felt.
    Across from her, Richard was engrossed in his menu. Libby’s lay unopened. She looked around the dining room. At linen-covered tables, people were sipping drinks, talking, partaking of their meals. One laughing quartet was drinking champagne. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled, their light reflecting off the crystal glassware that graced each table. Richard had insisted they come here, not as a celebration, certainly not that, but as a way in which to pass the evening, to take their minds off what waited in the morning, as if that were in any way possible, as if she could forget for an instant.
Dialysis.
The word haunted her constantly. At the next table, a man dug into a chocolate concoction heaped with a soft mound of whipped cream. Real, not from some aerosol can. Even from a distance she could tell that. His wife, clad in a cream-colored dress, one Libby had seen the week before in the window of Talbots, picked at a slice of lemon pie. Watching the woman—the
hockey stick
—nibble at the yellow filling, she was reminded of a story from the Talmud, something about an old Jew being called before the Almighty and held to account for all the pleasures he hadn’t enjoyed. (Where had she heard this tale? She and Richard had no Jewish friends.) She thought of all the sweets she had denied herself. Pastries and all manner of confections. Custards and crullers and cakes. Chocolate bars with almonds. For God’s sake, she wanted to scream at the woman, just eat the fucking dessert. Eat it all. Lick the plate. Order another.
    She picked up her menu and scanned the offerings. French Onion Soup with Gruyère. Pan-Seared Foie Gras with Fall Garnish. Gemelli Pasta with Roast Duck and a Port Wine Sauce. Grilled Filet of Beef with a Cognac Veal Sauce. Black-Sesame-Seed-Encrusted Tuna with Balsamic Reduction and Chive Oil. The things we take for granted, she thought. The things we accept as our just due, until they are taken from us. Simple things like a night out, a meal. Complex things like the miracle of a functioning body. Except for her. She no longer took things for granted. She had been stripped of that right. Now she had to watch everything. Food was no longer about pleasure or