“And the part about the long reach of The Pact’s influence?”
“I don’t know.” Alice says it firmly, without even a touch of the dread that I’m feeling. Is her confidence real, or is she faking it for my benefit? Still, just the fact that Alice is herself right now, ready to go into battle, makes me feel better. If the musician Alice is a delicate, mystical creature I wish I could see more of, the lawyer Alice is a tough, smart, entirely competent woman I’m glad to have on my side.
“I’ll be thinking about you all day,” I promise, watching her brush her hair. She puts on her subtle plum lipstick and her small gold hoop earrings.
“Right back at you.” She kisses me, long but soft, carefully so as not to smear her lipstick.
For some complicated reason involving road construction and parking, she’s catching a ride into work this morning with a colleague. A gray Mercedes pulls up to the curb at six, and Alice is gone.
At a quarter to nine, I’m at work, brooding about our unsolvable problem. All day, I’m in knots, going through the motions with patients, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering what form it will take. “What’s gotten into you, Jake?” Evelyn wants to know. “You’re not yourself. Are you coming down with something?”
“Not sure.” I toy with the idea of telling her, but what good would it do? I imagine her wavering between hilarity and disbelief. She wouldn’t immediately grasp the depth of The Pact and the threat it poses. I am certain, though, her involvement would lead to more trouble for Alice and me.
At two, my phone dings. It’s a text from Alice, a perfectly ordinary text. I won’t be home till midnight.
Let me give you a ride, I text back. I’ll be out front around 11:30. Come down when you’re ready. After yesterday, I want to hold Alice, see with my own eyes that she’s all right.
I arrive in front of her office early. The neighborhood is quiet, the night chilly. I’ve brought two sandwiches, a bottle of cream soda for Alice, and a couple of mini Bundt cakes. I leave the heater on, and I try to read the new Entertainment Weekly. Even though the cover story is on the viral growth of Sloganeering, I can’t concentrate. I keep glancing up at the lit windows of the law firm, looking for Alice’s silhouette, wishing she’d come down.
At midnight, the door opens. That guy from the party is with Alice, the tall, curly-haired one—Derek Snow. I roll the window down a crack, and I can hear him asking if she’d like to get a drink, but she says, “No, thanks, my sweet husband came to pick me up.” I’m absurdly happy to see her. I lean over the passenger seat to open the door and she slides into the car, turning around to drop her briefcase and purse into the backseat. She gives me a lingering, passionate kiss, and I feel silly for the sliver of concern that just passed through my mind. Clearly, the guy is not her type; I am.
She sees the bag on the console. “Sandwiches!” she exclaims.
“Yep.”
“You are the world’s greatest husband.”
I pull a U-turn on California Street as Alice tears into her dinner, recounting her day. Her team found some strong new evidence, and their chances with the summary judgment are looking good. It’s not until we make the turn down Balboa that I bring up the subject we’re clearly avoiding.
“What are your thoughts on tomorrow?”
“I called Dave,” she answers. “It didn’t go well. He insisted a directive is a directive. He said your stunt with Vivian didn’t help. And then he repeated the same thing: We have to make peace with The Pact.”
“What do you think will happen?” I ask, after a moment.
She’s silent.
“I wish you hadn’t even told Dave about your court date. We should just go with what JoAnne said: You need to blame it on me, spread it out.”
“After your episode with Vivian,” Alice warns as we pull into the garage, “I have a feeling you’ll see your share of the blame.”
33
On Friday, I wake at dawn. Without saying a word, I sneak into the kitchen and make breakfast. Bacon and waffles, orange juice and coffee. I want Alice to have energy, I want her to do well in court. More important, though, I want to show her how much I love her. Whatever the day holds, I need her to know that I’m on her side.
I put the breakfast on a tray and bring it to Alice. She’s sitting on the blue chair in her pantyhose and underwear, focused on her work. She looks up and smiles. “I love you.”
At six, she races out the door. I clean up, shower, and it’s not until I’m on the phone with our receptionist, Huang, that I realize what I’m going to do. I tell him I’m feeling sick and may or may not make it in today. “Food poisoning,” I lie. “Can you cancel my appointments?”
“Sure,” he says, “but the Boltons won’t be happy.”
“True. I’m sorry. Want me to call them?”
“No, I’ll handle it.”
I leave a note in case I’m not here when Alice gets home. Gone to the Half Moon Bay Airport. It’s the least I can do. Love, J. Then I add a postscript that seems melodramatic even as I’m writing it but expresses just what I feel: Thank you for marrying me.
On the drive down the coast, I make peace with my decision. The Half Moon Bay Airport is nothing more than one long runway lost among acres and acres of artichoke plants. In the dense fog, I can just make out a few covered Cessnas and the small building that houses the 3-Zero Cafe. I park in the nearly empty lot. Inside the restaurant, I take a table with a view of the runway. There is no security, no ticket counters, no baggage claim, just an unlocked glass door separating the runway from the café. A slender woman in an old-fashioned waitress uniform walks over.
“Coffee?”
“Hot chocolate, if you have it.”
“Sure.”
I scan the airport for anything out of the ordinary. There are only three cars in the parking lot: mine, an empty Ford Taurus, and a Chevy truck with a guy in the driver’s seat. He looks like he’s waiting for someone. I catch myself tapping on the table, an old nervous habit. The unknown has always scared me much more than any actual danger. Is someone planning to meet Alice here and give her more tough talk? Another bracelet, perhaps? Or are they coming to take her somewhere? Neither Vivian nor Dave ever mentioned plane trips. I should have paid more attention that day Vivian removed the Martin Parr photo and shined her PowerPoint on our living room wall.
A plane swoops in over the hills. I watch it make a big turn and come in for a landing in the swirling fog. The plane is a small, private affair, though larger and fancier than the Cessnas near the hangar. I check my watch—8:54. Six minutes to go. Is that the guy?