Two weeks after the wedding, life had settled back into its familiar rhythms.
Gilbert and Audrey were still on their honeymoon, somewhere warm and coastal, sending photographs of sunsets and elaborate meals. Audrey had texted Arianne three days ago with a picture of Gilbert attempting to snorkel, his expression somewhere between determination and terror. He says he's enjoying himself, Audrey had written. I've chosen to believe him.
Franz had returned to filming the day after the ceremony. The production had moved to a location closer to Montclair—close enough that he could drive home every night, though the commute was two hours each way. He made it without complaint. He would arrive after the twins were asleep, sometimes after Arianne was asleep, and slide into bed beside her in the dark. In the mornings, he was gone before any of them woke, a fresh cup of coffee cooling on the kitchen counter, a note in his careful handwriting: Didn't want to wake you. Call me when you can.
