I laugh with him. “Then . . . hurry home,” I say coyly, and we hang up.
I can’t stop staring at her. I blow the picture up and use the scroll bars to move across her face. Her right eye is slightly larger than the other. A thin scar slivers her forehead, close to her hairline. Her ears are double pierced, but she only has earrings in one set of holes. With each new discovery, I race to the bathroom and examine my face. I have a tether.
My head hurts and I’m tired of thinking about Caroline, of analyzing her. On a whim, I navigate to Google and type in the first line of the poem on the card from Henry. As you are woman, so be lovely.
“Pygmalion to Galatea,” by Robert Graves. Pygmalion. The Greek sculptor who fell in love with his statue. Henry is typically not overly literate nor self-reflective. Poetry and fiction are time wasters, and self-reflection is a hallmark of self-doubt.
I’m still sitting at the computer when I hear his car pull in the driveway. I shut it down quickly and stand up. The blood rushes to my head and my vision swims.
We meet in the hallway and we both laugh.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He dips me back a bit and kisses me hungrily on the lips. I kiss him back, but distractedly. I haven’t had time to think about what to tell Henry, if anything. He’d hinted at wanting some distance between Cash and me. I’m hesitant to tell him that he helped me find Caroline, especially considering his reaction at my wanting to find her in the first place. I need to handle it delicately, so I push it all away, bury it in my mind.
It’s too easy to get caught up in Henry’s buoyancy. His hair is tousled from the drive, like he’s had the car window open. His face shines from the misty air, his cheeks puffed and pink.
“Go get dressed.” He pats my bottom and gives me a wink. I skip-step into the bedroom and pull open my suitcase.
“Oh, I brought something for you.” He’s holding out a hanger and a bag. I unwrap a simple straight sheath dress, black with tiny silver faux-buttons up the back.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs and gives me a lopsided smile. “I bought it a while ago, but I’ve just been looking for the right occasion to give it to you. We’ll be hopelessly overdressed.”
“Better over than under,” I say, another Evelyn-ism. Evelyn, who would wear her Sunday best to the grocery store, just for fun, complete with hat. You only live once, you know. And who knows, maybe someone will think we’re really somebodies.
I slip on the dress and it fits like a glove. Henry always knows my exact size, even if it fluctuates due to brand. When I turn around to face him, he hands me a pair of simple black sling-backs, an impeccable complement to the dress. I cock my head to the side.
“What, are you surprised?” He shakes his head, a curved smile playing on his lips.
“Always.” I snatch the shoes and slide them on, wiggling my toes. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet: The day has energized me, filled me with nervous anticipation. I’ve sworn not to think of her, but I find myself wondering what she’d make of me. Of this whole scene, this rich, powerful husband of mine who buys me clothes in the perfect size, in a style he likes, even though I hadn’t stopped to ask myself if I liked it.
I give a twirl in the mirror and decide that I do. I wouldn’t have picked it, but then again, some of my favorite pieces come from Henry’s mind. The man knows how to dress a woman.
Feeling daring, and unlike myself, I whistle at him. He turns and, with a quick movement, I shimmy out of my panties and toss them on the bed. He lifts a brow, his mouth bowed down in surprise.
“Well, now. Dinner should be interesting.”
? ? ?
The restaurant is small: one waitress and ten tables, only four are filled. The room is dark, lit by flickering candles and twinkling white lights that are absorbed by the maroon tablecloths draped over two-top round tables. Everyone knows one another, on a familial level, the Sartinis, the Petruccis, the Tomasis, they descend on us newcomers like a flock of seagulls. Fishing Lake used to be a textile town, Henry explains. Two mills flanked the small community, attracting hundreds of Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When they both closed, in the early seventies, the population divided: one half bedroom community commuters with long drives into the city, and the other half descendants keeping up the remaining tourist industry. A small restaurant, a bakery, a corner store, a rental management company.