I went to the supermarket and bought the fanciest quart of pistachio ice cream I could find. I packed it up with ice and made my way to the hospital. Laura had another treatment and I wasn’t sure what kind of shape she’d be in. Chemo exhausted you, but I hoped at least she’d have an appetite for ice cream, since she needed the calories so badly.
She was sleeping when I arrived. I stood by her bed, watching her, the sound of a kid’s movie of some sort playing in the background. Her calm, angelic face was perfectly proportioned. She looked as if she were chiseled out of fine white marble by a Renaissance sculptor. Bow-shaped lips, a small, straight nose, and perfect skin setting off her large, deep-set eyes. I sat in the chair facing her bed and decided to wait, rather than waking her. I was checking my phone for messages when she opened her eyes.
“Sage?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy, but okay,” she said. I held out the bag and pulled out the quart of ice cream. “Ta-da!”
“You remembered!” Laura dug the plastic spoon I gave her into the quart and began to eat. I glanced down at the star necklace around her neck, and looked away. She licked the first spoonful clean and rolled her eyes. She took another, then another. And then she stopped and put the spoon down. Her eyelids fluttered from exhaustion. I pretended not to understand.
“I’m still full from dinner,” she said. I didn’t ask her what was for dinner. I guessed it was soup and maybe a few bites of hamburger. That was probably all she could tolerate. My subterfuge, as usual, was distraction.
“Want to watch some television?”
She nodded and I grabbed the remote and channel-surfed. We came to the home shopping channel. They were selling cheap, ugly dresses. I stuck my tongue out and Laura giggled. “Haute couture,” I sniffed. I pretended to be fascinated and Laura pretended too, but I saw her eyes closing.
“Maybe I should go and let you catch up on sleep,” I whispered. She opened her eyes and nodded.
“I’ll see you soon, pumpkin,” I said. As I walked out, I saw the scarf. It was draped over the chair, nearby.
As I went to bed that night, I thought of the ice cream sitting near her bed, slowly melting.
• • •
The tan napkin with the French roast Rorschach stain and the phone number in black marker was tucked under a red leather jewelry box on my bureau. Half of the number peeped out—631-32—like the edge of the envelope, a reminder of someone else’s life whenever I opened my drawer for lingerie.
I collected lingerie the way other people collected stamps, coins, or rare porcelain. I had a dreamy collection of silks, voiles, crocheted cottons—things I found wherever I traveled. Did it matter that no one would see me in the yellow chiffon demi bra with the satin ribbon trim, the sea-green silk thong, or the lavender silk nightgown?
“Buy it for yourself, because it makes you feel good,” I told clients. Their private pleasures would enhance how they presented themselves to the world. I had to remind myself of that.
Two weeks had passed. The letter was written months before, I imagined. He had probably forgotten it by now. What could be more bizarre than a stranger phoning and asking to meet you because you helped a friend write a letter?
But then, why not? It was a love letter, a romantic throwback to the past. Why not satisfy my curiosity? I dialed the number, staring out the window as it rang. Once, twice, three times, four, five, and I hung up. Not home. It was now out of my hands. Then I pressed redial. I waited through another impossibly long set of rings. I was relieved. I wasn’t looking forward to another strange encounter. So I went on with my life and the napkin remained tucked under the jewelry box.
About a week later, after I had finished dinner and decided after one glass of wine that I’d finish off the bottle, I tried again. Only this time it didn’t ring and ring.
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected…”
Was Jordan aware that Luke’s number was disconnected? Had he moved? I called information.
“No listing for that name,” she said.
Now what? I didn’t relish calling Jordan again. I felt like I was becoming a stalker, but what else could I do? She was as elusive as Luke. I tried her several times and always got the machine. For someone with a regular job, she didn’t seem to be at home on a steady basis, unless she was the type to screen her calls. Would I have better luck reaching her at Burberry?
I waited until eleven thirty the next day. Late enough for people who drifted in late, and early enough to be sure she wasn’t already out for lunch. Bingo, she answered her phone.
“I tried your number for Luke,” I said. “It was disconnected.”
She groaned. “He probably couldn’t pay his phone bill.”
I waited, curious to hear what she’d suggest.
“All I can say is your best bet is to go see him, if you can find him.”
“Where does he live?”
“Out on Long Island. Got a pen?”
I scrawled down the address. “You just fall in on him?”
“You can try. Luke’s like a fast-moving target who camouflages himself in the brush,” she said with a laugh. “He goes and comes and you’re never sure when there will be a sighting.”
“Maybe I should bring fresh meat,” I said. “I can smoke him out with the scent.”
“Now there’s an idea. He’s usually starving.”
I tucked the address into my wallet and thanked her again. If this didn’t work, the only thing I could think of was to put Harry on his trail.
• • •
“I think Daniel’s having an affair.”
Jennelle didn’t sound crushed; it was more reportorial. She got up from the table abruptly and went to a closet on the wall for a second bottle of Chardonnay.
“Based on what?”
“On nothing—or almost nothing.” She searched for the corkscrew. It was right in front of her. “Just instinct.”
“Is he less interested in sex?”
“Just the opposite.” She filled her glass and reached for another piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Were we indulging ourselves or punishing ourselves? I hadn’t decided which. “It’s as if he feels guilty and wants to make up for it.”
“When did things change?”
“He came home from the store late one night.”
“And?”
She put down the chicken leg. “I don’t know,” she said, as if she were mulling it over. “It was just something about the way he looked. The way his eyes shone.”
Would I notice something like that? Just before Greg left me for that Bohemian bitch actress with the trashy East Village look, our sex life was almost nonexistent. I thought he had Epstein–Barr.
“And that was it, just the look of his eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ask him where he was?”
“He said he was out for a drink with a buddy, but he doesn’t do much of that.”
“I don’t think you have a strong case.”
“It’s just that I know Daniel,” she said. “And now there’s this mystery between us.”
“Would it be the end of the world if you found out he was with somebody?”
“He’s a terrible liar,” she said. She stared into her wine as though it were a crystal ball. “And what gets me most is he won’t admit it.”
“Would you?”
She gave me an annoyed look.
“Take a step back,” I said. “If he was cheating on you, he’d want you to keep your job at the bank, wouldn’t he? Why would he want you to represent the artists who come into his store and know all about his life?”
“Life isn’t always logical,” Jennelle said. “Things just happen.”
“Or you make them happen,” I said.