Mark didn’t go to bed until Allie came home, at nearly one in the morning, spilling rubber-limbed through the door into his arms.
“It kind of turned into a bachelorette party,” she told him, and laughed wetly, and then began naming women she’d seen at a bar with Yancey: old friends and sorority sisters who, it turned out, had all conspired to surprise her. He led her to the kitchen for a glass of water, and she swayed in his arms. “I sang your praises all night,” she said, “O man of mine.”
He’d spent the last two hours picking over his memories of Chloe’s phone call like some kind of carrion bird. “Mm,” he said. “Thank you.”
“How was dinner?” Allie asked, still swaying. “I forgot to ask you that.”
“It’s safe to say Chloe was unhappy.”
“Well, fuck her,” Allie said. She drew back and looked blearily into Mark’s eyes. “I mean, not her. Fuck me.” She put a hand over her mouth. “Is that okay to say? I mean, today?”
He told her it was, and he would. But Allie was waylaid in the bathroom. The last thing he’d wanted to do, this late on this day, was hold her hair out of her face while she puked into the toilet, but he ended up doing exactly that. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Allie kept saying.
“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing a circle between her shoulders.
This was his penance, he figured, wringing out a washcloth, digging under the counter for bleach to pour into the toilet—cosmic penance, for longing after his ex-wife.
He was jealous of Allie. If ever there’d been a week since Brendan died when he had deserved a good mind-erasing bender, wasn’t this the one? He’d happily trade any of the last few days for a good heave into the toilet, a spinning head, someone to put him to bed and stroke his hair and whisper—as he did now—“Just sleep. Sleep and it’ll be okay.”
The next day, after Allison—greenish, wincing at the light—had staggered off to work, Mark kept drifting away from his own. He couldn’t stop thinking of Chloe’s call—which he recalled hazily, as though her voice had been a kind of liquor—and about Connie Pelham.
He had to tell Chloe. He should call her, say: There was something else I needed to tell you yesterday. Brace yourself, it’s nuts.
All along, as he’d imagined telling Chloe, he had figured her response would be the same as his own: indignation, outrage. But today he wondered whether she might take the news a different way.
He remembered her lying on Brendan’s bed. I thought I heard him.
Mark got up and splashed his face with cold water, then went downstairs and made himself another cup of coffee.
At one in the afternoon he gave up. He went to the living room and lay down on the couch in front of the television. And finally, for the first time since Connie Pelham had appeared in the bookstore, his mind let him loose; he thought he’d closed his eyes only for a heartbeat, but then Allison was shaking him, and outside it was dark.
“Sleepyhead,” she said. “Look at you.”
She was still in her coat, carrying shopping bags. He struggled to sit up. “What time is it?”
He’d sneaked a full night’s sleep into the afternoon. Steel cables creaked in his neck and shoulder blades.
Allison said, “So there’s a house for sale a few blocks over—one of the big ones? That looks out on the park? They’re having an open house.”
“Now?” he said. “God.”
“It’s going until eight.” Allie sat down next to him on the couch and bounced with excitement, a tic she only sometimes employed with irony. “It’s like two blocks from here! It’s just gorgeous.”
“You seem to have rallied.”
“I’m still young,” she said, nudging him. “I talked to the agent. I told her I’d come back with my husband, the doctor.”
This was a game they’d played before, but he sure wasn’t in the mood for it now.
Allie said, “And I told her I was a lawyer. Come on—this place is unbelievable.”
He stood, barely in control of his legs. “What happened to Colorado?”
They had decided that their honeymoon wouldn’t only be devoted to sex and relaxation, but also to reconnaissance; they’d joked before about leaving Columbus, moving west, but more and more (and especially after the winter had dug in its claws) the idea had gained traction. Why not leave town? If they could up and get married, why couldn’t they pick a whole new place to live? Since Connie Pelham had appeared, the question had taken on, Mark thought, a new urgency.
“Colorado’s still there,” Allie said. “Trust me—this place is so far out of our league.” She grinned and bounced again. “But maybe not for Doctor Marcus Fife and Allison Daniel, Esquire.”
“Honey—”
“Okaaay,” she said, in full pout. Another tic he wasn’t especially fond of.
“I’m just—I’m still asleep.”
“Can’t we just go see it? I owe you some fun, after last night.”
