“Hilary!” Her voice is shrill, with the urgency of a reporter covering a tabloid story, and it takes me a second to make sense of her. She keeps going. “I know it’s you.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“Just talk to me, please. Why are you doing this? You were my best friend, you know.” She leans toward me, her pink lipsticked mouth twisted into a grimace, but her eyes are imploring, clouded with hurt. I have no doubt that she believes that to be true. I tended to follow her around, I was a hanger-on, which was Molly’s favorite kind of friend. Probably why I felt such kinship with Mick. “I can’t just let it go. Why do you keep running away? What happened to you?”
“I—I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about, but please, leave me alone.” I start to turn, but she grabs my bare arm, twisting it slightly, and jabs a bright pink manicured finger into my elbow.
“Right there. You had twenty-two stitches, right there, and I sat in the ER all night with you. You fell off a horse. You liked the ranch hand, what was his name? Oh yeah, Harlan. He checked up on you, later, and we all thought for sure you’d get together, but you didn’t. Because he was actually married. But I’m the only one who knows that, because I came back the next day, mind you, from staying at Gunther’s, and he was still there, at six in the morning. You can’t pretend you don’t know me.”
Her clear blue eyes never waver. I’m not even sure she blinks. Molly was never a shrinking violet, but I’d never known her to have this kind of verve.
As careless as I’ve been, I can’t shrug off Detective Maslow’s words. He’d cautioned about ever going back to San Francisco. We caught Jared and the others, the ringleaders. There are still powerful men in hiding. We’ll never catch them all. I think of Mick, languishing in prison, for he was always an underling. The real terror was Jared. And possibly others: nameless, faceless threats.
I think of my ransacked apartment. I think of the driver careening through the intersection. All the things I don’t know for sure. Then, I think of how Molly, if I relented, even for a second, would surely call anyone she kept in touch with. The idea of it, the story alone, was just too juicy. I imagine the news floating out over the airwaves, through the Midwest, back to San Francisco. I imagine the idea of it finding Mick, or worse, Jared. Hilary Lawlor, the bitch who put you in jail, is in New York.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Please, leave me alone.” I wrench my arm out of her taloned grip.
“Fine. If you want to be that way, you can pretend all you want, but Gunther and I, we live here now. It’s not that big of a city. You took yourself away, like I didn’t even matter.” Her round bubbly face hardens at the dismissal. “We’ll see you around, Hilary.” Her voice comes out like a hiss, and on the Hilary, her lip curls. It’s the anger that surprises me. I expected confusion, even sadness. She sees it as a rejection and her cheeks mottle. She gives me a small, slight smile and I inhale quickly.
I recognize the look, the covert determination, hollow and self-serving. Our sophomore year, Molly had turned in what she thought was an A paper and had gotten a B. She stared at that paper with this same face, the same dappled cheeks, red and wind-burned, the same hardened black beaded eyes. Three days later, I heard a rumor: The professor was trading grades for sex. Unsubstantiated rumors. He was suspended for three days for “investigative purposes,” after which he was reinstated. No permanently marred record. No real damage. That was the terrifying part, really. I could never prove it was Molly, but I would have bet our whole apartment on it. When I’d asked her, her lips turned up in the slightest smile. She raised her eyebrows and murmured I’m not surprised, really. That’s when I knew.
I turn and rush away, fighting against the lunchtime crowd, away from that smile. I wipe a sheen of sweat from my forehead and pull my hair back, off my neck. She’s not going to let this go; who would? It’s a crazy story. I imagine her friendless while Gunther is at his new office all day, out to happy hour at night with coworkers. I picture her bored, roaming her apartment, not unlike the way I roam mine but without CARE to distract her, performing Internet searches, staking out my building, tracking me down. It could become a hobby to someone. The idea of it squeezes my heart.
I duck into a souvenir store, covered floor to ceiling with hats and T-shirts, prepaid cell phones, and miniature Statues of Liberty.
“Can I help you?” I spin around and the man stands two feet away, crowding me, and I jump back.
