The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty-Eight





ORCHARD STREET, LOWER EAST SIDE, THURSDAY, AUGUST 20, 1931



MARIA listened to the sound of Jude’s key in the lock. She lay on the couch, afghan spread across her legs, and waited to see the look on his face. He stopped in the doorway, breath balled in his throat. The apartment was transformed, awash in candlelight and floating in the sounds of Haydn’s Third Symphony. It had taken them months to save up for the record player, but the splurge seemed reasonable, given the circumstances. The soft scratch of the needle traveling through the groove added texture and depth to the music. A faint blush of orange light painted the upper half of their living room window as the sun set behind the skyline.

“Welcome home.” She smiled.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” Jude crossed the room and kissed her forehead. He joined her on the couch. “I got a really interesting cold case today.”

She raised her eyebrows in question.

“Apparently, a New York State Supreme Court judge disappeared a year ago, and no one ever found out what happened to him.” He cupped her face in his palms, kissed her deeply. It felt like the brush of apology against her lips. “So now I’ve got all the time in the world to make it right. I promised I would.”

“I know.” A flash of worry crossed her face. Every time Joseph Crater came up in conversation, she grew anxious.

Jude tucked her into the tender circle of his arm. “I have something for you.” He pulled a small box from his pocket and set it in her palm. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a shoelace.

Maria glanced at his feet. One of his shoes had sacrificed a lace. She touched her smile with two fingers as her eyes glassed over with tears.

“Open it.”

Jude tensed around her, eager, but Maria took her time, slowly unraveling the crude bow and peeling the paper off one edge at a time. She gasped when she lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a soft bed of cotton, lay her rosary. The silver chain was repaired, all fifty-nine glass beads were set back in place, and the crucifix dangled at the bottom, newly polished. He held it up for her inspection.

Maria ran a tentative finger across the chain. “It’s even more beautiful than I remembered.”

“Finn helped. I wasn’t exactly sure how it all went.” Jude placed it around her neck. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Forgive me?”

“Ages ago.”

Jude stretched out on his side and drew her to him, her spine against his stomach. In the background, the symphony played on, dipping and curling around the silence. Her breathing slowed, softened, as their bodies melted together. She fought the sleep that tugged at her eyes, wanting to savor this. It happened often lately, a sudden exhaustion that swept her away from the moment, only to release her hours later to find that a chunk of time was gone—a blank spot in an increasingly precious number of days.

When she’d finally shared Dr. Godfrey’s diagnosis with Jude, they had both wept, arms thrown around one another, knotted together in grief. Her lengthy battle with infertility was explained by two excruciating words: ovarian cancer. The life they’d always hoped for was replaced by an urgent need to soak up every minute they had left. All talk of cancer and dishonesty was abandoned. They allowed no room in their conversation for words acquainted with heartbreak. They spoke only of love and faith and hope. Of each other.

Haydn wound to a close, the record player humming, and was replaced by the symphony of New York. Cars and people and the never-ending rattle of the El. Their neighbors fought in Polish, indiscernible words drifting through the poorly insulated walls. Someone paced in the apartment above them, a cane tapping against the floor. Jude patted her back in rhythm. Pulled her closer. Breathed in the scent of her soap. She felt his lips smile against the nape of her neck. And she knew that she would rather have this than a baby. She would rather have Jude.