“Where’s her mother?” I ask, searching left and right, up and down for the girl. “You didn’t leave her at home?” I ask. “Alone?” I’m prepared to go into some big diatribe about that girl stealing my big-screen TV, and how she was never, ever to be left unattended in our home.
But Heidi smiles kindly and says that she dropped her off at the library, on the way to meet me for lunch. That the girl wanted to check out a few books. Black Beauty, she says, and A Wrinkle in Time, tacking on, “The classics,” knowing good and well the only thing I read as a kid was the Wall Street Journal. She says that she thought I’d prefer it if Willow didn’t join us for lunch, a statement I can’t altogether argue with; I just happen to wish she’d left the baby at the library, too.
And then Heidi steps forward and kisses me, an impromptu kiss, that’s not too short and is entirely sweet, the kind of thing my Heidi would hardly ever do, not in public at least. Heidi is a strict opponent of PDA. She’s been like this for years, forever maybe, scowling when she sees some couple kissing on a corner or at the bus stop, even a quick peck, the have a good day kind of kiss normal couples share all the time. She presses close to me, the napping baby sandwiched in between, running her hands up and down my arms. Her hands are warm to the touch, vulnerable in a way that Heidi rarely is. Her lips press firmly to mine, decisively, and she whispers, “I missed you,” and as I draw slowly away, I know those words, those simple, golden words, and the desiring tone of her voice will stay with me all day.
We eat lunch. I order crab rangoon, Heidi the chicken pad thai. I tell her about my week; she tells me about hers. I apologize for the gazillionth time for missing her call last night, but unlike the seething voice mail she left me a mere twelve hours ago, this time she shrugs mercifully and says it’s okay. What I tell her is that I fell fast asleep, completely bushed from the week. I say that I had a beer or two—maybe three—with dinner, and I didn’t hear my phone ring.
I don’t tell her about drinks in the hotel bar; I don’t tell her about Cassidy proofreading the offering memorandum in my hotel room, alone. That wouldn’t be very sensible; in fact, it’d be downright dumb. I don’t mention Cassidy’s lissome frame or the profile of her breasts in the rust-colored dress, though still they’re on my mind, like some greedy little kid wishing for candy.
“What did you need to tell me?” I ask, and she laughs wholeheartedly and says, “I can’t even remember anymore,” as the waiter refills our glasses of water.
Heidi’s smile is sympathetic, the epitome of the submissive wife. Her hair is clean—no more spaghetti hair—and there’s some sort of musky-perfumy scent coming from her, something I hardly recognize anymore in my wife. I didn’t even know Heidi still owned perfume. Or maybe it’s the shampoo.
Her words come out solicitous, as she says, “You must be so tired, Chris. You’re always on the go.”
And I admit I am—tired. And then she tells me about the baby, how the antibiotic has been helping her get better. She’s feeling better and sleeping better, which, in turn, means Heidi’s sleeping. I can see that her eyes look rested, she’s found the time to take a shower and put makeup on, not much—a dab of blush, maybe some lip gloss—but enough that there’s color to her skin; she’s not a frightening white.
Maybe that was all that she needed, I think. A good night’s sleep.
“When I get home,” I say, “we’re going to need to talk about all this. The whole Willow situation,” and though I’m expecting some sort of backlash—casual Heidi to disappear and be replaced with uptight Heidi once again—it doesn’t come.
She simply says, “Of course. Yes, let’s talk. When you get back from Denver. But,” she adds, massaging my free hand—the one that isn’t stuffing deep fried dumplings into my mouth like I haven’t eaten for a week—and then lacing her fingers through mine and offering a squeeze, “I have a feeling everything is going to be just fine. You’ll see. It’ll all work out.”
And I find myself, somehow, convinced that it will be fine.
We say our goodbyes and exchange bags: me taking the clean socks and undies, my lucky tie, Heidi carrying away my dirty laundry like some dutiful 1950s housewife.
I watch as she heads off, down the street, veering in and out of pedestrian traffic, heading in the opposite direction of the library.
I take a peek inside the bag, to make sure she brought it, that she brought my financial calculator, because I said the ones from the office sucked, citing their microscopic digits and keys that don’t work as the cause though Heidi never asked. But in reality, it was the only small thing I could remember that the elusive Willow Greer had touched inside my home—that first day, in my office, when she leaned over to retrieve it from the floor, a shaky hand tracing each and every key, leaving behind an unmistakable identity neither she nor I could see—the only thing that would be within reason for Heidi to bring to me when we met for lunch.