I spent the hours before Lucas picked me up on Saturday trying on clothes. The outtakes formed a high pile on my floor. Currently on top was a black pencil skirt that was too D.C., and a red tank dress, which was not D.C. enough. Mal wandered into my room while I was wearing a floor-length peasant skirt and informed me that I looked like a grandma dressing for her cardiologist in South Beach.
She lay on the bed and commanded me to try on several other outfits. When I put on a gray blazer, she said, “Are you going to a Smithsonian ribbon-cutting at the Edith and Jonathan Wisner Hall of Petrified Wood?” We finally agreed on jeans and a tank top, and I stuffed a few other options in my overnight bag. I took a long, steamy shower, feeling a flutter at my neck when I thought of falling asleep beside Lucas and waking to his face.
Lucas and I arrived at the Glory on the ’Morrow Inn in the late afternoon. It abutted a Civil War battlefield. Our room had an antique bed, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub. As soon as we set our bags down, Lucas kissed me. I wasn’t expecting it; I had been looking out the window at the history-obsessed men ambling across the hillside, surveying the period cannons. His lips caught the corner of my mouth. I turned my head to meet him, surprised by the intensity of his kiss, heat spreading across my belly and between my legs. We undressed and tumbled onto the bed. The sex we had was urgent, vigorous. We both came quickly, first me on top, then him. “God, I missed you,” he said, his nose in my hair. I realized with excitement that we still had eighteen hours together.
Lucas went to the bathroom to change for our hike, and I thought through the little stories and observations I had stored up to tell him—like the party I’d gone to with my roommate Nick on Thursday night, full of Hill staffers and lawyers speaking in worshipful legalese, their ambition more naked than that of my friends in journalism and the nonprofit world and therefore somewhat of a relief.
When Lucas was with his wife, he and I went days without talking. During that time I narrated my life to myself in the past tense, articulating the tableaux, describing the non-player characters. I was accustomed to storing up material; I’d done it for my father. During my childhood, the quotidian had been the purview of my mother; she and I were together all the time, our daily routines entwined. Visiting my dad was a break in the routine, automatically special, and whatever we did together achieved the exalted status of ritual. I’d have stories ready for him, each one articulated to make him laugh or to make him think. I’d prepare jokes ahead of time, practice them in my mind. Though the jokes he laughed at the hardest were always the ones I came up with spontaneously.
Lucas emerged from the bathroom wearing dorky sneakers and khaki shorts, his ankles slightly pinched from the elastic of his socks. “Let’s hike!” he said, and he sounded so eager that I laughed. It was new, to have enough time together that we didn’t have be touching every moment.
We set out on a trail, talking a little but mostly enjoying the day, being out, listening to the birds in the trees. “I forgot how great it is to be in nature,” Lucas said, just as a man in a Union Army uniform emerged from a fork in the trail.
“This way to the reconstructed stone bridge over Bull Run,” the man said. “Confederates used it until 1862, when the Union rear guard destroyed it.” He saluted us before continuing the opposite way along the path.
“You have to admit, this is a weird hotel choice.” I squeezed his hand.
Lucas laughed. “At least I didn’t book the room with the bedrolls.”
“Next time let’s try the rival Civil War inn, ‘Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,’ ” I said. “I hear their restaurant serves excellent hardtack.”
“Nothing says romance like hardtack.”
Eventually the shaded trail emptied into a sunlit field, and we came to a two-story stone house. There were curtains in the window, an herb garden in front. I entertained a fantasy that Lucas and I lived here, typing on our separate laptops across a farmhouse table, coming outside to water the tarragon and mint. I’d recently declared to Mal that I never wanted to live outside a city again, yet as I stood beside Lucas, I felt I would live anywhere if he asked me to. Maybe we would have picnics on the lawn and in the winter build fires in the stone hearth—
“This was a field hospital during the war,” Lucas said, reading the plaque. “The site of hundreds of primitive amputations. Oh wow, look at this photo.”