She owed him, he thought, more than that. She owed him a hell of a lot more than dragging him out of the house to play a silly game she liked better than he did—
But he was being an ass. He hadn’t worked so hard, all these years—hadn’t tried so hard to be alive—just to lose himself at the snap of Connie Pelham’s fingers. At the sound of Chloe’s voice over the telephone. He agreed to go.
He put on nice clothes: a jacket and tie, shiny shoes. Brushed his teeth and shaved and combed his hair. When he came downstairs Allie looked him over, smiling, and ran her hands down the lapels of his coat. She was still in her suit and heels from work—she didn’t have to do much to look the part of a young, ambitious lawyer.
They took the car: They were two professionals who’d worked late, who were just going to pop by before a late dinner. The air was insidiously cold and filled with mist, exactly the sort of unsettled winter damp he was willing to move west to escape; every streetlight had a cotton-ball halo. The curbs were crusted with black-speckled snow.
She was drumming her fingers on the wheel, singing something indistinct. Allie loved playing make-believe. He ought to love it, too—or else why would he and Lewis have wasted so many nights in college playing Dungeons and Dragons? And being Dr. Fife, now, carried with it an entirely different benefit—his and Allie’s make-believe hadn’t started with realtors; it had begun in bed, and, if he wanted, it could end there tonight. He glanced sideways at Allie, the lovely lines of her dark hair, the happy curve of her lips.
Allie pulled up to the curb, right in front of an OPEN HOUSE sign. No balloons for German Village: The agent had instead set out a couple of tasteful paper lanterns on each side of the sign, lighting it in pale gold. Allie was right—this was a beautiful house: two narrow stories, flat-roofed and brick. Four symmetrical windows glowed warmly; a wreath hung upon the front door. Across the street was the wide, knolled expanse of Schiller Park.
The agent met them at the door. She was in her fifties, tall, with lacquered blond hair. She wore a navy suit and pearl earrings and absurdly pointed high-heeled shoes. “Allison!” she cried. “Come in, come in.” To Mark she said, “Dr. Fife, is that right? I’m Lorraine.”
Mark smiled thinly at Lorraine, began arching his neck. He could afford to indulge his asshole mood for a few minutes; people expected doctors to be assholes. He used to, anyway.
The house was as beautiful inside as out. The wood floor had been polished deep and glimmering as lakewater where it wasn’t covered with expensive rugs. The walls were dark, too, painted—and in a couple of rooms papered—in tasteful reds and deep golds. A fire burned in the living room fireplace between built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, probably mahogany. Only the furniture was incongruous—too low and squared and modern for the house that contained it.
Lorraine was talking airily; Allison was exclaiming at the end of every one of her sentences.
The house actually had a built-in bar, in a corner of the living room. Lorraine had set a bottle of wine atop the counter, and several glasses, and offered them each a drink.
“Thank you,” he said. “What a gorgeous house.”
Lorraine smiled toothily, handed them glasses. “Oh my,” Allison said, after a sip. Mark tasted his own; he could happily have sat at the bar, with that bottle, for the rest of the night.
Lorraine was fishing, now, trying to pull information out of Allison. Mark kept half an ear on them and walked to the bookshelves, which had been filled with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.
“—And Mark’s a surgeon,” Allison was saying, walking to him and taking his elbow. “Up at Riverside.” Mark turned and smiled in what he hoped was a distracted, doctorly kind of way.
“Oh my,” Lorraine said. “Aren’t you two something. What kind of surgery?”
“Hearts,” Mark said.
Allison smirked and turned to examine the shelves.
Lorraine put a hand to her chest. “My father passed, last year. Four blockages—he never got tested.”
Mark said, “Past forty, you get tested for everything. I tell everyone—see your family doc so you don’t have to see me. I’m the bogeyman.”
Lorraine did her best to smile, then led them upstairs, where she began her spiel anew, walking backward down the hallway. They glanced in and out of the rooms, each more ridiculously appointed than the last. The master bedroom opened up on a bathroom containing a whirlpool bath the size of an outdoor hot tub; Mark heard Allie’s breath catch.
“Four bedrooms,” Mark said, back in the living room, when the tour was over. “Too much space for us, I think.”
“Not necessarily,” Lorraine said, her voice curling. “You’re both professionals; one or two of the bedrooms could be offices. Or guest rooms.” She smiled slyly. “I know quite a few young couples who were glad to have a house they could grow into.”
Allison’s hand slid warmly against Mark’s. “That’s a ways off.”
