She pointed to her wrist, tapping her watch. “Two o’clock.”
They danced on a thin razor of attraction, held firmly within boundaries by never acknowledging their uncomfortable truth. Ira tried edging the conversation there, but only a few times. Phoebe blocked any mention of a “them.” She had no need of marital tsunamis.
Safety lessons had come early in Phoebe’s life. She could remind herself to stay within the lines simply by imagining who her first child might have been. All she wanted from lunch with Ira was sitting with someone who carried unrealized dreams about her.
“I ordered the famoso.” He tipped his glass toward Phoebe, who clinked back with the familiarity of long-standing tradition.
She enjoyed knowing that people would peg them as a couple and think Ira had placed the wedding ring on her finger. This minor charade didn’t give her pause. Walter Mitty romances she’d allow herself.
“Wonderful as always,” she said after a sip.
Puglia’s famoso “famous house wine” had become their tradition. Ira insisted on paying for their meals. Phoebe, shying away from anything reminiscent of their unscalable bank account differences, ordered on the budget side, insisting that the house Chianti thrilled her.
“Truth time,” Ira said. “Does Jake know about our lunches?”
And there went the applecart. Had Eva been prescient today? “I’d have no problem telling him. We work together. Aren’t you rather like my boss?”
“Phoebe, I’ve never been your ‘boss.’ Don’t hide there. I didn’t ask if you would tell him. I want to know if you do.”
“Why?”
“Trust me. I’m not breaching our walls. You intrigue me. Curiosity about your marriage is part of getting to know you.”
“So you’re not really asking if I tell him we have lunch once a week?”
The waiter interrupted, bringing amber glasses filled with ice water. “Ready to order?” They knew this prickly guy. What he meant was “Tell me what you want within five seconds, or you won’t see me again for fifteen minutes.”
“Spaghetti with meatballs,” Ira said.
“Living wild, I see.” Phoebe scanned the menu for something compatible with the combination of hunger and indigestion brought on by this cascade of upsetting conversation. Tums might be dessert. “Plain angel hair pasta with butter and a sprinkle of Parmesan.”
The waiter left with a nod, indicating his lack of respect for their gastronomy.
“I upset you.” Ira could interpret her lunch order. “Don’t fret about what I said. You and Jake puzzle me. You’re different when you’re with him than when you’re not, which indicates someone in the marriage is holding secrets.” He pushed Phoebe’s glass of water closer to her hand. “Drink. It helps cool your insides.”
The icy liquid washed through, relieving the fiery nerves settling in her stomach. “Everyone acts differently when they’re with their husband or wife.” Even as she spoke, Phoebe knew she was wrong. Deb was Deb, and Ben was Ben, whether together or apart. Helen and Alan didn’t change depending on the other’s presence.
“No. They don’t. God knows, in my marriage, we were at our worst as a couple. You, you’re brittle with Jake, as though you’re crafting how you present yourself. For him or you?”
“Why would I do that for myself?”
“To hide?” he asked.
Food arrived, bringing a welcome break from their conversation. Pasta lightly shined with butter would coat her insides so she could drink.
“What would I need to hide from?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering. Sometimes you seem like you live in a corner of your life, your mind. You’re an entirely different person at Mira House than you are with him.”
“I’m the person Jake wants.” With her stomach lined, she drank from her wineglass. “You’re not married anymore. You’re not a father. You don’t know the price of a family.”
“Do you?”
? ? ?
Ira’s words continued to play as Phoebe mixed a crust for the chicken cutlets, speculating on possible truth. Sure, the nights Jake worked late were always welcome—but she thought all wives were a little more relaxed when their husbands weren’t home, never allowing herself to think it might just be her and Jake.
Lately, Jake’s base was jittery and tense. She never knew when he’d bark out news that they’d attend yet another night out with potential clients. Her dread had increased as Jake now expected her to wax on about the Cupcake Project’s fiscal ties with JPE as proof of how much she trusted the Club. She hated using her business that way and could barely remember the new bullshit he tried to make her memorize.
“If the Club is so successful, why do you still need me shilling for you?” she had asked the previous week, genuinely puzzled. Financial advisors worldwide fed him clients—why did he still need her?
“You’re the charity expert.” He’d smiled. “And charities are my favorites.”
“Why?” she asked.
“You feel good working with Mira House, right? Maybe I caught the bug from you. Seeing how we can grow their endowments means plenty to me and the rest of the staff.”
Imagining Gita-Rae and Charlie deriving joy from helping nonprofits rang false enough to make her laugh or cry. She stared at her husband, searching for answers behind his glaze of bullshit. Noah finally put her discomfort into words as they drove back from Brooklyn after visiting her parents, just the three of them, during Katie’s college break.
“When it comes to understanding the Club, Mom, it’s like he’s swallowed the place, and the only way to get through would be to cut him open.”
Kate laughed. “And don’t try going up there to the thirty-seventh floor. They have business omertà. It’s ‘family’ vis-à-vis Little Italy.”
“You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you?”
Both kids appeared puzzled. “What do you mean?”
She wasn’t sure, but they’d worked there, and their reassurances would feel good. When she was around the Club staff, at parties and such, they belonged to that club that didn’t want her as a member.
Gravel crunching in the driveway announced Jake’s arrival. Phoebe ran into the powder room near the kitchen, opened the antique medicine cabinet hanging on the wall, and rummaged through the collection of lipsticks she kept in a red cocoa tin. After lining her lips with a youthful pink and smiling at the mirror, she retied the blue polka-dot ribbon on her low ponytail. She leaned closer to her reflection, turning from side to side, and then tipping her head up, searching for stray chin hairs betraying her. All clear, though her complexion appeared ashy. Somewhere below the sink, she’d stashed a bottle of Clinique moisturizer. There it was. She rubbed a small amount into her skin and topped it with a dab of blush.