He pointed to an enlarged image of the wooden floorboards upstairs, where two infantrymen had chiseled their names. One, a twenty-one-year-old, had recovered, left the field hospital, and lived a long life after the war; the other, seventeen, had succumbed to his injuries. He’d managed to carve just half his name. I stood for a long time in front of that half-finished name, wondering what secrets he’d taken with him.
The air around us seemed to cool, as though a draft from the old house had escaped into the sunny field. My bitterness and incredulity about L. M. Taylor—Larry—surfaced, and I felt my shoulders tense. When I’d received his email saying he didn’t want to meet me, it was as if I’d gotten an electric shock. The email was cold, impersonal, brief. What kind of person would reject a man’s dying wishes? Why had this man been important to my father?
Lucas put his hand on the small of my back, and I jumped.
“Are you okay?” Lucas asked.
“Let’s walk some more,” I said.
Later, at the hotel bar, Lucas said he’d heard the inn was famous for its negronis. A bartender in suspenders and a tricorn hat set down two cocktails, a basket of breadsticks, and a pitcher of water. Slivers of ice moved purposefully across the top of the water like ducks. The negroni was sharp and aromatic, and I sipped steadily from my glass. Soon I was a little woozy. Lucas began talking about a new paper he was coauthoring that looked at transformative assets. I liked how the skin around his eyes crinkled up when he talked about ideas that excited him. I liked that he felt he could talk with me about serious things.
“The wealth gap is widening,” Lucas was saying. “The estate tax was supposed to level the playing field, but it hasn’t worked that way. The wealthy are still passing on transformative assets.”
“Are transformative assets houses and cars, that sort of thing?” I asked.
“Exactly. Stock options. The kind of growth engines that rich families disproportionately leave to their children.”
Leave to their children, I thought. Leave their children. What a difference a preposition makes.
“Mal believes in a hundred percent inheritance tax,” I said. “Wouldn’t that level the playing field?”
Lucas shook his head with enthusiasm. He loved a good argument. “A hundred percent tax would stifle innovation.” He listed Northern European countries in his economist voice, making cases for various incentive structures. I poured myself water from the jug. Unearned inheritance, I thought. A crate of Van Morrison records. A tie rack. A baseball.
“The current inheritance tax in the U.S. has been corrupted by loopholes,” Lucas said. “There are ample opportunities for people to circumvent it. It doesn’t have much meaning.”
“Well, I guess it must have some meaning.” I set my glass down too hard, and the liquid sloshed against the edge. “At least those billionaire children knew their parents loved them.” I was reminded of the line from King Lear, How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child, which was read aloud by my high school English teacher in a tone of voice that suggested she knew what Lear was talking about.
Lucas put his hand on my knee. I linked my own hand on top, and when my fingers touched the hard curve of his wedding band, my stomach jolted. “Hey,” he said. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine.”
Lucas scanned my face. “Is something on your mind?”
“It’s just the old ‘dead dad’ thing.” I forced a little laugh and my cheeks heated up. That was another thing I was learning—I had to read how much people could handle; I had to tuck in my sadness when too much of it showed. I picked the orange peel from my glass and sucked the bitter alcohol from its flesh.
Leave to your child.
Leave your child.
“You don’t have to do that,” Lucas said. “Shut off.”
I looked up at him, startled. How had he known?
“Oh,” I said. I was frightened that my interior world was apparent to him, both frightened and exhilarated that he’d read me.
“You’re going through a storm, and I want to know about it.” He took my hand. “I know it’s not the same, but my childhood best friend died in a car accident when we were twelve. I know what it’s like to suddenly lose someone I loved. It was a long time ago, and I’m not trying to compare a friend to a father,” he said. “The point is, I’m here if you want to talk.”
I could see the compassion in his face. Still, I wanted to protect my time with him for fun and pleasure and to safeguard his image of me as a girl who was lovable, loved by men, including her father. How would he react if I told him the whole miserable story? But he was looking at me with gentleness and interest and understanding. I didn’t want to demur when he asked me about my pain or to squander an opportunity for us to get closer.
