Sam parks, flustered, forty minutes late to meet Annie. She’s coming from visiting his mother, and he texted her a half hour ago that a patient had run late and he was on his way, but in reality he was at home, waiting to intercept the mail. Still no paperwork from Rushing Waters, granting him power of attorney over his mother’s accounts. He dashes across the street into the restaurant. A four-piece jazz ensemble is playing in the corner, doing nothing for the headache he’s been fighting since lunch, and he notices the fireplace in the back, the French doors open to a stone terrace lit with clear lights and scattered with the leaves that have begun to fall.
Sam can’t believe this is the same place that was once the Howard Family Restaurant, the shabby diner at the edge of town where everyone gathered after school, where the girls would chain-smoke Salem Slim Lights and dip their french fries into a shallow bowl of ranch dressing as he looked on, deciding which among them to pursue next. It was now Chestnut, owned and operated by some guy from California, on his way to his first Michelin star, chicken on the menu for $31.
Sam scans the room for Annie, praying to God none of his patients are here. A woman in a navy suit with a baby strapped to her chest is surrounded by a crowd in the dining room. That must be her: the mayoral candidate hosting this meet-and-greet. A thirty-three-year-old mother of newborn twins, vying to become the first woman elected mayor of Chestnut Hill. Annie suggested they come.
Sam feels on edge and makes his way to the bar for a double whisky, noticing a blond woman with wiry arms in a black sleeveless dress eyeing him from the corner seat, a coy smile on her face. Sam nods and looks away, knowing nothing good ever comes from a woman flashing that kind of smile, and spots Annie talking to an elderly couple near a table set with coffee. She’s wearing a baggy linen dress that still somehow shows off her curves, and he feels a flash of heat, remembering last night. He went to the gym to work off the stress—two phone calls from credit companies and a letter from a debt collector—and the house was dark when he got home. Five minutes later the doorbell rang, and he opened the door to find Annie standing on the porch, wearing bright red lipstick. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, that look in her eyes. “But my car broke down nearby, and my phone is dead. Can I use yours to call my husband?”
She stepped inside and looked around, complimented him on the lovely decor.
“I can’t take the credit,” he said. “My wife’s the one with taste.”
She nodded, trailed her fingers along the leather sofa, and examined the painting above the fireplace, which she’d bought herself from an artist in Bushwick before leaving New York. “What a shitty day I’ve had,” she said. “Any chance you want to pour me a drink?”
She was naked a half hour later, didn’t even make it to the bed.
“The chase,” that’s what she calls it, introduced him to it early on in their relationship, at the wedding he’d been shopping for at Brooks Brothers. She approached him at the dessert table as the evening drew to a close, introduced herself as if they’d never met. Her name was Lily, she said. She was a distant cousin of the groom’s, visiting from Boise, where she raised sheep and sold hats she knitted herself. He played along, offered to share a cab with her. She chatted with the driver, telling him she’d never been to the city before, never seen so many people in one place, Sam’s hand up her skirt the whole time.
It quickly became a regular thing. The hot waitress. The accountant with a dark side. She was astonishingly good at it: surprising him, imagining different characters, role-playing them to perfection, leading Sam in a slow dance toward the inevitable finale: mind-blowing sex with a stranger of sorts.
Annie Potter, his gloriously sexy, brilliant wife.
He waits until the older couple walks away before crossing the room and approaching her. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, kissing her.
“Are you late?” she asks, avoiding eye contact. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She snatches a canapé from a passing tray. “Just wishing I wasn’t married to a cheater.”
He shoots her a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last night.”
“I’m not mad,” she says. “But I am a native English speaker, so I’m aware that geocache is a made-up word.”
“Annie.” Sam takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “Look it up. Official Scrabble Player’s Dictionary. Fifth edition.”
She squints at him, skeptical. “How do you even know that?”
“I read it somewhere. They picked it as the word of 2014, from a contest. It beat out zen.”