“How long have you known Henry?” I press.
“A long time. I’ve never counted.” She glances nervously over her shoulder and then becomes intensely interested in the duster in her hand, turning it over one way, then the other. Her fingernails match her toenails.
“You knew his parents. You knew him as a child?”
“I . . . did, yes.” She backs up toward the doorway, pushing her gray bangs off her brow with her forearm. She has deep-set lines around her mouth, crow’s feet at her eyes. I try to remember how old Henry has said she is, but then I realize he hasn’t. I’m guessing sixty-five. Maybe even seventy.
“Tell me about him. Tell me anything. He says nothing about his upbringing. Very little about his life before me.” I take a step forward, closing the gap between us, desperation comes off my skin like a stench. I don’t care.
Her voice is a whisper. “He . . . was an unusual little boy. So curious. Brilliant really.” Her voice trails off and she looks away. When she looks back, she squares her shoulders and levels her gaze. “None of this is my place, Mrs. Whittaker.”
“Penny, I—”
“I should get back to it. I’ll be leaving very soon.” She turns and scurries from the room. I actually consider following her. Pestering her with questions, forcing her to talk to me. I toss the box back down onto the dining room table, frustrated, and head to my bedroom after grabbing the dress from the doorway.
I clip the hanger carefully on the back of the door and lie faceup on the bed. It’s a beautiful dress and I wonder where he bought it or when. My eyes feel heavy and I drift to sleep. I dream of college in San Francisco, of Molly McKay in an eggplant evening gown, and Birkenstocks.
? ? ?
The car arrives at 5:57 p.m. and I smile to myself. It’s so Henry. I smooth the front of my dress. I’m wearing the charm bracelet, the bonsai, the gladiolus, the wings. It’s an olive branch. Henry gets out, holding his hand up, palm out to the driver, indicating that he’ll escort me. He stops in front of me and his eyes are bright, his hair tousled. We don’t say anything for a minute, then both speak at once. He laughs and motions for me to talk.
“There’s nothing between Cash and me,” I blurt out. He pulls me against him, his lips on my hair.
“I know. I know that. I’m sorry. Let’s just not talk about it. I overreacted.” His hands graze down my spine, his fingertips hot on my skin. He pulls away and gestures toward the car, his hand resting on the small of my back. He touches the bracelet on my wrist as I climb inside, and says, “Ah, Zoe.”
“Have you called the credit card company?” I inquire, as though I just thought of it. Innocent.
“Yes. They’re sending a new one, but these things take time, Zoe.” He pats my arm. “Do you need more money? Is that an issue?”
“No. I’m fine. I don’t even use it all, really, not all the time. I just wish I didn’t have to be so . . . dependent. Or something . . .” I falter then, not sure of how to proceed. He’s studying me.
“Whatever you need, Zoe, just ask. I’ll do anything, you know that.” He squeezes my hand and kisses my temple, at my hairline.
We ride in silence but he grasps my hand, running his thumb along my fingertips. I think of the CARE benefit, the last time we were in the car like this together, made-up and sparkly. I had felt so loved then, a mere two and a half weeks ago. Now, I can’t stop thinking of the girl from the gym. The mental image of his hand, cupped around that bright pink backdrop, the pert little swell.
“Henry, would you ever be unfaithful?” I stare at our fingers intertwined.
“Why would you ask that? No. Never.” His answer is quick, definitive. He flashes me a smile. “Peter’s wife will be there tonight. Remember her?”
I nod. Peter Young, the only person I’ve ever met that Henry may have called a boss, with his prematurely white hair, straight Chiclet teeth, and deeply lined cheeks. I vaguely remember his wife Muriel, small and dainty in her fifties but with sharp, restless eyes and an infectious laugh.
We pull up in front of Heiwa, a trendy Japanese restaurant, a mere four blocks from Henry’s office skirting the line between Tribeca and Soho, depending on who’s asking. Henry leads me inside, giving my hand a quick squeeze. We’re led to a private dining room where twenty people mill around, in cocktail dresses and glittering jewelry. I’ve met most of them. Henry’s colleagues are both wary of outsiders and welcoming once you’re one of them. I probably have one foot in each camp at this point.