“Yes?”
“It’s Sally French, from Rushing Waters.”
“Hello, Mrs. French,” he says, clearing his throat, embarrassed. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Sam. Thank you.” She pauses. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” No, I feel like I’m losing control. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Well, no,” she says. “James, our head of accounting, was going to call you, but I wanted to do it myself. The check you sent bounced.”
“Is that right?” he mutters.
“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, and we’re hoping you can drop another one off tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he says. “Sure can.”
“You’re behind, as you know, and—”
“Yes,” he says. “I know. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“Of course,” she says. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Thank you, Mrs. French.”
The wind picks up and he begins to run again, telling himself it’s all going to be okay.
Chapter 12
I put the bag of Smartfood in my backpack, on top of my copy of Infinite Jest, determined to get to the slow and torturous end of chapter 3. I couldn’t resist ordering a used copy from Amazon for four dollars plus shipping. Skinny Jeans won’t stop yapping about how creatively inferior the book is making him feel, and rather than yelling at him through the vent to JUST STOP READING IT, I’m approaching it the way Dr. Sam Statler would. Empathetically.
Of course, Dr. Statler is showing exactly none of that to me. Between his persnickety mood and the box of letters I unearthed in Agatha Lawrence’s things, the tension in this house is enough to make me want to call in to my fake volunteer position and ask for extra shifts. The letters were in a sturdy box in the back of a file cabinet drawer. Hundreds of them, in pale yellow envelopes addressed to a person she referred to only as “Beautiful.” They’re heartbreaking—proclamations of devotion to a forbidden love, not one of the letters sent.
I hunt impatiently for my keys, knowing that if I don’t hurry, I’m going to risk crossing paths with Sam. He has this hour free and likes to take himself out to lunch, and I am not in the mood to deal with his bad attitude. I take my jacket from the closet and am opening the front door when I hear a car heading up the hill toward the house. I step back inside. He must have scheduled someone for this hour. Who cares, I think, resolute. I need a break from this house. I’m going out.
I wait until the footsteps pass by and Sam’s office door slams shut before stepping onto the porch. I’m wondering if I should try the new sushi place where the Mumble Twins recently celebrated their first anniversary, when I see the car parked next to Sam’s. The green Mini Cooper with the white racing stripe.
The French Girl is back, two days after her last appointment.
I turn around and walk back into the house. Consider me called-in-sick.
*
“I’m glad we could make this time work,” Sam says when we’re all settled in our places: Sam on his overpriced Eames executive office chair, the French Girl on the sofa, me upstairs at the vent.
“Thank you for accommodating me,” she says. “Chestnut Hill seems like a place bursting with middle-aged women with things to complain about. I was sure you’d be booked.”
Sam chuckles. “My practice here is a few months old,” he says, “I’m still building up a steady clientele.”
“Where were you before you were here?” she asks.
“New York for the last eighteen years.”
“I love New York.”
“Have you lived there?”
“Yes. I came here from Paris to study sculpture at NYU.”
I suppress an eye roll. The woman’s a walking cliché. I work in the nude, and on the weekends I like to drink whisky on my fire escape and date Ethan Hawke.
“What drew you to sculpture as a medium?” Sam asks.
“I like manipulating things with my hands,” she says. “It’s a lifelong passion. Yours is running, correct?”
“Yes,” Sam says. “How did you know?”
“I read about you in the newspaper. That little interview you gave. ‘Twenty Questions with Sam Statler.’”
“The piece was a little more than I was expecting,” Sam says. “Not sure I’d do it again.”
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “You come across quite charming.” It’s obvious she’s flirting, which is annoying, but I agree with her. That piece was very endearing.
“Well, thank you, Charlie. That’s nice of you to say.” A moment of silence passes between them.
“The article said that you were married, but nothing at all about your wife. How long have you been hitched?”
“Can I ask why you’d like to know that?” Sam asks, as I expected he would. It’s what he says every time a client asks him something personal, his way of maintaining a boundary and keeping the attention on them.
“I’m telling you the most intimate details of my life, Sam. I think you can manage sharing how long you’ve been married.”
“Fair enough,” Sam says. “Fifteen weeks.”