“No, I . . . I’m fine. I just needed the air.” The door is open but the shop is air-conditioned. I pretend to peruse postcards before adjusting my shirt and exiting back out into the street. I take a deep breath and scan the street. No Molly. I head home. I don’t look back.
• • •
There is a box on the dining room table with a single long-stemmed red rose resting on top and a note.
Zoe, I’m sorry about our fight. I’ve been under stress at work. Please understand, last night was all my fault. There’s a party tonight to celebrate our partnership with Nippon. Wear this, be ready at 6, and I’ll pick you up. I love you. You are the light of my life.
I set the rose down on the table and place the note next to it. Pause, take a breath. I don’t know if this is real, if Reid told Henry he saw me at the gym and this is a placating measure. Was the blonde the real date, the first date? Am I the backup plan?
Slowly, I lift the lid off the square box. I unwrap the tissue paper inside and pull out the gown. It’s a calf length, sleek, silk cocktail dress, in a deep plum. The neckline plunges, more provocative than anything I’d select, and it is trimmed in crystals. I feel my breath catch. It’s gorgeous. A hanger lies diagonally in the box, and I slip it under the spaghetti straps and hang it up in the doorway.
I scan the kitchen: The glass has been cleaned up, like last night never happened. I suppose I should feel at least unsettled by the fact that my home has been righted in my absence, like a pencil eraser over the sketch of last night’s fight. Sometimes it’s as though people move around me, thin and wispy like ghosts, quietly arranging my life to Henry’s convenience. Penny. Reid.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I didn’t know you were going to be home.”
I drop the box I’m holding and let out a quick staccato scream. “Penny. Jesus Christ, you scared the living daylights out of me.”
“I’m sorry, I heard you out here. I was cleaning the bedrooms.” She gives a quick flick of her head toward the hall. “Dusting.”
We don’t have many one-on-one encounters like this. She frequently comes and goes, conveniently, when I’m out of the house. Too frequently to be coincidence, but not in any way that could be questioned. I tend to believe Henry tells her my daily schedule. She fidgets, a duster in her hands, a white button-down shirt tucked into jeans, bare feet pushed into Birkenstocks. Her toenails are painted a surprising red, her feet a healthy tan. She shifts her weight and checks the time on the stove.
“Penny, do you like me?” I don’t mean to ask the question, but I’m a tad fed up from my day, tired of sidestepping people and issues, and trying to do the right thing for everyone else. I’m tired of roadblocks I can’t see, hidden agendas I can’t fathom.
Her head snaps back and her eyes meet mine. “I don’t know you, Mrs. Whittaker.”
“You can call me Zoe. You call Henry, Henry.”
“I’ve known Henry since . . . well, for a long time.” She steps backward, like she’s going to leave the room. I can feel the impending dismissal.
“How long?” I bend down to pick up the box and turn it over in my hands.
“How long what?”
“How long have you known Henry?” I press.
“A long time. I’ve never counted.” She glances nervously over her shoulder and then becomes intensely interested in the duster in her hand, turning it over one way, then the other. Her fingernails match her toenails.
“You knew his parents. You knew him as a child?”
“I . . . did, yes.” She backs up toward the doorway, pushing her gray bangs off her brow with her forearm. She has deep-set lines around her mouth, crow’s feet at her eyes. I try to remember how old Henry has said she is, but then I realize he hasn’t. I’m guessing sixty-five. Maybe even seventy.
“Tell me about him. Tell me anything. He says nothing about his upbringing. Very little about his life before me.” I take a step forward, closing the gap between us, desperation comes off my skin like a stench. I don’t care.
Her voice is a whisper. “He . . . was an unusual little boy. So curious. Brilliant really.” Her voice trails off and she looks away. When she looks back, she squares her shoulders and levels her gaze. “None of this is my place, Mrs. Whittaker.”
“Penny, I—”
“I should get back to it. I’ll be leaving very soon.” She turns and scurries from the room. I actually consider following her. Pestering her with questions, forcing her to talk to me. I toss the box back down onto the dining room table, frustrated, and head to my bedroom after grabbing the dress from the doorway.
