CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
One of the first clues surfaced even before we were married. I held it in my hand. Sam saw it. So did everyone else at our wedding.
A blond bride and her handsome groom, frozen in a perfect moment.
“Jeez, they even look like you two,” Sam had said when I showed her the cake topper.
When Richard took it out of the storage unit in his apartment building’s basement, he told me it had belonged to his parents. At that time, I had no cause to question this.
But a year and a half after our wedding, on a night when I went into the city to see Sam, two things happened. I realized how distant my best friend and I had already become. And I began to find reasons to doubt my husband.
I was so looking forward to seeing Sam. It felt like forever since we’d had more than a quick lunch together. We set a date for a Friday night, when Richard was at a work conference in Hong Kong. It was scheduled to last only for three days, so even though he’d invited me to come, we agreed it didn’t make sense. “You won’t even recover from jet lag by the time we’ll be heading home,” Richard had said. As with everything else, Richard adapted easily to new time zones. But I knew the combination of the Xanax I’d need for the long plane ride and the Clomid I was taking to get pregnant would leave me so groggy I wouldn’t enjoy the brief stay in Asia.
Impulsively, I booked a table at Pica, deciding to treat Sam. I took the train in, planning to spend the night at Richard’s city apartment. Even after all this time, and even though I still kept some toiletries and a few items of clothes there, I always thought of it as his place.
Sam and I had agreed to meet at the apartment we used to share. She greeted me at the door and we hugged hello. She loosened her arms, but I held on a beat longer, savoring her warmth. I’d missed her even more than I’d realized.
She wore a fitted sleeveless suede dress and high boots. Her hair had a few more layers than the last time I had seen her, and her arms looked more sculpted than ever.
“Is Tara here?” I followed Sam through the tiny entranceway and kitchen and into her bedroom. Beyond it, the door was shut to my old room—Tara’s bedroom now.
“Yeah,” Sam said as I plopped down on the bed. “She just got back from the studio. She’s in the shower.”
I could hear the water running through the old pipes, the ones that would occasionally scald me without warning. White lights were still woven through Sam’s headboard, and clothes were scattered across the floor. Everything was exactly the same, yet different. The apartment seemed smaller and shabbier; I felt the same sensation of alienness I’d experienced when I visited my old elementary school as a teenager.
“I guess there are benefits to rooming with a Pilates instructor. You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” She reached for a thick chain bracelet on her dresser and fastened it on her wrist. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look . . . how do I put this delicately? Sort of terrible.”
I grabbed a pillow and threw it at her. “Is there a right way to take that?” My tone was light, but I felt hurt.
“Oh, shut up, you’re still gorgeous. But what the heck are you wearing? I love the necklace, but you kinda look like you’re on the way to a PTA meeting.”
I looked down at my black slacks (slimming) and lacy gray chiffon top that I’d left untucked. I’d accessorized the outfit with my happy beads.
Sam peered more closely at my blouse. “Oh my God . . .” She began to giggle. “That shirt . . .”
“What?”
Sam laughed harder. “Mrs. Porter was wearing the exact same one at the holiday cookie party!” she finally managed.
“Jonah’s mom?” I flashed back to the prissy woman who’d come to my conference wearing lipstick that precisely matched her rose-hued dress. “No, she wasn’t!”
“I swear.” Sam wiped her eyes. “Jonah’s little sister is in my class, and I remember because a kid smeared frosting on it and I had to help her clean it off. Come on, we’re not going to tea at the Ritz.” She dug through the clothes heaped over the back of a chair. “I’ve got this new pair of Jeggings from Anthropologie—hang on, they’ll look great on you.” She found them and tossed them at me, along with a black scoop-neck top.
Sam had seen me dress and undress hundreds of times. I’d never been modest around her, but that night I felt self-conscious. I knew I wouldn’t fit into her pants, no matter how much Lycra they contained.
“I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my knees, recognizing I was doing so in an effort to look smaller. “It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay. Want a glass of wine before we head out?”
“Sure.” I jumped off the bed and followed her to the kitchen. The cabinets were still painted the creamy shade we’d applied together when I first moved in, but the color was now faded, with a few chips showing by the handles. The countertops were lined with boxes of herbal tea: chamomile, lavender, peppermint, nettle leaf. Sam’s ever-present honey jar was there, but it had been changed to a squirt container.
“You cleaned up your act.” I picked it up.
When Sam opened the refrigerator door, I noticed containers of hummus and bags of organic baby carrots and celery. Not a single leftover Chinese-food container in sight. They’d always adorned our fridge, even days after they should have been discarded.
