“Cancer, I think. Eric goes there every weekend. They must be close?” She phrased it like a question, and I managed to nod, despite the sudden need to get out of the coffee shop, and away from Katie. Fortunately, Katie’s cell phone began to ring, and as she dug within her enormous purse, I excused myself. I borrowed the key from the barista, then locked myself into the closet-size restroom. My mind galloped, desperately trying to understand the information I had just received, and while there was a part of me that was questioning what Katie had said—that it must be some ridiculous misunderstanding—there was a more logical part of me that knew it was true, that I had been a fool. Eric was leading two lives, and no one knew that he was seeing me on the weekends. After returning the key I saw that Katie was still on her phone, and I took the opportunity to tap her briefly on the shoulder, point at my watch, and move quickly toward the door. Katie lowered the phone and stood, but I simply mouthed the word “sorry” and kept moving.
Once outside, I went down a residential side street. One of the brownstones had stone front steps that were shaded by a leafy tree. I crouched high up on the steps, not caring if the owner spotted me and told me to leave. I don’t know how long I sat on those steps, but it was probably about two hours. I felt miserable for some of that time, but pretty soon I began to feel calm. I analyzed the situation. Eric had compartmentalized his life with me so that it only happened on the weekends and never in the city. It was the way he operated; it was the way he had operated at college. But why was he lying about where he was on the weekends? There could be only one reason—that Eric was involved with someone here in New York.
A little before five o’clock I walked down toward Eric’s office building. I knew the address but not what it looked like. I walked slowly, my eyes scanning the crowd. I knew that I would not be able to handle running into Eric, but I wasn’t ready to leave the city yet. I wanted to see where he worked, maybe even see him without letting him see me.
His office was in a nondescript four-story stone building next to a Gray’s Papaya. I sat on a bench across from its entrance, and pulled a New York Post from a nearby trash can, unfolding it in front of me but keeping my eyes on the building’s front doors. At a little after five a few men in suits, plus one woman in a skirt and blouse emerged. No Eric, but he came out in the next group of three men. He wore a light gray suit, and as the three men hit the sidewalk, they all simultaneously lit cigarettes. I wasn’t surprised to see Eric smoking, even though he’d told me he quit on the day of graduation. He’d never once smoked a cigarette while visiting me in Connecticut on the weekend, but that was because he was two people. His coworkers, their cigarettes lit, began walking downtown, but Eric stood for a moment, glancing at his phone. A yellow cab pulled up, and I thought that Eric was going to get into it, but instead, a redhead in a retro minidress got out and kissed Eric on the mouth as he flicked away his cigarette.
They spoke for a moment, Eric’s hand on the curve of her hip.
My chest hurt, and the world shimmered in front of my eyes, and, for a brief moment, I thought I was having a heart attack. Then the worst of it passed. I straightened my back, and took a deep breath, studying the girl. She looked familiar, but I had yet to see her face. The fact that she was also a redhead was a twist of the knife, even though I could tell from this distance that this woman’s hair came from a hairstylist and not from genetics.
Eric and the redhead turned and for one horrible moment I thought they were going to step off the curb and cross the street toward me, but they headed north, arms linked. I watched them from over my newspaper and finally caught a good look at the face of Eric’s city girlfriend. It was Faith, a redheaded Faith. Looking back, I wasn’t really surprised at all that it was Faith—of course it was—but I remember being shocked by the way she had changed her looks, her hair now red like mine. And I was angry. I was the angriest I’d been in years.
CHAPTER 11
TED
Before saying good-bye at the Concord River Inn, after we had decided that it made sense for me to spend some time in Maine with Brad and Miranda, Lily and I had planned our next meeting. It was to be two Saturdays from our first meeting, at the same time, but in the Old Hill Burying Ground, a hillside cemetery that rose above Monument Square in Concord Center. There were benches there and we could sit beside one another and talk, and we would be less visible than we had been at the inn’s tavern.
I showed up early that Saturday afternoon. There were tourists in town, but none of them were on the hill. I sat alone on a cold, wrought-iron bench, looking out over the shingled roofs toward Main Street. The sky was low and the color of granite. A steady purposeful wind blew colored leaves through the air. I looked for Lily, studying the cars that circled Monument Square, even though I had no idea what kind of car Lily drove. I tried to guess. Something classic, I thought, but with just a little bit of flair. A vintage BMW maybe, or an original Austin Mini. But when I spotted Lily, she wasn’t coming out of a car, but walking briskly down Main Street, wearing a knee-length green coat, her red hair bouncing with each step.