“I was only eighteen,” I said.
Youth. The ultimate excuse. Let me be eighteen again! I hadn’t much liked it at the time. But never mind. Let me try again—eighteen, or fifteen, or five—so I could learn everything all over and maybe this time get it right.
We ate, and we drank, and we were funny and charming. Except for the extraordinary bill, it felt almost like old times.
The waiter cleared off the table, brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth, and returned with menus for dessert and after-dinner drinks.
I was full from all the courses that seemed to keep coming and waved off the dessert menu. “Just coffee for me.”
“Have you ever tried vintage port?” Nolan asked me. And before I could answer, he had ordered a glass for each of us. Then we both ordered dessert to go with it.
We didn’t leave the restaurant until after ten. By then I was fairly drunk. By the time the check came, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. The port had gone down easy, and the coffee was warm and soothing.
Nolan offered to drive us home, and I gladly handed over the keys. Several times I felt myself nodding off in the car. Walking into the house, my limbs felt unimaginably heavy. There was a message from Cynthia on the machine. Just checking in. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Call if it’s not too late.
I helped Nolan open the futon in the living room and got some sheets and pillows from the linen closet.
“I can take it from here, chief,” he said. “You look beat.”
“Yep,” I said, already imagining how good the bed would feel.
“You’d mentioned on Friday a bottle of Scotch. Do you mind if I …”
“In the cabinet over the refrigerator. Help yourself.”
“You’re probably too tired for one more.”
“You could say that.” I was heading toward the bathroom to brush my teeth, but on the way I stopped. “I want to thank you for dinner. I really enjoyed it.”
He smiled. “So did I.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. You know, tomorrow or whenever. But I want you to know that this was really … good. It was a good thing to do.”
“I feel the same way,” he said. “It really was a perfect dinner.”
I yawned, and hoped that when I lay in bed, the room wouldn’t spin. “Well, it’s getting late. So I think I’m going to turn in. If you need any extra blankets or anything—”
“I’ll be fine. Go to bed. I might just have one more drink. Watch a little TV. Let me know if the volume’s too loud.”
“I’m sure it won’t be. I’m really tired. Well, good night.”
“Good night,” he said.
I lay in bed, glad to see that the walls and ceiling were holding in place, and from the phone on my bedside table I dialed Cynthia’s cell. Trying to sound reasonably sober, I left a message on her voicemail: It’s me, golf was fun, I’m going to bed, can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Oh, and if you need me, call the house—my cell still isn’t working.
I had her sister’s home number memorized, but they all went to sleep early and I didn’t want to wake anybody.
I shut off the light and lay on my back. It was almost eleven. Cynthia was probably in bed right now, too. Reading a book, maybe. Or more likely, the kids had worn her out and she was asleep.
I was fairly certain that when she came home tomorrow, I’d tell her exactly how I’d spent the last three days. I didn’t see how we could live the rest of our lives with such a profound secret between us. So I knew I ought to have felt dread lying there, staring into the darkness. But I didn’t. While I didn’t expect Cynthia ever to understand the things I had done, I had the feeling that she’d find a way to forgive me and to accept what had happened. Our marriage would survive.
I couldn’t account, exactly, for my optimism. Yet I felt it. Maybe it was that hastily drawn-up contract with Marie. I didn’t want my friends to lose all their money—and I didn’t want to lose all mine, either—but I couldn’t help feeling relieved by Marie’s reckless, greedy demand. It showed tremendous nerve, and it meant that maybe we hadn’t traumatized her quite as badly as I’d thought.
But ultimately all that mattered was that we had let her go, just as we said we would. Two days too late? Of course. But I’d protected her. I’d kept my word, and now she was free—to collect the money, to move her grandmother into a better nursing home, or not. Free to turn us in, if that’s what she decided to do. Free to do whatever the hell she wanted.
And I felt optimistic about that, too. Because I was pretty sure that she’d decide to live up to her end of the bargain. It was just like Nolan had said. She was one of us. She’d take the money and leave us alone. She’d keep her word, same as we would.