24

Makayla told Cassie that she was thirty-six while they were seated in the backseat of the small cab into Rome. She and her husband, an ad executive, had a five-year-old daughter who was about to start kindergarten. They lived in Douglaston, Queens, and her in-laws lived nearby, which was a godsend when it came to childcare. She talked and talked, asking almost no questions, which was perfect, because the cab was stifling in the midday August heat and Cassie wanted only to listen. She might even have fallen asleep if, once they were inside the Rome traffic ring, the cab hadn’t been stopping and starting with unpredictable (and incessant) violence. But Makayla’s voice was low and kind, and Cassie imagined that voice reading aloud to her daughter those nights when she wasn’t flying to Frankfurt or Rome.

God, Cassie thought, what must it be like to have a daughter? To have children? One time she saw a quote written in blue and yellow chalk on a blackboard outside a clothing shop in the West Village: “Remember that person you wanted to be? There’s still time.” She wanted to believe that; she wanted to believe it almost desperately. She wanted to be different from what she was—to be anything but what she was. But every day that grew less and less likely. Life, it seemed to her in the back of the cab, was nothing but a narrowing of opportunities. It was a funnel.

“Here’s our hotel,” Makayla was saying, and before Cassie could reach for her wallet inside her purse, the other flight attendant had paid for the ride.

“Please, let me pay you back,” she said. She knew they were staying at the same hotel where the airline had booked them last week, but it still caused her to sigh in frustration when she looked up at the entrance. She thought instantly of how she would have to avoid Enrico. He would see the other crew members in their iconic black and blue and red uniforms and speculate that she was in the hotel, too.

“Not a big deal,” said Makayla. “You can buy me a drink tonight. How’s that?”

Cassie smiled at the suggestion. The fact that for Makayla alcohol was nothing more than a shorthand for friendship and camaraderie wasn’t lost on her. It was for so much of the world. “Okay,” she said and hoped that if they did have that drink, the gods would be kind to her and today would be Enrico’s day off. The driver lifted their two suitcases from the back of the cab. “Thank you,” she said to Makayla. “I mean that. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome—though I really didn’t do anything. Now, you should go get some sleep. I can certainly use a nap.”

Cassie nodded and watched a bellman carry her suitcase up half a dozen marble steps and then roll it to the reception desk. She would sleep. But first she would call her lawyer back in New York. It was almost seven a.m. on the East Coast. Ani would most likely be up.

« «

“You saw her?” It was a question, but Cassie could hear the shock and incredulity in Ani’s voice over the phone.

“Maybe,” Cassie said. “I’m torn. I thought I did. I was sure at the time I did. But the more I think back on the moment, the more it seems possible I was mistaken. Maybe this is just one more example of the way I’m losing my mind. It’s just getting harder and harder to keep it together. That may scare me as much as anything right now.” She was perched in the desk chair in her hotel room, one leg underneath her. She feared that if she sat on the bed, she would lie down and fall asleep midconversation. Maybe she’d never get up. She was on a different floor from last week but on the same side of the building, and once more she could see the towers of the Trinità dei Monti outside her window.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ani demanded, and so Cassie did, including her interview with Fiumicino’s airport security.

“Did you just yawn?” Ani asked when she had finished.

“I’m exhausted.”

“I get it. But you must realize that going after some poor woman in baggage is exactly the sort of thing that gives the airline a reason to put you on a leave of absence. Today’s New York Post? Nah. They won’t ground the Cart Tart Killer—that’s just alleged craziness—but they will ground a flight attendant who is demonstrably unstable in baggage at a major international airport.”

The magnitude of that sentence caused Cassie to nod, even though she was alone in the room. “That has crossed my mind,” she admitted.

“And obviously you have given the prosecution, when they get around to you, a little more fodder. This is a thousand times worse than calling Sokolov’s family in Virginia on Saturday night.”

“I know.”

“And yet you went up to this lady in the airport just because she had the same duffel bag as the person you saw in line? What did you think, she’d put on a disguise?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I was just so frustrated that the woman I thought was Miranda was suddenly gone.”

“God. I really am worried about you. You are completely out of control.”

“I know. I’m a little scared, Ani. I’m scared I’m not thinking straight anymore, even when I’m sober. I mean, I thought I was being followed in New York.”

“What?”

“Twice I saw a guy with a black ball cap on the street behind me. He was wearing sunglasses. Another time I was sure he was there.”

“But you didn’t see him?”

“Not the third time. That’s my point. I think I’m losing it.”

“Maybe you are. But maybe not. I wouldn’t be surprised if the FBI has someone watching you.”

“So I’m not crazy?”

“Oh, you are crazy, Cassie. You’re an absolute mess. But that doesn’t mean you’re not being followed. Please view the pepper spray as a wake-up call. A warning. I’m sorry it happened. I really am because I hate to think of your discomfort. But I’m also a little grateful that someone dialed you down before you did something absolutely insane.”

