Chapter Fourteen
Geoff’s house was hidden behind a heavy wrought-iron gate. A video camera watched Sylvie as she idled in the driveway, and she imagined her image being fed by wireless signals to a closed-circuit television. The gate swung open, and she pulled up behind the other cars, parking next to a black Audi. It was very possible she had parked next to this very same black Audi at the last party here, the last one she and James ever attended together.
“Sylvie,” Geoff’s young wife, Melinda, cried when she reached the door, throwing her arms open. Sylvie stepped in, wrapping her arms around Melinda and feeling the sharp edges of her shoulder blades. “Happy birthday,” Sylvie murmured.
“Thanks,” Melinda answered. They both stepped back. The only spot of color on Melinda’s pale face was her dark red lipstick. “You look lovely,” she added to Sylvie.
Sylvie ducked her head and shrugged out of her coat. Melinda swept right over her, her expression not faltering, not giving away that she might know something that Sylvie didn’t.
All afternoon Sylvie had tried to get in touch with Scott, eager to hear about the meeting earlier today. He wasn’t in the house. He wasn’t in his apartment. His phone had been turned off. She hadn’t known where else to call. She even tried looking up the number to the sneaker shop his friend owned in the city, but she didn’t know the store’s name.
She thought someone at Swithin would call her with an update, but no one did. She had paced the house, trying to imagine what could have happened. Scott’s bed in his old bedroom was unmade, his clothes strewn about all over the floor. An iPod was on the pillow along with an overturned magazine about cars. He’d still been living here the last two nights, but he’d holed up in his bedroom, not speaking to her. How dare you put me in this position, she’d said to him. His face had crumpled with contempt. And now he was punishing her, not even telling her whether or not he’d gone.
“Drinks are back there,” Melinda instructed, pointing. “And … oh! There’s Kristen and Bill!” Her face brightened at another couple that had come in after Sylvie, two younger people Sylvie didn’t recognize.
Sylvie picked up a cocktail and looked around the room. The party was already packed, everyone milling around with drinks in hand, the caterers weaving through the crowd with big trays of crab puffs and pot stickers. Geoff stood in the corner surrounded by a bunch of men in dark suits similar to his own. He caught Sylvie’s eye and waved but didn’t come over.
Sylvie had walked this very route of rooms the day before James had died. Oh, how annoyed she’d been at him at that last party. He’d agreed to accompany her, but moments before they were supposed to leave, she found him in his office, fiddling on his computer, wearing a stained polo shirt.
“We’re going to be late,” she said. “You need to get dressed.”
He didn’t move. “I’m not really in the mood tonight. I feel tired. Maybe you should go by yourself.”
Tired. Was that due to the impending aneurysm? Was it an early warning that it was going to happen the next day? But she hadn’t known. She’d thought he was being difficult. “You have to come,” she said. “You promised.” She didn’t like navigating parties by herself any more than she had when she was a student at Swithin or a freshman at Swarthmore.
Grumbling, James finally trudged down the stairs and got his coat. As they were getting into the car, he looked at her and said, “I never make you come to my business parties if you don’t want to. But I guess Swithin’s more important, huh?”
James knew it hurt, in the same way all of his little your-things, your-family, your-life-is-more-important-than-mine comments always hurt. Gone was the sweet, agreeable man who revered everything about her family, who said they could keep Roderick intact as long as she liked. And once that wound was open, others opened, too. That night she had started picking on James about how he hadn’t gone to dinner at Charles and Joanna’s apartment in the city a few nights before. They wanted to show off their Christmas tree, but James had blown them off entirely. “Charles wanted you to come,” Sylvie harped. “You could have at least sent him an e-mail saying you weren’t coming instead of letting me make the excuse for you.”
“I was stuck in meetings until nine that night,” he answered. By this time, they were getting out of the car, walking up Geoff’s driveway. “What was I supposed to do? Not work?”
“Why can’t you be kinder to Charles?” Sylvie blurted out. “You know how sensitive he is.”
“Sylvie …” James raised his hands in protest. “Jesus.”