I feel a pang of worry for Guy. Losing his job wouldn’t be the end of the world—and it would nicely accelerate our plan for him to move to the city. Still, he’s always believed that if he wants to take his career to the next level, he needs to have a three-year stint with the opera company under his belt.
Finally, endless minutes later, I feel myself drifting off. When I wake a little before eight the next morning, I discover that Guy is already gone, his side of the bed barely disturbed. Once I’m in the kitchen, I notice that he hasn’t bothered with breakfast; he made an espresso and set the empty cup in the sink. Tonight, I tell myself, I have to encourage him to talk more about the situation at work and see if I can offer an objective perspective.
I drop a bagel into the toaster, wander into my office, and pop open my laptop. I’m determined to get back to my proposal, picking up from the stream of consciousness I started the day before yesterday. I first check email, wondering if there’s any word from Casey.
No, nothing.
Without being fully conscious of what I’m up to, I drag the computer mouse so that the cursor lands on my address book, as if my hand is being tugged across an Ouija board. I click on the icon, and once inside, I type in Paul Dunham’s name. The page opens. When I wrote to Stephanie after the accident, I recorded their home address. It’s in Hastings, New York, a suburban town just north of the city. I wonder if she’s moved, having found the house painful to live in after Paul’s death. But no, she can’t have. She would have surely decided that relocating would be too disruptive for the kids.
I lean back in my chair, pondering the dream once again, wondering why Paul is standing in my hotel room, calling out to me. What is it that he needed from me—or wanted to say?
I return to the kitchen for my bagel, and as I pluck it from the toaster, I see the red message light flashing on the base of the landline that’s nestled by the canisters at the back of the counter. We’d originally planned to use only our cell phones in the house, but since Guy already had a portable phone at his apartment, we ended up lugging it here as a backup—only to ignore it most of the time. As far as I know, the red light has been blinking futilely for days.
I press the play button. A man begins to speak, someone with a voice I don’t recognize.
“Guy, good evening, it’s Chip Maycock. We need to talk, pronto. I tried your cell without any luck, but I’ll give it another shot in thirty minutes. Call me no matter when you get in. They’re insisting we come in tomorrow, and you and I should meet beforehand.”
The call, I realize, must relate to a situation at the opera company, a serious one based on the urgency in the man’s words and tone. I need to alert Guy right away, in case Chip Maycock never reached him. First, though, I play back the message so I can hear the time it was left and relate that detail to Guy as well. Wednesday, 8:17 p.m. Last night. About a half hour before the call Guy responded to at the restaurant. Maycock must be the donor with cold feet.
As the message continues to replay, my mind snags on the last line spoken. They’re insisting we come in tomorrow . . . What’s that supposed to mean?
Out of curiosity, I pick up the landline receiver and push redial.
“Good morning,” a woman says cheerily after the third ring. “Maycock, Villa, and O’Hare.”
Sounds like a law firm, and the thought unsettles me. I confirm my hunch with a question to the woman at the other end and then hang up. The muscles in my stomach have tightened like a fist.
Guy led me to believe that the call he jumped on last night was from a donor. It could be that Maycock is a donor, but based on the language he used—as well as the shit storm swirling around us—the more likely possibility is that Guy’s gone ahead and retained an attorney, someone to help him navigate the situation with the cops.
That would mean he’s done it again. Deceived me. After swearing to be totally straight with me going forward.
I can’t believe this. I don’t know how I can trust anything he tells me in the future—or has told me in the past. Maybe my earlier instincts were right and he was involved with Eve. I can’t help myself. To my disgust, I imagine him touching Eve, kissing her, having sex with her.
Moments later my fury is heaved aside by dread. People are insisting that Guy and Maycock, “come in.” That could very well refer to Corcoran and her sidekick, which would mean that they want to dig deeper about Eve.
I grab my bag and lock up the house. It’s cooler out today, and the sky is overcast and swollen, but I don’t bother returning for an umbrella. I want to hightail it to Guy’s office and hear straight from his mouth what the hell is going on.