I clip the hanger carefully on the back of the door and lie faceup on the bed. It’s a beautiful dress and I wonder where he bought it or when. My eyes feel heavy and I drift to sleep. I dream of college in San Francisco, of Molly McKay in an eggplant evening gown, and Birkenstocks.
• • •
The car arrives at 5:57 p.m. and I smile to myself. It’s so Henry. I smooth the front of my dress. I’m wearing the charm bracelet, the bonsai, the gladiolus, the wings. It’s an olive branch. Henry gets out, holding his hand up, palm out to the driver, indicating that he’ll escort me. He stops in front of me and his eyes are bright, his hair tousled. We don’t say anything for a minute, then both speak at once. He laughs and motions for me to talk.
“There’s nothing between Cash and me,” I blurt out. He pulls me against him, his lips on my hair.
“I know. I know that. I’m sorry. Let’s just not talk about it. I overreacted.” His hands graze down my spine, his fingertips hot on my skin. He pulls away and gestures toward the car, his hand resting on the small of my back. He touches the bracelet on my wrist as I climb inside, and says, “Ah, Zoe.”
“Have you called the credit card company?” I inquire, as though I just thought of it. Innocent.
“Yes. They’re sending a new one, but these things take time, Zoe.” He pats my arm. “Do you need more money? Is that an issue?”
“No. I’m fine. I don’t even use it all, really, not all the time. I just wish I didn’t have to be so . . . dependent. Or something . . .” I falter then, not sure of how to proceed. He’s studying me.
“Whatever you need, Zoe, just ask. I’ll do anything, you know that.” He squeezes my hand and kisses my temple, at my hairline.
We ride in silence but he grasps my hand, running his thumb along my fingertips. I think of the CARE benefit, the last time we were in the car like this together, made-up and sparkly. I had felt so loved then, a mere two and a half weeks ago. Now, I can’t stop thinking of the girl from the gym. The mental image of his hand, cupped around that bright pink backdrop, the pert little swell.
“Henry, would you ever be unfaithful?” I stare at our fingers intertwined.
“Why would you ask that? No. Never.” His answer is quick, definitive. He flashes me a smile. “Peter’s wife will be there tonight. Remember her?”
I nod. Peter Young, the only person I’ve ever met that Henry may have called a boss, with his prematurely white hair, straight Chiclet teeth, and deeply lined cheeks. I vaguely remember his wife Muriel, small and dainty in her fifties but with sharp, restless eyes and an infectious laugh.
We pull up in front of Heiwa, a trendy Japanese restaurant, a mere four blocks from Henry’s office skirting the line between Tribeca and Soho, depending on who’s asking. Henry leads me inside, giving my hand a quick squeeze. We’re led to a private dining room where twenty people mill around, in cocktail dresses and glittering jewelry. I’ve met most of them. Henry’s colleagues are both wary of outsiders and welcoming once you’re one of them. I probably have one foot in each camp at this point.
I spot Muriel Young from across the room, deep in conversation with Reid Pinkman, and I make my way to them. Reid gives me a wide smile and a kiss on each cheek, hovering just a second longer than necessary, his cheek cool and smooth against mine. He’s dressed in a navy blue suit with a slim, trendy fit and yellow tie. I look around for his date and see none.
“Zoe.” Muriel gives me a quick, cool hug. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, dear. How are you?”
I give a blithe answer, something utterly unsubstantial. She nods and returns to her conversation with Reid. They’re talking about Nippon, the partnership, and my mind wanders. How does Muriel know so much about Peter’s business deals? Henry acts as though he’s a federal agent.
“. . . and when Henry goes there, he should be able to see exactly what Peter’s so concerned about.”
“Right, I can’t say that I blame him—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “When Henry goes where? When?”
“Japan. Tomorrow?” Both Muriel and Reid look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot.” I recover quickly and my mind spins. When was he going to tell me? For how long? I scan the crowd but I don’t see him.
Reid plucks a glass of red wine off a nearby waiter’s tray and hands it to me. He then taps my elbow and gives a quick I’ll-be-right-back hand motion. I nod, dumbly. Muriel studies me, spinning the stem of her wineglass in her hand.