Sam grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled them, then handed me one.
“I meant to bring some wine,” I said, suddenly remembering the bottle I’d left in our home’s vestibule.
“I’ve got plenty.” We clinked glasses and each took a sip. “It’s probably not as good as the stuff you drink with the Prince, huh?”
I blinked. “Who’s the Prince?”
Sam hesitated. “You know, Richard.” She paused again. “Your Prince Charming.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Of course it’s not a bad thing. He is, isn’t he?”
I looked down into my glass of wine. It tasted a little sour—I wondered how long it had been uncorked in Sam’s fridge—and looked more like apple juice than the pale gold liquid I’d grown used to drinking. The blouse I was wearing, the one Sam had mocked, cost more than my monthly rent had here.
“No more Diet Coke.” I gestured toward the empty spot by the front door. “Are you drinking nettle tea instead now?”
“I haven’t gotten her to try that yet,” a soft, airy voice said. I turned around to see Tara. The photos Sam had shown me on her phone didn’t do Tara justice. She was brimming with good health—her teeth were white and straight, her skin glowed, and her eyes were bright. I could see the sleek, rectangular bulge of thigh muscles through her leggings. She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup. She didn’t need it.
“Tara read me the ingredients in Diet Coke one day. Remember?”
Tara laughed. “By the time I got to potassium benzoate, she had her hands over her ears.”
Sam picked up the story. “I was so hungover, and it almost made me throw up.”
I gave a little laugh. “You used to guzzle that stuff. Remember how we’d always stub our toes on the cases?”
“I’ve got her drinking water now.” Tara reached up to twist her damp hair into a knot on the top of her head. “I infuse it with parsley. It gets rid of the natural inflammation in the body.”
“So that’s why your arms look so good,” I told Sam.
“You should try it,” Sam said.
Because I’m puffy? I finished my wine quickly. “Ready? We’ve got a reservation. . . .”
Sam rinsed our glasses in the sink, then put them on the drying rack that hadn’t been there when this was our apartment. “Let’s hit it.” She turned to Tara. “Text me later if you want to meet us for a drink.”
“Yeah, that would be fun,” I added. But I didn’t want Tara there, talking about her parsley-infused water and laughing with Sam.
We took a cab to the restaurant and I gave my name to the maître d’. We walked through the thickly carpeted entranceway into the dining room. Nearly every table was full—this place had gotten a great write-up in the Times. It was why I’d chosen it.
“Nice,” Sam said as the waiter held her chair. “Maybe you were right not to change into the Jeggings.”
I laughed, but as I looked around, I realized this type of restaurant—with its ten-page wine list in a thick leather folder, and napkins intricately folded on the plates—was the sort of place Richard would take me to. It wasn’t Sam’s style. I suddenly wished I’d suggested sitting on her bed and ordering in spring rolls and Szechuan chicken, the way we used to.
“Get anything you want,” I told Sam as we opened our menus. “Remember, this is on me. Should we share a bottle of white Burgundy?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
I went through the wine-tasting routine, and we decided to split a rustic goat cheese and tomato tart and a watercress and grapefruit salad for appetizers. I then ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with the sauce on the side. Sam chose the salmon.
A server came by the table holding a basket with four artfully arranged bread selections. He described each one and my stomach rumbled. The scent of warm bread has always been my kryptonite.
“None for me,” I said.
“I’ll take hers, then. Can I have the rosemary focaccia and the multigrain?”
“Does Tara eat bread?”
Sam dunked a piece in olive oil. “Sure. Why are you asking?”
I shrugged. “She just seems so healthy.”
“Yeah, but she’s not a zealot about it. She drinks and she even smokes weed once in a while. Last time we did it, we went to Central Park and rode the carousel.”
“Wait, you get high now?”
“Like, once a month, maybe. No big deal.” Sam lifted the bread to her mouth and I noticed her defined biceps again.
After a little pause, the waiter brought our salad and tart and we each took some.
“So, are you still dating that guy—the graphic designer?” I asked.
“Nah. But tomorrow night I’m going on a blind date with one of Tara’s client’s brothers.”
“Yeah?” I took a bite of salad. “What’s his story?”
“His name is Tom. He sounded great on the phone. He runs his own business. . . .”
I tried to feign enthusiasm as Sam told me about Tom, but I knew that the next time we spoke, Tom would be a vague memory of hers.
Sam reached for a spoon and added more tart to her plate. “You’re not eating much.”