“I would never have hurt her. I’m not violent.” At least I’m not yet, she thought. “Grabbing her was a reflex.”

“Are you still in pain? Uncomfortable?”

Cassie had been careful to avoid the large mirror in the hotel room. She didn’t want to see how blotchy her face most likely was. She feared her eyes were still vampire red. The nurse told her she would look much better by dinner. She hoped so. “Not really. But I’m wondering if you or your private investigator can do something for me.”

“Go on.”

“Can you check the passenger manifests of the planes that arrived in Rome this morning? Can we find out if there was a woman named Miranda on one?”

“I thought you believed you were mistaken.”

“I said I’m torn. I seem to go back and forth.”

“Well, I can’t find that out,” said Ani, “but I’ll ask my P.I. I doubt he can, either. That kind of sounds like a job for the FBI.”

“Okay,” Cassie said, though her lawyer’s response frightened her. “Has he told you anything more about Alex’s background?”

“No. I’ll call him after we hang up.”

“Thank you. Oh—and I’m sorry I didn’t say this right away—thanks also for the way you handled that reporter from the New York Post. I really appreciate it.”

“I know you do. Trust me, so does my boss,” Ani said wryly. Then she asked, “What are you doing this afternoon? And tonight?”

“Worried I’m going to try and find Miranda myself?”

“No.”

“But you do believe she exists, right? I mean, maybe she’s not in Rome. Maybe I didn’t see her. But she is out there somewhere.”

Even across the Atlantic Cassie could hear the brief hesitation. “Most of the time I believe that. I really do. But your browbeating a strange woman in an airport doesn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence in your mental health.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you should just chill. What do you think? Don’t go out to dinner. Don’t go sightseeing. And for God’s sake, don’t have a drink. Pretend you’re under house arrest.”

It may have been the word arrest, but she thought of the two FBI agents back at Federal Plaza. Was there no ceiling to the trouble she caused? To the trouble she was in?

“And Cassie?”

She waited.

“Just in case, do yourself a favor: dead-bolt your door tonight.”

« «

She didn’t sleep nearly as long as she expected. Her body clock was too well conditioned, too predictable, and so she awoke from her catnap around three in the afternoon. She climbed naked from the bed and opened the drapes to the summer sun, and then burrowed back under the sheets on the cool side of the bed. For a while she stared out the window at the blue sky, and then at the walls of her hotel room. At the large, framed black-and-white photograph of the Pietà at St. Peter’s. At the television. At the armoire. On the desk she had noticed a pencil cup with a single pen in it with the hotel’s name. The pen was crap, but she liked the container. It was designed to resemble an architectural ruin—a remnant of the sort of granite column that held the great portico of the Pantheon. (The columns were Corinthian, she recalled from one visit to Rome or another.) She thought she would steal the pencil cup, probably as a gift for her nephew, but maybe for her brother-in-law instead. It would probably look nice on his desk.

No, she wouldn’t take it. She would exert a little self-control. She had been in this hotel just last week and pilfered the bookend. Perhaps housekeeping had noticed it was gone right after she had checked out and her name was now on some sort of hotel watch list. It would be yet one more example of the cruel humor that marked the world if, after all she had drunk over the years, she ended up getting fired by the airline for stealing trinkets from a hotel room in Italy.

Of course, that was the one constant in her life: she drank. Alcohol gave her pleasure and it gave her courage and it gave her comfort. It didn’t precisely give her self-esteem (especially not the next morning), but it gave her the faith that whatever she was, was enough. She was no longer the daughter of the driver’s-ed drunk in Kentucky. She was no longer the girl alone at the college switchboard at the loneliest hours of the night. Yes, she went days without drinking, but those were mere intermissions between acts. Between acting up. Between the moments when she was most really herself.

And, she knew, those days were growing less and less frequent.

She checked her phone. Nothing from Ani. Nothing from Frank Hammond. Nothing from the airline. Nothing from anyone. That was probably good news.

Finally she swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran her hands through her hair. Fuck it. Perhaps Ani was right that she should dead-bolt the door and pretend she was under house arrest, but she was who she was. She knew as well as anyone that people didn’t change. Just look at her father. The lure of the Limoncello—the Negroni, the Bellini, the Rossini, the Cardinale—was irresistible. She would shower. She would put on the cheerful floral sundress she had packed. Then she would apply her makeup and the skin cream the airport nurse had given her and go for a walk. Find a bar where (and the theme from a sitcom from before her time came to her) nobody knew her name.