“There was a thing with my dad’s will,” I said. I snapped a breadstick in half, then put it down without eating it. “I don’t know exactly what to think. It’s not about money. My dad left each of his kids an object. And everyone else got something super meaningful to them that was about their relationship with him. And I got…It’s funny actually—”
I laughed spitefully. Lucas stroked my knee, though I couldn’t really feel it. I told him about my father’s will, about the tie rack. How no one in my family could figure out why he’d left it to me, not Colette or my sisters or anyone. How I’d called my mother to tell her and she too was bewildered. I explained the baseball and Linda, and Romley Cass, and how I’d gotten Larry’s email and now the trail of clues was cold.
I hadn’t meant to reveal so much. When I stopped talking, I scrutinized Lucas’s expression. He was listening intently, his mouth open slightly with concern. On my phone, I scrolled to a photo of the tie rack. “I mean, look at this thing,” I said, placing it on the bar between us. “It feels like I was disinherited. And the one person who could maybe explain why I didn’t get the baseball told me he didn’t want to see me.”
There was a long moment of silence in which I tried to work out if he was shocked or horrified or perhaps trying to come up with something to say that would change the subject. Instead, he said, “What was your dad like?”
No one had asked me that question. I realized how much I wanted to talk about him, but how could I explain him in a few sentences? To talk about him in the past tense was to admit that Lucas would never meet him, that my father had been finite, when of course the opposite was true—he was boundless, or at least my sadness made it feel that way. Choosing a few words to describe him meant that I’d have to summarize the character of someone I had loved more than anyone.
“He made life feel exciting,” I said. “I know that’s corny, but it’s true. He was a book person, a words person. He told the best stories. He was charming, but he cared about what other people thought. Maybe too much. I spent a lot of time trying to be the person in the family who was closest to him and understood him the best.” From my phone, the gingerbread-man tie rack smiled its beady-eyed smile, and I felt a violent pulsing at my temples. “I guess I wasn’t his favorite after all—who gives their favorite a tie rack? Why would he have led me to believe that I was his favorite? Like, what was he playing at? And then he took that away from me and I’m just the tie-rack daughter? But what kind of person is angry at their dead father?”
Lucas looked down at his glass, seeming to consider his words. “I don’t know why your dad did what he did. But you’re allowed to be angry and confused—how could you not be? You’ve been dealt a double blow, losing him and then losing your sense of where you stood in his eyes. It’s a lot to contend with. I don’t want you to hide your feelings. Especially not with me.”
I had felt jumbled and sick inside, afraid that Lucas would be repulsed by what I’d told him. But he hadn’t reacted by changing the subject or trying to solve a problem. He’d said he wanted more. The intimacy between us seemed to be vibrating the air. I took his face in my hands, like I’d done the very first time we kissed, and pulled him toward me until our lips were touching. He put his fingers in my hair, and my tongue found his tongue, and soon all my thoughts fell away and there was only the sensation of his nose against my cheek, his lips on my neck, his hand on my thigh—
“Um, sorry,” said a voice beside us.
I drew back, dazed.
“I’m sorry to do this,” said the waitress, twisting her hands together, “but I’m going to have to ask you guys to leave? You’re making some other guests uncomfortable.”
In the inn’s ancient, creaking bed, under a thick white comforter, we had sex, and then Lucas slept while I lay awake, my body refusing to calm. I longed for it to be morning so that we could talk gently, sleepily, our faces close together on the same pillow. Near dawn, the light changed in the room, and there was a soft glow from the window, early birdsong. Lucas stirred and sighed deeply, pressing against me in sleep, his heat warm and slightly moist, like fresh bread. When I shifted against him his erection bloomed, and suddenly he was groaning, and then he was on top of me, inside me, and we were breathing together and he was moving in and out of me slowly, as though we had all the time in the world. And then it was morning, and the sun was high in the window, and Lucas was leaning over me, smelling of aftershave. He whispered that he had gotten us croissants and coffee and asked if I wanted to eat in bed.
