In all of these trips, I still haven’t succeeded in encountering JoAnne, and today is no different. I buy Alice flowers and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to celebrate her victory. I buy myself some cookies.
Eventually I give up waiting for JoAnne and go to the register. “I love a man who does the shopping,” Eliza says. Then, as she’s scanning the cookies, she looks at me and says, “You need to get some protein in your basket, friend.”
“What?” I stammer.
“Protein.” She smiles. “You know, beef or pork or something that doesn’t contain hydrogenated oils.” I can’t tell if it’s a genuine smile, or a smile of warning. It’s Eliza, I tell myself. Sweet, friendly Eliza. What she just said—that was friend with a lowercase f, not an uppercase F. “That stuff will kill you,” she adds with a wink.
I grab the bag and rush out the door, scanning the parking lot for anything troubling. But how would I even know what’s troubling? It’s the usual mix of Teslas and Land Rovers, the occasional Prius hanging out by a BMW 3 series. Stop being paranoid, I scold myself. Or don’t.
Alice arrives home a few minutes before six. I’ve thrown away the note I wrote to her this morning, telling her I was going to Half Moon Bay. I decide the news can wait until tomorrow. She’s still wired from the victory, tipsy from the long, celebratory lunch. Her giddiness is infectious, and for the first time in months, I’m able to push away that clinging sense of unease—not obliterate it, but shove it to the side of my mind, for Alice’s sake. I arrange cheese and crackers on a plate, and Alice pops the champagne. We move out to the tiny balcony off of our bedroom. The sun is about to set, and the fog is starting to move in, yet we can still see our sliver of the ocean. It’s this tiny, perfect ocean view that inspired us to buy the house we couldn’t afford. It isn’t just the ocean that makes the view so special but the rows of squat 1950s houses, the funky backyards, the beautiful trees lining Fulton Street where our neighborhood meets Golden Gate Park.
We linger on the balcony, the champagne bottle empty. Alice replays the entire court appearance, even doing hilarious imitations of each of the opposing lawyers, as well as the crusty judge. Her performance is brilliant, and I almost feel like I’m there in the courtroom with her. She has put so much work into this case, and I’m insanely proud of her.
The disturbing encounter with the pilot, the toxic session with the Boltons, and the failed, paranoid trip to Draeger’s fade. I realize that I am making a very conscious effort to be in the moment—to be mindful, as the popular terminology goes. This relaxed, private moment with Alice—celebrating her success, enjoying each other’s company—is the very essence of marriage in its most perfect sense. I wish I could bottle it; I wish I could replicate it each day. I imagine holding this moment in my mind, storing it up for when I need it most. I want to urge Alice to do the same—but that’s a contradiction, isn’t it? If I were to tell her to hold this moment close and remember it, wouldn’t I only be reminding her that this happiness is fleeting, that at any moment things could change for the worse?
And then Alice’s cell rings, and I am snapped out of my reverie. Just as I’m about to say, “Don’t answer,” Alice clicks on her phone.
She smiles, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s her client Jiri Kajan?, calling from his dacha along the Albanian coast. He’s just heard the good news about their victory. Alice laughs and puts her hand over the phone to tell me that he has named a character after her in his sequel to Sloganeering. “I’m Alice the typist who solves the case of the missing page in the all-important U’Ren file. Kajan? says you can be the attendant at the Hotel Dajti bocce court. It’s a small part, but important.”
She winks at me. “Will Alice the typist and Jake the bocce attendant find love and happiness?” she asks Kajan?.
Long pause. Apparently, the answer is complicated. Then Alice turns to me. “True love is elusive, but they will try.”
35
I startle awake in the middle of the night, certain that someone has been banging insistently on our front door. I wander around the house, peering out all of the windows, checking the Dropcam, seeing nothing. Late at night, our neighborhood is crazy quiet; the ocean breeze and the thick fog deaden all sound. I shine the flashlight out toward the yard. Nothing. Scanning the back fence, I see the red eyes of four raccoons reflected eerily in the glow of the flashlight.
In the morning, Alice appears dead to the world, not having moved an inch from the spot in the bed where she fell asleep. I put on coffee and start to make bacon and waffles.
An hour later, Alice walks in. “Bacon!” She kisses me. Then she sees that I’ve washed and folded all of her laundry. “Have I been asleep for weeks? What day is it?”
“Eat your bacon,” I say.
“I guess we were worried for no reason,” she says over breakfast. “I didn’t show up at the airport, and nothing happened.”
That’s when I tell Alice about my encounter with the pilot. I held off last night, not wanting to spoil her joy from the court victory. But she has to know. I worry that Vivian or Dave is going to call—or worse, Finnegan—and I don’t want her to be surprised. I tell her about the pilot’s accent, his impatient demeanor; his incredulity that she wasn’t there. I recount our brief conversation.
“He mentioned Finnegan by name?” She’s frowning.
I nod.
She puts her hand on the back of my neck, twirling her fingers in my hair. “It’s so sweet that you went in my place.”
“We’re in this together.”
“Well, did it seem like he was there to tell me something? To deliver a package or something?”
“He wasn’t holding a package.”
“He was going to take me somewhere?”
“Yes.”
Alice takes a soft breath. The worry line between her brows deepens. “Okay.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” I say. I want to talk, but after the bracelet, after yesterday, I’m not even certain it’s safe to talk in our own house.