Back in the car, I sit for a couple of minutes, decompressing. I don’t regret the trip, and yet I’m not sure how much I accomplished. I’m pretty certain I’ve convinced Stephanie that Paul and I were never lovers, but my guess is that she still believes Paul was smitten with me.
Was he? Despite my reassurance to his widow, it’s possible that Paul fancied me without my being aware of it. There are all those weird clues to consider: his unannounced arrival at my talk, the tucked-away photo, my name overheard in a conversation. Still, he never came across as a man in the throes of infatuation. Perhaps Gavin Bloom could shed light on the situation, but I wouldn’t have been comfortable asking Stephanie for his contact info.
Making my way out of Hastings, I reconsider a theory I posed to myself the other day, that Paul might have wanted my insight on a personal or professional dilemma. Perhaps he’d confessed his intentions to Gavin Bloom. If that was the case, however, he could have simply taken me out for coffee in New York.
Unless this was someone who hadn’t been thinking or acting rationally at the time. There’s still the possibility that Paul was suffering from depression. Taken one way, the words he scrawled on the envelope hint at a deep sense of isolation. It tears at my gut to think that Paul might have driven the car off the road in despair. Perhaps he’d seen me as a beacon of hope, someone who—because of my book—could provide guidance on a matter that was really troubling him, and then decided, in our short time in the car, that I actually had absolutely nothing to offer.
If only those last minutes would come back to me. We’d been on the road a half hour when the accident happened, and I remember only random snippets from the first portion of the trip. Paul lifting my roller bag into the trunk of the car, chunks of ice on the Charles River, passing through the toll booth on the Mass Turnpike, noting how surprisingly light the traffic was. After that it’s all blank.
I toy with the idea of grabbing a coffee for the road, but don’t want to take the time, and then quickly regret my decision once I’m back on the highway. I’ve started to feel dense with fatigue. It doesn’t help to know that I’m going home to an empty house.
Halfway to Saratoga, I pull off the road for gas and a silo-sized container of coffee. While fueling up, I see that there’s an email from Dr. G, replying to yesterday’s plea for an emergency appointment. She explains that she’s at a conference but could speak for about twenty minutes at five today—by phone, not Skype.
There’s also an email from Sandra saying that she could use a break from her event planning and is hoping we can have lunch tomorrow. I respond with a yes. With the way things are going, it may be smart to have allies like her in Saratoga. Sandra must be online because, before I can drop the phone in my purse, she suggests noon at a place called Dock Brown’s on Saratoga Lake, a few miles from town.
Lastly, I shoot an email to Casey, apprising her of the fact that I’ve jumped the gun and spoken to Stephanie. How it seemed like the right thing to do.
It’s close to four when I pull into the driveway. I make a sweep through the first floor, making sure that nothing’s amiss, and then mount the stairs. I check both the master bedroom and Guy’s makeshift office, wondering if he returned briefly for something. There’s no sign that he’s been back.
An almost crushing sadness descends on me. Is this the end for us? I picture myself returning to the city and announcing to friends, one by one, that my marriage is over. And I can imagine what at least a few of them will say to one another. Comments like I’m not completely surprised. How well do you really get to know a person in that short amount of time?
After descending from the second floor, I head straight to my office and open my laptop. I bring up the LinkedIn site, drag the cursor to the search bar, and type in “Gavin Bloom.” It’s essential I talk to this guy, I realize. I need to know if he and Paul were really discussing me and, if so, in what context.
Though the name seems unusual, there are actually several Gavin Blooms listed with the site, but only one in Texas. I read through his profile. He’s a lawyer with what sounds like a big firm in Dallas. I notice, too, that he attended Tufts. I recall from Paul’s obituary that he graduated from there, too. Yes, this must be the guy I’m looking for.
If I send a message to Bloom through LinkedIn, he might not see it right away. Instead, I jot down the work number he’s listed and call. It’s going to be tricky to get through his assistant, but I’m willing to use Paul’s name if I have to.
To my surprise, Bloom picks up the phone himself, announcing his name as salutation.
“Mr. Bloom, this is Bryn Harper,” I say. “I was given your name by Stephanie Dunham, though she has no idea I’m calling. Do you have a minute?”