“You didn’t know, did you?” She cocks her head to the side. I pause. I’m so accustomed to self-sufficiency that it feels uncomfortable to relent, even with this small an admission.
“No. I didn’t know.” I search the restaurant again and still don’t see him. “He’s been distracted. It’s okay. For how long?”
“A week.” She gives me a comforting smile. “Henry is a tough man, Zoe. I’ve known him for a long time. I never thought he’d recover from Tara.”
“How so?”
“Oh,” she waves her hand around, her bracelets clattering together. She smiles guiltily and lowered her voice. “He was a mess for a while. Determined to find out who was driving the car. That sort of thing. He seemed to all but forget about it after he met you. You’re very different.”
The wine warms my cheeks. “Did you know her well?” I tilt my head back and take the last swig, the red burning the back of my throat.
Muriel gives me a surprised look. “No, I never met her.”
“Really? Why not?” The back of my mouth goes dry.
She leans in, taps my shoulder once. “Tara was agoraphobic, dear. No one ever met her.”
• • •
Muriel moves on, circulates among the crowd. Eventually, I find Henry and hover next to him but somehow get pushed outside the circle. He doesn’t make any gestures to include me, and I border on being ignored.
As the night wears on, I grow more and more angry. Why did he invite me? If he’s leaving tomorrow, why not enjoy the night together? Why not tell me you’re leaving tomorrow?
Finally, I grip his elbow and drag him away. “You’re going to Japan. You never told me that.”
“Relax, Zoe.” His tone is dismissive and his eyes narrow. “I was going to tell you tonight.”
“Muriel Young even knows. Reid Pinkman knows. I look like a fool.”
“You’re being overdramatic. You don’t look like anything. Everyone knows how busy I am.” He shakes loose from my grip and holds up his fingers to a waiter, indicating another drink. He turns back to me, his eyes dark. “Besides, I thought you’d know already. You’re so cozy with Reid these days.”
“What does that mean?” I snap.
“Oh, I’m sure you know.” So Reid told Henry I was at the gym.
At that moment, Peter Young taps the microphone and asks everyone to sit for dinner. Henry places his hand on the small of my back, to guide me.
We file into two sides of a straight, long table. It’s a larger crowd than I originally thought, about thirty people. Henry sits to my left and I expect him to pull my chair out but he turns to the man next to him, ignoring me. I’ve never seen Henry act so impolitely; he opens doors for women and carries grocery bags for little old ladies on the street. Reid sits on my right.
“No date tonight?” I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of water. Henry’s back is inches from my face, an obstinate wall.
“Not tonight.” Reid has what is known as boyish charm. Round, pink cheeks, shiny like a newborn’s bottom, and long, curling eyelashes so dark he looks like he’s wearing makeup. I’ve seen women (girls, really) actually swoon from his smile. In this day and age of smartphones, he still keeps a little black book.
Reid is one of those people you meet and instantly know you could be friends. Almost everyone feels this way about him. If you shake his hand, your mind spins with all the future memories you could have, all the mischief you could make. You could almost envision him, a grown adult, egging suburban houses and peeling away in his yellow Porsche. People get confused, Have we met before, maybe when we were young?
Even now, as he talks, I find myself thinking back to the Cynthia night. The night before Musha Cay. The night he helped me, rescued me. I almost laugh at my own dramatizing. Rescue me.
“I need to find a wife. I’m almost forty, you know.” He unfolds a napkin and takes a swig from his whiskey glass.
“No. I thought you were in your late twenties. Younger than me.” I’m honestly surprised.
“I’m an old man. Not in spirit, like your Henry. He’s an old soul. But I’m not getting younger. Know of any single women who are looking for a husband?” He rests his chin on his palm and faces me, his apple cheeks red from the alcohol.
“In New York City?” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you kidding? We must have the highest available woman per capita ratio in the country. Wear a sandwich board and stand on the street.”
He snorts, a quick huff of air through his nose, and shakes his head. “Find me someone. I need a smart woman, independent. No plastic surgery. No fascination with measuring their thigh gap.”