“Just not that hungry.”
Sam looked me straight in the eye. “So why’d we come here?”
I’d always loved and hated her directness. “Because I wanted to treat you to something nice,” I said lightly.
Sam’s spoon made a clink as she dropped it back onto the plate. “I’m not a charity case. I can buy my own dinner.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I laughed, but for the first time, the cadence of our conversation seemed bumpy.
The waiter came by the table and topped off our wineglasses. I gratefully drank a bit more, then my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my purse and saw Richard’s text: What are you up to, sweetheart?
Dinner with Sam, I texted back. We’re at Pica. What are you doing?
Heading to the golf course with clients. You’re taking a car home, right? Remember to set the alarm before you go to bed.
I will. Love you! I hadn’t mentioned that I was intending to sleep in the city. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I thought Richard might suspect I was planning a long, late night of drinking, as I’d done before I met him.
“Sorry.” I put the phone back onto the table. But I laid it there facedown. “It was Richard. . . . He wanted to make sure I’d be okay getting home.”
“To the apartment?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t tell him I might sleep there. . . . He’s in Hong Kong, so—it just didn’t seem like a big deal.”
I saw Sam register that, but she didn’t comment.
“So!” Even I could hear the false note of cheer in my voice. Luckily the server appeared to clear our appetizers and bring the main courses.
“How is Richard? Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“Well . . . he’s still traveling a lot, obviously.”
“And you’re drinking, so you’re not pregnant.”
“Yeah.” I felt the sting of tears and I drank more wine to buy time to compose myself.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure.” I tried to smile. “It’s just taking longer than we thought, I guess.” I felt a pang of nostalgia for the child I didn’t yet have.
I looked around at the other diners—couples leaning in toward each other across tables, and larger groups chatting animatedly. I wanted to talk to Sam the way we used to, but I didn’t know how to begin. I could bring up the interior designer who’d helped me select new upholstery for our dining room chairs. I could mention the hot tub Richard wanted to install in our backyard. I could show her all of the enviable bits of my life, the superficial things Sam wouldn’t have any interest in.
Sam and I had fought before—over stupid things, like when I lost one of her favorite hoop earrings, or when she forgot to mail our rent check. But tonight we weren’t fighting. It was worse than that. A distance was between us that wasn’t simply caused by time apart and geographical separation.
“Tell me about your kids this year.” I cut off a piece of steak and watched the juice seep onto the plate. Richard always ordered his steak medium rare, but in truth I preferred mine more pink than red.
“They’re mostly great. James Bond is my favorite—that kid has serious style. I’m stuck with Sleepy and Grumpy, though.”
“Could be worse. You could have the evil stepsisters.”
Sam’s nickname for Richard flashed in my mind again. The Prince. The blandly handsome guy who rides in to save the day, to give the heroine a luxurious new life.
“Is that how you see Richard? As my rescuer?”
“What?”
“Earlier. You called him the Prince.” I put down my fork. Suddenly I truly wasn’t hungry. “I always wondered if you had a nickname for him.” I was acutely aware of my expensive top, of the cost of the wine we were drinking, of my Prada handbag slung over the back of my chair.
Sam shrugged. “Don’t turn it into a big deal.” She cast her eyes down at her plate and focused on shaking pepper onto her salmon.
“Why don’t you ever want to come out to the house?” I wondered why she had chosen this moment to avoid being straightforward. The one time she’d been over, Richard had greeted her with a hug. He’d grilled burgers. He’d remembered Sam hated sesame seeds on her bun. “Just admit it. You’ve never really liked him.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him. I don’t—I feel like I don’t know him at all.”
“Do you even want to get to know him? He’s my husband, Sam. You’re my best friend. It’s important to me.”
“Okay.” But she left it there and I knew she was holding something back. Sam and Richard had never connected in the way that I had hoped. I’d told myself it was just because they were so different. I almost pressed her for more, but the reality was, I didn’t want to hear it.
Sam broke our eye contact to duck her head and take a forkful of salmon. Maybe it wasn’t simply Richard she didn’t want to get to know, I thought. Maybe it was me as Richard’s wife she was avoiding.
“Anyway, let’s figure out where to go next,” Sam said. “Up for dancing? I’ll text Tara and tell her we’re finishing up.”
I didn’t go out with them, after all. By the time I’d paid the check, I felt exhausted, even though I’d done nothing that afternoon but fold laundry and wait for the plumber to fix a leaky faucet, while Sam had worked a full day and managed to squeeze in a spin class. Besides, I wasn’t dressed for dancing—as Sam had said, I looked as if I were on my way to a PTA meeting.