I spent the ride to D.C. with my sunglasses on, leaning back in the seat. Lucas kept his non-driving hand in my lap the whole time, even while executing a U-turn when he missed an exit in Centreville. My body felt sluggish, immovable. We pulled up in front of 1938 House, and Lucas said he’d walk me to the door. The thought of him depositing me there and driving home to his wife made my stomach squeeze to a painful fist. The moss growing on the uneven front steps, the living room curtain opened partway, lazily—these mundane sights signaled the sadness and confusion that waited for me inside, once I crossed the threshold of my normal life.
I got up on the first step, so we were at the same height. “I don’t want this weekend to end.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist and looked straight into my eyes. “It was wonderful, Ellie. We’ll do it again soon.” He kissed the tip of my nose.
Behind us, the front door opened, and Katherine came down the steps, a bright-pink yoga mat rolled under her arm. “Excuse me,” she said as she brushed past us. She glanced at Lucas just as he swiveled his head to look at her.
“Oh, hi—” she started to say. But then her face twisted into confusion. Lucas let go of my waist. He had gone white.
Katherine gave an awkward wave and slipped away down the street, her yoga mat bobbing with each step.
Lucas kissed my forehead, a quick, dry peck. “I have to go. I’ll call you.”
Upstairs in my room, my breathing felt ragged. Lucas and Katherine knew each other. Had they dated? Had he slept with her? I typed out a text to Lucas: Did you date Katherine? I deleted it without sending it. My eyes refused to focus. Maybe Katherine was Lucas’s real type—thin, blond, heavy eyeliner—and I was just an outlier. I needed to know when Katherine would be home. How long were yoga classes? Katherine was so sculpted, hers probably lasted hours. I lay back and tried to will my head to stop thudding. Whatever had happened between them, I needed to know, no matter how it walloped me.
An hour later, the front door squeaked open and Katherine’s footsteps pattered into the kitchen. I flew after her. “Hey, I have a question,” I said.
She opened the refrigerator door so I couldn’t see her face. “Okay,” she said, peering at the shelf of half-empty mustard bottles.
“How do you know Lucas?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“You clearly do.” I moved to the other side of the fridge door, until we were both standing in its cold kingdom.
Katherine screwed up her mouth, reached for a bag of kale. “I really don’t want to get involved.”
“Were you ever with him? You have to tell me. Katherine, please.” I heard my voice tremble.
“God, no, Ellie. I barely know him.”
Mal appeared at my side. “What’s going on?”
“Katherine knows Lucas,” I said. “But she’s not telling me anything.”
From this close to her face, I could see Katherine’s pores. “I’ve met him before, okay? At an embassy event. With his wife,” she said.
Mal put an arm around my shoulder. My knees went weak. “I know he’s married,” I said.
Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Why is he with you if he’s married?”
“You don’t know anything about our relationship.”
“Whatever. It’s weird that you’re with him. He’s, like, old. And his wife is a famous economist. She was honored by the embassy for her work on microfinance loans. We gave her an award in April. There was a big gala—salmon with hollandaise, chocolate lava cake, the works. I sat next to them at dinner. I talked to her for like an hour.”
“He’s not old,” I said.
“He has that droopy cheek skin of someone in their forties.”
“He’s thirty-nine!”
I knew all this wasn’t the real point. The refrigerator gaped. No one moved to shut it. Cold air resolved in front of my face in wisps of mist.
“I liked her, Ellie. His wife,” Katherine said.
“Should we take a beat here?” Mal said. “Maybe sit down and talk about this?”
“Mal, can you stop being everyone’s therapist for one second,” Katherine said.
“I’m not leaving until Katherine apologizes to me,” I told Mal.
“Apologize to you for what? Talking about microfinance with your boyfriend’s wife?” Katherine tossed the kale back into the refrigerator.
“You’re judging me! And you’re supposed to be my friend!”
“Oh, now I’m judging you? Five seconds ago it was Lucas I was judging. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I’m actually trying to protect you. Believe me, this isn’t going to end well for you. He’s being dishonest and you’re being naïve.”
“Katherine, lay off. Her dad died,” Mal said.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. She doesn’t need another loss right now.”
I slammed the refrigerator door and bolted out of the room.