BEA WAS STANDING CLUELESSLY in front of the office espresso machine, a ridiculously elaborate Italian contraption that required setting pressure gauges and estimating water flow in relation to espresso grind and examining steam thermometers clipped to milk pitchers. Bea was a tea drinker but every once in a while she wanted, needed, coffee. Every time she approached the gleaming machine she wound up timidly turning a few knobs, peering at its undercarriage, and then just walking downstairs to the corner deli. But today she didn’t feel like going back outside.
She was in the office on a Saturday trying to catch up, and she was exhausted from a series of insomniac nights and near constant worry about Leo who had been completely incommunicado since she delivered her new story to him. She hadn’t been able to get back in touch with Stephanie either to ask about the strange e-mail from Leo about being “off the grid” that sounded like complete Leo bullshit or to find out if they were going to show up for Melody’s birthday dinner as planned. She didn’t even know what to hope for: Leo or no Leo; furious Leo or indifferent Leo—given his silence, enthusiastic Leo didn’t seem remotely possible. If Leo didn’t show, all hell was going to break loose.
“How much did this dumb machine cost, anyway?” Bea asked Paul. Technically, office expenses were her domain, but she barely paid attention.
“I paid for it,” Paul said. “It was my gift to the office. Would you like me to make you something?”
“Yes, please.” Bea sat on the couch opposite the coffee machine. It was low to the ground, and the cushions were stiff and covered with a nubby fabric. She was wearing one of her favorite outfits in an attempt to lift her mood. A bright red jumper with knee-high patent-leather boots. The back of her legs were exposed and the sofa was scratchy.
“Why can’t we have a comfy sofa?” she said. She knew she sounded like an entitled and petulant teenager but didn’t care. “Something you can sink into and maybe read and hang out.”
“Because this is an office and I want people doing the opposite of getting comfy and hanging out.” Paul liked to see everyone sitting upright at their desks, good posture, intently looking at computers and pecking away at their keyboards in the center of their otherwise orderly desks.
She checked the e-mail on her phone again as the espresso machine started to thump and hiss like a steam engine. If Leo was truly gone, Stephanie either had helped him and was covering it up or Leo was duping her, too. Bea moved from the sofa and sat at the office communal table. Lowered her head onto her crossed arms and felt the cool of the wood against her cheek. She felt like crying. She felt like screaming. She just wanted to be able to hear Leo’s voice and try to figure out what was really going on. She wanted to know what Leo thought about the story. She wanted her lucky leather bag back.
PAUL WOULD CREDIT his nearly perfect cappuccino (the foam could have been a little brighter but the richness of the coffee itself was superb) for working its magic on Bea, loosening her tongue, as he’d been patiently waiting for her to do. She’d taken two long sips and smiled, feebly but genuinely, and said, “This is exactly what I needed.”
He asked if something was wrong and it all came out in one breathless stream. She thought Leo was on a bender. Or that he’d skipped town. She told him about the accident, about the night in the hospital and how she’d become complicit in silencing the poor girl who had gone to work one night and ended up minus a foot. She told him about her story and how she’d given it to Leo and then he had, essentially, vanished. She told him about the Tuck nightmares. She finished pale and depleted. The quick pulse at the corner of her eye was beating as if there were tiny wings trapped beneath the skin.
Paul watched her as she spoke, enjoying—perhaps more than he should have—the slow realization that he had the thing she was looking for. The natty leather folder had been sitting in his office for days, ever since he’d seen Leo saunter away from the waterfront bench with some woman who wasn’t Stephanie. He assumed the leather bag belonged to one of them and had put it in his office for safekeeping. He’d left a message for Leo saying he had it, but Bea’s recent report explained why Leo wasn’t responding to—or maybe even getting—his messages.
Paul would be lying if he said that he didn’t estimate—as Bea was talking—how the depth of her relief and gratitude toward him would increase in direct proportion to her visible distress. He could have stopped her, but he let her go on. He wasn’t even listening to what she said as much as watching her lips move, eyeing the pink flush that crept out the top of her white blouse and worked its way up her neck, watching her furiously fight off tears and try to steady her chin.
“What do you think?” she finally said. He realized she had stopped talking and was staring at him staring at her.
“Think?” he managed.
“Where do you think he is? What he’s doing?”
“I don’t know where Leo is or what he’s doing,” Paul said, walking over to his office and coming back with Bea’s satchel. “But is this what you’re talking about?” He handed it to her and she gasped.
“Oh my God,” she said. “How do you have this? Did Leo leave this for you?”
Had Leo left it for him? “Maybe?” Paul said to Bea.
Bea was loosening the straps and she pulled out the stack of pages. “They’re marked up,” she said. “He marked them up.”