I dropped Sam off at the club where Tara was waiting and took a cab back to Richard’s place. It was only ten o’clock. We made it an early night. I’m just about to get into bed, I texted Richard. I reasoned that I wasn’t really lying.
A new doorman was on duty and I introduced myself. Then I took the elevator upstairs, creeping by the door of nosy neighbor Mrs. Keene, and entered Richard’s apartment using the key he’d given me long ago. I walked through the hallway, passing the family photographs lining the wall.
I’d never told Sam about Richard’s upbringing, about his checked-out mother and his father, the neighborhood accountant. Richard had revealed it during a private moment, and I’d felt it was his story to tell. If Sam would actually ask Richard about himself rather than categorize him as she did her children, maybe she would’ve seen him differently, I’d thought.
Sam didn’t like who I was when I was with Richard—that was clear now. But I also knew Richard didn’t like the way I acted when I was with Sam.
I headed into the living room, noticing how the configuration of lighting—the darkness of the room combined with the bright kitchen globe behind me—turned the wall of glass windows overlooking Central Park into a mirror. I saw my blurry image, as wispy and insubstantial as a cloud. As if I were a figure trapped inside a snow globe.
In my black-and-gray outfit, I looked drained of color. I seemed to be fading away.
I wished I’d gone with Richard on his trip. I wished I’d handled dinner with Sam better. I desperately craved something solid to hold on to. Something more real to touch than the pristine furniture and glossy surfaces of this apartment.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a few bottles of Perrier and one of Veuve Clicquot champagne. I knew the cabinets held pasta, a few cans of tuna, and espresso pods. In the living room, the latest issues of New York magazine and The Economist were on the coffee table. Dozens of books lined the shelves in Richard’s office, mostly biographies and a few classics by Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway.
I began to walk back down the hallway to the bedroom to turn in for the night. I passed the family photographs again.
Then I stopped.
One was missing.
Where was the picture of Richard’s parents on their wedding day? I could still see the small hole where the nail had been.
I knew it wasn’t in the Westchester house. I checked the other walls of the apartment, even looking in the bathroom. The picture was too big to tuck in a drawer, but I searched anyway. It wasn’t anywhere.
Had Richard put it in the storage unit? I wondered. Other photographs were down there, including some of Richard as a child.
I wasn’t tired, not anymore. I reached into my purse for my keys and retraced my steps to the elevator.
The storage units made available to the building’s tenants were in the basement. I’d been there with Richard once, shortly before our wedding, when I’d brought a few boxes to his place to keep until our move. His was the fifth unit on the left. After he’d spun the dial of the thick padlock and put away my things, he’d opened one of his big blue plastic bins stacked along the wall. He’d pulled out a dozen or so photos—four-by-six glossies, tucked in a faded yellow envelope that said Kodak. They were all taken on the same day, a series of shots of Richard at baseball practice. The photographer seemed to be trying to get a picture of Richard swinging and connecting with the ball, but in every shot, he or she had clicked at the wrong moment.
“How old were you in these?” I’d asked.
“About ten or eleven. Maureen took them.”
“Can I have one?” I loved the intent expression on Richard’s face, the way his little nose was wrinkled up in concentration.
He laughed. “I was going through a dorky phase. I’ll find you a better picture.”
But he hadn’t, not on that day. We’d been in a rush to meet George and Hillary for brunch, so Richard put the pictures back atop a pile of identical yellow envelopes and clicked the padlock into place, and we ascended in the elevator to the lobby.
Maybe he’d stored his parents’ wedding photo in that bin. As I stepped into the elevator, I told myself I was merely curious.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if my subconscious was guiding me. If it was urging me to learn more about my husband on a night when he had no idea where I actually was. On a night when he was as physically far away from me as possible.
Even in the daytime, the basement was a dismal place, the underbelly of the elegant structure atop it. Overhead lightbulbs illuminated the area and it was clean, but the walls were dishwater gray and the individual units were separated by thick grids of wire fencing. It looked like a prison for the belongings people didn’t require for everyday use.
Richard used the combination of Maureen’s birthday. It was the same temporary code he always installed in the safes in our hotel rooms whenever we traveled, so I knew it well. I spun the dial, the metal padlock cool and dense in my palm, and it fell open.
I stepped inside. The units on either side were filled with a mishmash of objects—furniture, skis, a plastic Christmas tree. But Richard’s was characteristically tidy. Other than the pair of green sleds we’d used on our second date, the unit held only a half dozen identical big blue bins, stacked in pairs, lining a wall.
