The Vanishing Year (18 page)

Cash pulls out his phone and maps the route. We'll meet at eight at the train station, and I wonder for a brief second what I'll do when Henry calls at nine. If he calls. When Cash checks his watch and announces that his long lunch is over, I quell a stab of disappointment. With a quick tap on my hand and a “See ya tomorrow,” he's gone and I'm left at the table alone.

I think of the apartment, the shattered glass on the dining room floor that I haven't yet bothered to clean up, and I feel rooted to my seat. I picture Penny finding the sticky mess, wondering about its meaning. Calling Henry, compassion in her voice,
Are things okay?
I rummage through my purse for my phone, which is blinking with a waiting text from Henry.
Are you at home? I'm sorry about our fight. I've been hopelessly stressed about work. I want you in my life more than anything else. I forgot all about the celebration tonight, I've been so distracted. I love you. Please say you'll go with me. It's formal. I've sent something to the apartment. Call me when you get it. I'll pick you up.

The long message is a stark difference from Henry's usual short and to the point texts. I feel my heart, like fluttering wings in my chest, and close my eyes. I look at the time stamp, when did he send it? 12:05, right as he would be leaving the gym. I shove the image of the blonde out of my mind and feel a rush of love for him. We're not perfect, we may not even be good,
right now
. But there's hope there, and I know there's love. I can see it in the way he looks at me, and I flash back to his face, captivated, in the flickering candlelight of the Italian restaurant as he detailed the history of the town. Every woman should have a man who looks at her like that,
like she's the only one in the room. Was that really only a few days ago?

I sent you something.
I stand up so quickly that my knee hits the table, and I shove my phone back inside my purse. I hurry through the crowded café, jostling elbows and bumping into tables. On the way, I toss the paper cup in the trash. I have my head bent down and I'm so lost in thought that when I push open the front door, I crash right into Molly McKay.

CHAPTER
18

“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.