« «

She saw the note under her door when she emerged from the bathroom. She had just toweled herself dry and was about to get dressed. It was from Enrico, the young bartender, and it was apparent that he spoke English better than he wrote it, and was probably dependent on Google Translate. He had indeed seen the other members of her airline’s flight crew at the hotel, and so he had asked a friend in guest services if she was among them. Then he had convinced his pal to look up her room number. He hoped she would view this as “enterprised,” not “stalker.” He had found someone to cover his shift and was “desirable” of taking her for a walk and to dinner. The note was adorable.

But she thought of Buckley back in New York. Arguably, her relationship with the actor had grown more involved in the last week. They’d slept together again, and it had been more of a date than a random hookup in a bar. Their relationship was, as her Drambuie friend Paula would say, Tinder Plus—the gray zone that was more than Tinder but not yet dating. She and Buckley might not yet be exclusive, but they had a connection that transcended libido and booze and an app for sex with strangers.

Moreover, was there even the remotest possibility of a future with Enrico, given the difference in their ages? Of course there wasn’t. But then again, did she have a future with anyone? Of course she didn’t. Her future, eventually, was in prison. She looked at the penmanship on the paper in her hands. It was hotel stationery. The ink was blue, and Enrico wrote with careful, thoughtful strokes. He had written that he would be waiting downstairs in the bar, and he could leave with her anytime and go anyplace she liked.

She had no idea where she’d be a year from now—or even a week or a month.

For all she knew, she hadn’t heard from Buckley because he had read the New York Post and was justifiably appalled. He wanted nothing to do with her. And why should he? God, most of the time she wanted nothing to do with herself. That, too, was one of the reasons why she took solace in the blotto zone. It was just so much easier to look at yourself in the mirror when it took that critical extra second for your eyes to focus and in the morning you wouldn’t remember just how awful you looked or how ridiculously you had behaved.

As she was reaching behind her to clasp her bra, she glanced out the window and gazed for a moment at the beauty of the towers of the Trinità dei Monti. She was in Rome, the city where Nero had supposedly fiddled as the buildings around him had burned. She had no idea if it was true. She didn’t know if violins even existed in the first century. No matter. She got the point. When in Rome…

She’d go downstairs and fiddle.

« «

As she expected, Enrico was at the bar. But he wasn’t working. He was seated on a stool before the beautifully burnished mahogany slab. He was at the near end, across from the hidden sink and the impeccable row of shakers and jiggers and stirrers and spears. He was chatting with a petite young woman in the hotel’s requisite white button-down shirt and blue vest, her hair a magnificent dusky mane. She was the bartender on duty. Cassie guessed she was in her early twenties. The world, she thought, was just so young. The bar wasn’t deserted this time, because it was nearing late afternoon. But the guests—and she counted a dozen or so people—were at the tables, not that long, inviting counter.

Enrico noticed her right away, as if he had an eye on the entrance, and stood to greet her. He, too, was wearing a white shirt, but he had slithered inside a pair of tight jeans instead of the dressier black pants he had been wearing last week. He was gorgeous. She wondered if as soon as she’d had a drink—oh, maybe two or three or four—she would bring him upstairs to her room.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t see you,” he said, wrapping his arms around the small of her back and pulling her into him. He kissed both of her cheeks and then leaned back a little, appraising her. She felt the warmth from his fingers through the thin rayon of her dress. “You got more beautiful in the last week.”

“I didn’t. But I did get a week older.”

“And you were outside without sunscreen. Shame on you!”

She nodded sheepishly. It was easier to nod than explain she had been pepper-sprayed at the airport that morning.

“But that dress is perfect on you,” he continued.

“I’m probably too old for it.”

He released her and smiled. He motioned at the woman behind the bar, who was making Bellinis for a table of Brits in the corner. She had pureed fresh peaches for the drink and the Prosecco looked very good. “This is Sofia. She makes an excellent Negroni, too. I taught her myself. But let me make yours.”

She watched Sofia place the flutes on a tray and bring them to the guests’ table. When she was silent, Enrico asked, “Is it a Bellini kind of day? Would you prefer that to a Negroni?”

She met his eyes. Yes, she wanted a Bellini. She wanted him. She wanted to get lost in the booze and wrap her naked thighs around his naked ass and feel him inside her. She wanted to forget Alex Sokolov and Frank Hammond and the woman she had thought was Miranda. This was a new thing, this drinking to forget. Usually she just drank to get lost, which may have been a cousin in some way, but was most definitely different.

She heard the chime from her phone that informed her she had a new text.

“Sorry,” she told Enrico. “I should see what that’s about.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the device. The text was from Ani, and the lawyer was asking her to call back right away. Cassie took a long, slow breath to calm herself. She heard a slight ringing in her ears and felt her heart starting to race. “I need to phone my sister,” she said to the bartender.

“You look worried. Is everything okay?”

She watched the Brits raising their champagne flutes with their Bellinis and clinking them gently together. My life, she thought, is all hunger. Hunger and want and need. “I guess we’ll find out,” she answered, and she took her phone and retreated into the anonymity of the hotel lobby.