I knelt down, the concrete floor rough against my knees, and opened the first one. School yearbooks, a baseball trophy with the gold paint peeling off the player, a folder with a few report cards—he’d struggled with cursive and had been a quiet student, his second-grade teacher reported—and a stack of old birthday cards, all signed by Maureen. I opened one with Snoopy holding a balloon on the cover. To my little brother, she’d written. You’re a superstar! This is going to be your best year yet. I love you. I wondered where the cards from his parents were. I began to work my way through the bins, setting aside the envelopes of photos I wanted to take upstairs and linger over. But I was careful not to remove too much, and to remember exactly where every item had been so I could return it all in the morning.
The third bin held a pile of old tax documents and warranties, a deed to Richard’s previous apartment, the titles to his cars, and other paperwork. I replaced it all and reached for the lid of the next bin.
I heard a rumbling sound in the distance, like heavy mechanical gears shifting into motion.
Someone was calling the elevator.
I froze, listening for the sound of the doors opening around the corner from where I crouched. But no one came.
Probably just a resident who was traveling from the lobby to his or her apartment, I realized.
I knew I should go back upstairs, and not only because the new doorman might mention to Richard that I’d been here.
But I felt compelled to continue.
When I pulled the lid off the fourth bin, I saw a large flat object wrapped in thick layers of newspaper. I peeled back the protective covering, revealing the faces of Richard’s parents.
Why had he moved it down here? I wondered.
I studied his father’s lanky build and full lips, his mother’s piercing eyes that Richard had inherited, and her dark hair curling around her shoulders. The date of their marriage was written in ornate script at the bottom.
Richard’s father’s arm was around his wife’s waist. I’d assumed Richard’s parents had had a happy marriage, but the wedding photo was so posed it didn’t provide any insight. In the absence of any real information, my mind had filled in the blanks, creating the picture I had wanted to see.
Richard had never told me much more about his parents. When I asked, he always said it was too painful to think about them. Maureen seemed to subscribe to the same unspoken rule of focusing on the present with Richard, instead of their shared past. Maybe they talked more about their childhood when they were alone on their annual ski trips or when Richard went to Boston on business and met her for dinner. But when Maureen came to visit us, our conversations always revolved around his work and hers, their running regimes, travel plans, and world events.
Talking about my father made me still feel connected to him, but I’d been able to say good-bye to him, and to tell him I loved him in his final moments. I understood why Richard and Maureen might want to block the memories of the sudden, violent deaths of their parents in the car accident.
When it came to the darkest and most painful pieces of my own past, I also edited a few of the details while sharing the stories with my husband. I’d shaped my narrative carefully, leaving out the bits I knew he might find sordid. Even after Richard discovered I’d gotten pregnant in college, I never revealed that the professor was married. I didn’t want him to think I’d been foolish, that I was somehow to blame. And I hadn’t been truthful about how my pregnancy ended.
As I knelt in the storage unit, I considered whether that had been a mistake. I recognized marriage didn’t guarantee a storybook ending, the happily ever after stretching past the final page, the words echoing into infinity. But wasn’t this most intimate relationship supposed to be a safe place, where another person knew your secrets and faults and loved you anyway?
A sharp, tinny sound to my left jerked me out of my thoughts.
I twisted my head around and peered into the dim light. The unit next to Richard’s was packed with furniture; it blocked my vision.
This was an old prewar building, I told myself. The noise was only a pipe clanging. Still, I shifted so that I faced the opening of the storage unit. That way I could glimpse anyone who might be approaching.
I quickly folded the newspaper back around the wedding picture. I’d found what I had come here for; I should go. But I felt compelled to see what else was tucked away, hidden from the orbit of Richard’s everyday life. I wanted to continue digging through the stratum of Richard’s past.
I reached into the bin again and pulled out a small wooden plaque with a heart and the word Mom etched by the top. Richard’s name was on the back; he must’ve made it for his mother, perhaps in a woodshop class at school. There was also a crocheted yellow blanket, and a pair of bronzed baby shoes.
Toward the bottom of the bin was a small photo album. I couldn’t identify any of the people, but I thought I recognized his mother’s smile on one of the girls holding the hand of a woman in pedal pushers and a halter top. Maybe the album had belonged to her, I’d thought. The next item I touched was the white box that held our wedding-cake topper.
I lifted the lid and picked it up. The porcelain felt delicate and smooth; the colors were soft pastels.
