“I love your bathtub,” said Lucy. “New York City apartments never have tubs two people can fit in.”
Lucy and Ben were in his bathtub together. The faucet jutted out from the side of the tub, so both of them were able to lean back and stretch out their legs. Lucy’s feet were on Ben’s chest, and he was casually sucking her little toe.
“This is on the list of things that stop but that shouldn’t stop when you’ve been with a person for a long time,” said Lucy. “Taking long bubble baths together and toe-sucking.”
“I sucked my wife’s toes until the bitter end.”
“You lie.”
Ben popped Lucy’s toe out of his mouth and said, “You’re right. The toe-sucking stopped. To be fair to me, though, she went through a long clogs-without-socks phase.”
“It’s weird,” said Lucy. “You go through your life, and you think it’s going to be this one thing, that everything is all figured out. I’m surprising myself, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” said Ben. “With this?”
“Yes. Look at me. I’m taking a bath with a man I barely know. And the woman whose toes you used to suck? I don’t even know her name.”
“Her name is—”
“No!” Lucy cut him off. “I don’t want to know it.”
“Fair enough.”
“The weirdest part is that when I go home, nothing has changed. Owen is there, Wyatt is there, and there’s lots of talk about the Titanic sinking. Or poisonous snakes. Or how to escape from quicksand. And the only thing that’s different is, I feel a little happier. A little lighter inside. A little like I have a secret, but that it’s okay to have this secret. I really can’t describe it.”
“So what about when it’s over,” said Ben. “When the six months end.”
“But, see, that’s the genius of all of this. It is going to end. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to be fine.”
Ben kissed the sole of her foot. “What if I’m not fine?”
“Are you being serious?”
“I’m not not being serious.”
Lucy laughed at that. “How many women are you going out with between now and when I show up next Thursday?”
“Three,” said Ben.
“Three?” This seemed, to Lucy, a little excessive.
“But two are Tinder Trash, and one is a blind date arranged by my former sister-in-law, I’m pretty sure as a way to punish me.”
“How long have you been divorced?” asked Lucy.
“Just over two years.”
“And you’ve got three dates lined up this week? Forgive me,” said Lucy, “if I don’t worry about you just yet.”
*
Gordon was strolling on his treadmill at a speed of 3.2 miles per hour, gazing out at the Hudson River, counting bald eagles. He’d been walking for just under fifteen minutes and already the count stood at three.
Gordon had named his estate the Eagle’s Perch. He’d designed it himself. Lots of wealthy people claim they designed their own houses, but Gordon drew his on actual paper. He drew it and then paid a firm to “translate the renderings into ‘architectural-speak,’” as they said. Meaning put in the outlets and measure the doors, stuff like that. But the house was his baby, it was his creation, and he loved it.
The day he’d closed on the land, he’d driven out from the city and stood on the edge of the cliff where he’d eventually build the house. It was February, and the Hudson was frozen over. Massive sheets of ice had shifted around like tectonic plates, crashing into one another, pushing one another straight out of the water, looking like a classroom model of how the Rocky Mountains had been formed. A bald eagle soared over Gordon’s head, blessing him, Gordon believed, and then landed on the tallest crest of ice and stayed there, motionless, until Gordon finally got too cold and went back to his car.
Gordon’s cell phone rang. He slowed the treadmill down to 2.6 and picked it up.
“Anything?” Hugh asked, without preliminaries.
“No,” said Gordon. “I told you, they’re not here. But I’m not sure why it’s such a big problem.”
“Well, the only real danger, I’d say, is that if lawyers examine those documents they’ll know what you want. We’d have given them our playbook, so to speak.”
“Are you fucking the fuck serious right now?”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, Gordon.”
“What I want to know is why I’m in this situation. I want to know why my attorney let this happen to me.”
“Because I didn’t think you would give the papers to her. I didn’t think you would leave them alone in her possession. Honestly, Gordon, the thought didn’t cross my mind.”
“Well, you’re my attorney. I pay for thoughts to cross your mind.”
“You’re right. I should have made myself clearer.”
“What do we do now?”
“Now? We sit tight.”
*
Owen and Izzy were upstairs at her house when they heard heavy footsteps down below.
“What is that?” Owen asked.
“Shush,” Izzy said. “Someone’s down there. A burglar.”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” said Owen.
“It’s those druggie kids,” Izzy whispered. “Those high-schoolers who keep breaking into houses during the day and stealing drugs from people’s medicine cabinets.”
Well, they’ve come to the right place, Owen thought. Izzy’s medicine cabinet was a sight to behold. He’d opened it one afternoon looking for some Advil for his back and saw nothing but orange pharmaceutical bottles with red and yellow warning stickers all over them.
Owen looked around Izzy’s bedroom for some sort of weapon. A baseball bat? Isn’t that what he was supposed to carry in this situation? But he couldn’t find anything, not even a tennis racket or a golf club. He finally picked up a spindly, straight-back chair with a woven cane seat. He held it up to his chest, legs pointed forward. It was half weapon, half shield.
“Be careful,” said Izzy.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Owen was slowly tiptoeing down the stairs, chair braced in front of his torso, trying to avoid the steps he knew were squeaky, when he heard Izzy’s voice booming out from behind him: “What the fuck?”
A guy Owen had never seen before was standing in the middle of Izzy’s living room trying to make off with the antique writing desk that usually sat between Izzy’s two front windows.
“You can’t just walk into my house and steal things, Christopher,” she said.
“I’m not stealing anything,” said Christopher. “This is my great-grandfather’s desk.”
“You asshole. I can’t believe you broke into my house. That’s it, I’m calling the police.”
“Who are you?” Christopher asked.
“This is a guy I’m fucking,” Izzy said. “His name is Owen. He’s one of the many, many men who’s been fucking your ex-wife.”
Owen just stood at the bottom of the staircase. He finally thought to put down the chair/weapon.
“Please, Izzy. It’s my great-grandfather’s desk. I want to give it to Jason’s son. I want to keep it in the family.”