Lorraine pressed her lips together. She paused that way, Mark thought, maybe a second too long. He got it. Lorraine was telling Allison, The clock’s ticking, honey. Allie squeezed his hand, too hard, so he was pretty sure the message had been received.
“Well,” Lorraine said, “either way, it’s nice to have space. Our kids are grown, but my husband? He’s decided he’s a book collector now!” Her laugh had a theatrical trill. “He’s taken over two whole rooms.”
“Mark builds ships in bottles,” Allison said.
“Really?” Lorraine leaned closer to Mark. “What an unusual hobby.”
“Keeps my hands steady.” He held out his hands in front of him. “See?”
Allison pinched his lower back.
Lorraine cocked her head. “I’ve always been curious. How do you get all those little parts in there?”
“That’s a good question,” Mark said, bouncing on his heels. “I use my surgical tools.”
“Lorraine!” Allie said, pinching him hard enough to bruise. “Thanks so much for your time.”
When they were safely in the car, driving away, they both laughed for a long while. Allie’s laughter grew louder and louder, and finally she pulled to the side of the road. When the car was in park she leaned across the seat and kissed him, hard, her hands pressed against his cheeks. He held her tightly—and when her arms were around him he breathed deep, suddenly relieved. Because he’d laughed, because Allison had helped him laugh.
“That felt good,” she said at last. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve—”
But he didn’t know what to say. That his mind had been somewhere else, ever since Connie Pelham had appeared? Allison already knew that. Could he tell her that he didn’t believe in ghosts, but that he couldn’t stop thinking about them? Or about Chloe?
“I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m not going to let her get to me.”
“Connie? Or Chloe?”
“Sorry,” Allison said. “But… you said she was mad?”
He regretted telling Allie that; in fact, he’d hoped she wouldn’t remember. “She was.”
“So what did she say?”
“Not much. She told me to leave. I did.”
And then she called, drunk. And Mark had called her honey.
“So I told Bill,” she said. “Last night, after work.”
Allison hadn’t talked to Bill in almost a year, as far as he knew. He had remarried and now lived in Pittsburgh.
“What did he say?”
She shrugged. “Congratulations. And that his wife was pregnant.” Allie took his hand. “Don’t look like that. I saw you about to tear that woman’s face off in there. That’s not why I brought it up.”
“Sorry. I just—”
“I know. It’s okay.”
He shifted in the seat.
“He was unhappy,” Allie said. “Of course he was. I’ve been…” She leaned her forehead against the window. “This is weird, right? Doing this again—getting married again?”
He couldn’t lie. “Yeah.”
“I miss… not Bill, not like that. But I guess I miss, you know, the romance of it. The first time.”
He could understand that. Yes he could.
“How’d you propose to Chloe?”
“In bed,” he said, reluctantly. “I was going to ask more officially, but I was twenty years old and getting laid and just… blurted it out.” He rubbed Allison’s fingers, trying not to remember how Chloe had clutched at him, crying, saying, I’m so happy. “What about you?”
“I asked Bill. We got in a fight, actually—he was mad that I’d asked him. Said it was the man’s job.” She lifted Mark’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “I guess what I miss is the big deal. I mean, everyone’s happy for us, sure. Everyone I know thinks you’re better for me than Bill was. But the first time, I spent three weeks jumping up and down and squealing, and now, this time, I’m at a bar with all my girlfriends, and two of them have to go home and pay the babysitter, and Lana’s getting divorced…”
“I know,” he said. “Lewis and Dad were both pretty subdued. All told.”
Steam bloomed up along the window glass when she sighed. “I wish I’d met you first,” she said. “Instead of Bill. I wish the big whirlwind thing had been about you, and that you were the guy I brought home to Mom and Dad, and said This is the one. And I can’t even say that to you. Because—”
She stopped, maybe because of the look that must have crossed his face. He knew what she had almost said: Because of Brendan. Because he couldn’t—wouldn’t—unwish his son.
“I know,” he said.
She nodded and rubbed at her eyes.
“I can’t imagine Connie Pelham’s helping any,” he said.
“Oh, fuck her.” Allison shuddered. “No, she’s not helping.”
“Allie.”
“Yeah?”
She wanted him to tell her it was the same, this time. That it could be the same. That they could be as happy as they’d been, during their first engagements. And if he didn’t mean it, the least he could do was lie to her. When he’d said her name, he had planned to.
But he didn’t.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice sandpapery.
Allie stared at him a long time before nodding, then released his hand and put the car into gear.