“What in the world is a thigh gap?” I blink, twice. I’m not sure I want to know. The concerns of half my gender baffle me. In Henry’s world, there is no shortage of beautiful, wealthy women who behave like teenagers with limitless bank accounts.
“See? Don’t you have any friends who are like you? Conscious of the world? Grateful? That’s our problem. No one is fucking grateful anymore. Look at you, with CARE. You’re grateful. I bet you were poor growing up, right?”
I shift in my chair. At that moment, the sashimi is placed in front of me, beautiful with its brightly colored fish and green vegetables, and a swirl of scarlet miso on the square, white plate.
“You don’t have to answer that. Don’t you have friends? I need to find someone like you.” He slurs the like and the you together. At that moment, I realize that Henry has turned around and is paying close attention to our conversation. I meet his gaze and his eyes narrow. He snaps open his napkin in one quick wrist motion and gives a short shake of his head, staring stonily ahead to some point on the far wall. I imagine it’s one of Henry’s most marketable skills: the stonewall. His face smooths out, perfectly unlined, like chiseled marble. A David statue of my husband and just as cool to the touch. While anger heats most people up, buzzes them and makes them hyper, it has the opposite effect on Henry. He becomes cold and still, his flesh hardens. A corpse taken straight from the morgue refrigerator.
Reid blathers next to me, his words skipping and sliding into each other, oblivious to the undercurrent between Henry and me. I lean to my left, nudge Henry with my elbow, press my fingertips into his quadriceps, he doesn’t flinch.
The sashimi plates are replaced by dinner plates, large and gleaming with impossibly small portions. Four courses come and go, with Henry smiling at Muriel across the table and Reid chattering to anyone who will listen. At dinner’s conclusion, while everyone is drinking dessert wine and sherry, Henry stands, his hand on my elbow, and with a wide apologetic smile ushers me to the waiting car.
In the car, the radio plays classical music at low volume, like Henry always instructs the driver to do. The city street passes silently by, life on mute.
“Say something, please.” I run my fingernail along the window edge, inexplicably damp with condensation.
“I don’t want to worry about my wife and other men. I’ll say that.” His hands are clasped across his knees, his back rigid. The ball joint of his jaw trembles underneath his skin.
“Is this about Cash or Reid?” I feel my shoulders droop. I’m so tired of this conversation, for no reason. I want to bring up the blonde but I can’t. It’s a big new door and the room behind it is filled with unknowable variables. I’m so tired. “I’ve never given you any reason to worry. That’s your own doing.”
“Zoe.”
In the apartment, he says nothing and goes right to his office. The door closes with a heavy click, a hushed echo in the marble hallway. I go to bed, knowing, acknowledging for the first time, that we are in trouble. Our life, not what I expect or want, but just the way it is. I realize that tomorrow Henry is leaving for Japan and I don’t know for sure when he’s coming home. It occurs to me that maybe he won’t be. That our marriage will be over.
I spin the charm bracelet around my wrist. Such a unique, creative gift, so out of character for Henry. Just last weekend, he’d been windblown and free. Loving. Writing poetry, or at least copying poetry. And now, back in the city we call home, he’s this other man again. Cold. Calculating.
I feel the bed move underneath me. The blankets pull back and Henry’s hand, soft as silk across my skin. He pulls me against him and my stomach swoops with relief. We’ve always done this, we’ve always made up, made love, nothing has ever been permanent. I was silly to think otherwise. His breath flutters, hot in my ear.
Before I know it, his hands push up my nightgown and he’s on top of me, in me, hard and pressing, his wet gasps against my collarbone come quick and his hand grips my hip as he grunts, once, twice. It’s over in a minute. He pants quietly next to me, his palm smooths my hair off my forehead. In the dark, he stands up, the moonlight reflecting off a sheen of sweat on his skin and I realize that he is naked. That he came to me for one purpose and I’ve served it. He’s leaving. He pauses in the doorway, his hand resting on the doorknob, a thin, white line of light reflected down his back and leg. His face is turned and in the half-light, his mouth opens and closes, like he wants to say something, and still, stupidly, my heart catches on the unspoken maybe.
“I’ll see you in a week, Zoe.”