Ever think he’s too good to be true? Sam had asked the day I showed her the cake topper. I wished she’d never asked that question.
I looked down at the handsome groom and the flawless bride with her light blue eyes. Absently, I caressed the figures as I turned them over and over in my hand.
Then the figurine slipped from my fingers.
I frantically fumbled for it, desperate to prevent the cake topper from shattering against the concrete.
I caught it two inches from the floor.
I closed my eyes and released my breath.
How long had I been down here? A few minutes, or had it been closer to an hour? I’d completely lost track of time.
Perhaps Richard had texted me back. He’d be worried if I didn’t respond. Just as the thought struck me, I heard a faint noise, again to my left. The pipe? Or maybe it was a footstep.
I suddenly became aware that I felt trapped in this metal cage. I’d left my cell phone upstairs, in my purse. No one knew where I was.
Would sound even travel up to the doorman in the lobby if I screamed?
I held my breath, my pulse quickening, waiting for a face to appear from around the corner.
No one came.
Only my imagination, I told myself.
Still, my hand shook when I began to return the topper to its box. As I laid it flat, I noticed some tiny numbers embossed on the bottom. I looked closer, squinting to make out the numerals in the dim light. A date: 1985. That must have been when the topper was sculpted.
No, that couldn’t be right, I thought.
I pulled out the figurines again and peered more closely at the numbers. They were unmistakable.
But Richard’s parents had already been married for years by then. He would’ve been a teenager in 1985.
Their wedding was held more than a decade before the cake topper existed. It couldn’t have belonged to them.
Maybe his mother had simply found the figurine at an antiques store and had purchased it because she’d thought it was pretty, I reasoned as I rode the elevator back up to Richard’s floor. Or maybe this was my fault. It could be I’d simply misunderstood Richard.
I could hear my cell phone ringing inside the apartment as I fit my key into the lock. I rushed to grab my purse, but it fell silent before I could dig it out.
Then the apartment line began to shrill.
I ran into the kitchen and snatched it up.
“Nellie? Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Richard’s voice sounded higher than usual—stressed. I knew he was on the other side of the world, but the connection was so clear, he could have been in the next room.
How had he known I was here?
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “Is everything okay?”
“I thought you were at home.”
“Oh, I was going to, but then I was so tired—I just thought—I figured it would be easier for me to stay at the apartment,” I blurted.
Silence crackled between us.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I didn’t have an answer. At least not one I felt I could share with him.
“I was going to . . .” I stalled. For some reasons tears filled my eyes and I blinked them away. “I just figured I’d explain tomorrow rather than send you a long text while you’re with clients. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me?” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It bothered me far more to imagine that something had happened to you.”
“I’m so sorry. Of course, you’re right. I should have told you.”
He didn’t respond for a beat.
Then he finally said, “So why didn’t you answer your cell? Are you alone?”
I’d made him angry. His clipped tone was the giveaway. I could almost see his eyes narrowing.
“I was in the bath.” The lie just shot out of me. “Of course I’m alone. Sam went out dancing with her roommate but I didn’t want to, so I just came here.”
He exhaled slowly. “Listen, I’m just glad you’re safe. I should probably get back to the golf course.”
“I miss you.”
When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “I miss you, too, Nellie. I’ll be home before you know it.”
Being in that basement—and being caught in my deception—had unsettled me, I realized as I changed into my nightgown, then double-checked that I’d secured the dead bolt on the front door.
I went into Richard’s bathroom, using his toothpaste and extra washcloth as I prepared for bed. The smell of lemons was so strong it unnerved me, until I realized Richard’s terry-cloth robe, the one he always stepped into after showering, was hanging on a hook directly next to me. The scent of his soap lingered on the absorbent fabric.
I turned off the light, then hesitated and flicked the switch back up, closing the door partway so it wouldn’t shine in my eyes. I pulled back the fluffy white comforter on Richard’s bed, wondering what he was doing at that exact moment. Probably socializing with important business associates on the greens. Perhaps a cooler of cold beers and bottled water would be in the golf cart, and an interpreter on hand to facilitate conversation. I could picture Richard concentrating on his chip shot, his face creased, his expression an echo of the one he wore when he was a little boy playing baseball.
I’d searched the bins to better understand Richard. I was still yearning for more answers about my husband.
But as I climbed between the crisp, ironed sheets in his king-size bed, I realized he understood me well enough to guess exactly where I was when he hadn’t been able to reach me at home.
He knew me better than I knew him.