“But odds are Sam misplaced them again.” Richard’s voice had the same soothing cadence as when they’d first met on the airplane. “Why would she have taken the keys and not Sam’s wallet?”
“You’re right.” Nellie hesitated. “But Richard . . . all those hang-ups I’ve been getting?”
“Only three.”
“There was another one. Not exactly the same, but a woman called your apartment after you left for Atlanta. I thought it was you, so I answered without thinking. . . . She wouldn’t leave her name, and I—”
“Sweetheart, that was just Ellen from the office. She reached me on my cell phone.”
“Oh.” Nellie’s body sagged with the release of tension. “I thought—I mean, it was a Sunday, so . . .”
Richard kissed the tip of her nose. “Gelato. Then Sam will probably call to say she found her keys in the refrigerator.”
“You’re right.” Nellie laughed.
Richard moved to take the side next to the curb, between her and traffic, as he always did. He wrapped his arm around her and they continued walking.
After Sam called to say the locksmith had come and gone, Nellie went to the bathroom to change into her gauzy sleeveless nightgown and brush her teeth. Richard was already in bed, wearing his boxer briefs. As she climbed in next to him, she noticed the silver-framed photograph on his nightstand was tilted away so it faced the wall. It was a picture of her sitting on a bench in Central Park wearing jean shorts and a tank top; Richard always said he liked to see her when he woke up on mornings when she wasn’t there.
Richard noticed, too, and reached to turn it back around. “The maid was here.”
He picked up the remote and turned off the television, then pressed his body against hers. At first she thought his touch meant what it usually meant when he reached for her under the sheets. But then he released her and rolled onto his back.
“I need to tell you something.” His tone was serious.
“Okay,” Nellie said slowly.
“I didn’t play golf until I was in my twenties.”
She couldn’t see his face in the darkness. “So . . . those summers at the club?”
He exhaled. “I was a caddy. A waiter. A lifeguard. I carried clubs. I picked up wet towels. When kids ordered hot dogs that cost as much as I made in an hour, I served them. I hated that fucking club. . . .”
Nellie traced her fingers down his arm, smoothing the dark hairs under her fingertips. She’d never heard him sound so vulnerable before. “I’d always assumed you’d grown up with money.”
“I told you my dad was in finance. He was an accountant. He did the taxes for the neighborhood plumbers and handymen.”
She remained silent, not wanting to interrupt.
“Maureen got a college scholarship, then helped pay for me to go.” Richard’s body felt rigid under her touch. “I lived with her to save money, and I took out a lot of loans. And I worked my ass off.”
She sensed Richard hadn’t shared this part of himself with many people.
They lay together in silence for a few minutes as Nellie slowly became aware that Richard’s revelation pieced together something for her.
His manners were so flawless they seemed almost choreographed. Dropped into any conversation, he could hold his own—whether he was talking to a cabdriver or a Philharmonic violinist at a charity event. He knew how to wield silverware gracefully and change the oil in his car. His nightstand held magazines ranging from ESPN to The New Yorker as well as a stack of biographies. She’d thought he was a chameleon, the sort of person who could effortlessly fit in anywhere.
But he must have taught himself those skills—or perhaps Maureen had taught him some of them.
“Your mother?” Nellie asked. “I know she was a homemaker. . . .”
“Yeah. Well, a Virginia Slims smoker and soap opera watcher, too.” It could have been a joke, except no humor was in his tone. “My mom never went to college. Maureen was the one who helped me with homework. She pushed me; she told me I was smart enough to do anything I put my mind to. I owe her everything.”
“But your parents—they loved you.” Nellie thought of the photographs on Richard’s wall. She knew his parents had died in the car crash when he was just fifteen and that he’d gone to live with Maureen then, but she hadn’t realized how deeply formative a role his big sister had played in his life.
“Sure,” he said. Nellie was about to ask more about his parents, but Richard’s voice stopped her. “I’m beat. Let’s drop this, okay?”
Nellie laid her head on his chest. “Thank you for telling me.” Knowing he’d struggled—that he’d been a waiter, too, and hadn’t always been sure of himself—conjured feelings of tenderness in her.
He was so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he flipped over on top of her and began to kiss her, his tongue slipping between her lips as his knee spread apart her legs.
She wasn’t ready for him and sucked in a breath as he entered her, but didn’t ask him to stop. He pressed his face into her neck, his arms on either side of her head. He finished quickly and lay on top of her, breathing hard.
“I love you,” Nellie said softly.
She wasn’t sure if he’d heard, but then he lifted his head and kissed her gently on the lips.
“Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you, my Nellie?” He smoothed back her hair.
She shook her head.
“You were smiling down at a little boy in the airport; you looked like an angel. And I thought you could save me.”
“Save you?” she echoed.
His words were a whisper: “From myself.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Years ago, shortly after I’d first moved to New York, I was walking to work, taking in the sights: towering buildings, snatches of conversations in multiple languages, yellow taxis darting through the streets, and calls from vendors hawking everything from pretzels to fake Gucci purses. Then the flow of foot traffic abruptly stopped. Through the crowd, I could see a few police officers gathered ahead, near a gray blanket someone had left crumpled on the sidewalk. An ambulance idled at the curb.
“A jumper,” someone said. “Must’ve just happened.”
I realized then the blanket covered a shattered body.
I’d stood there for a minute, feeling as if it was somehow disrespectful to cross the street and walk past the scene, even though the police were directing us to do so. Then I saw a shoe by the curb. A low-heeled, sensible blue pump, lying on its side, its sole slightly worn. The kind of shoe a woman might reach for to wear to a job that required her to dress professionally but also be on her feet for long stretches. A bank teller, maybe, or desk clerk at a hotel. A police officer was bending down to place the shoe in a plastic bag.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that shoe, or the woman it belonged to. She must have gotten up that morning, gotten dressed, and stepped out of a window into the air.
I searched the newspapers the following day, but there was only a tiny mention of the incident. I never knew what had made her commit such a desperate act—if she’d been planning it, or if something inside her had suddenly snapped.
I think I’ve figured out the answer, all these years later: It was both. Because something inside me has finally cracked open, but I’ve come to realize I’ve also been heading toward this moment all along. The phone calls, the watching, the other things I’ve done . . . I’ve been circling around my replacement, drawing closer to her, assessing her. Preparing.
Her life with Richard is beginning. My life feels as if it is ending.
Soon she will step into her white dress. She will smooth makeup over her clear young skin. She will wear something borrowed and something blue. The musicians will lift their instruments to serenade her as she slowly makes her way down the aisle, toward the only man I ever truly loved. Once she and Richard look into each other’s eyes and say “I do,” there will be no point of return.
I must stop the wedding.
It is now four A.M. I haven’t slept. I’ve been staring at the clock, going over what I need to do, playing out the various scenarios.
She hasn’t moved out of her apartment yet. I’ve checked.