Phoebe slipped back into the kitchen and placed the pan of breaded cutlets in the oven, listening to Jake’s footsteps for clues as to which husband approached, hoping for the romantic version and dreading the man crackling with anxiety.
“What’s for supper, pussycat?”
“Chicken cutlets.” The scent of soap rose when she put her arms around Jake.
“Did you shower in the car?”
“I played racquetball late this afternoon. Where’s Noah?”
“Probably out with his friends. Racquetball? Worn out?”
A familiar fizziness on her palate bubbled. She often wondered if her body released it to keep her from saying words she couldn’t take back.
“Probably?” Jake asked. “Are you baking too many cupcakes to keep track of our son?”
“Our son is almost in college. I don’t need to follow his every move.”
“Is he coming home for dinner? Do you know that much?”
“He’s studying at a friend’s house tonight.”
“What friend?”
“You sure go back and forth with your racquetball thing.” She sliced the ends off fresh string beans. “What made you start up again? You haven’t played in months.”
Jake patted his midriff. “This. Started expanding.”
He came close, grabbed a raw bean, and popped it in his mouth. Then he put one to her lips. She brushed it aside and kissed him, tasting peppermint and hidden happiness. “I can keep the chicken on low,” she said. “We can take advantage of the empty house.”
“I’m pretty hungry.” He pulled back as she leaned on his shoulder.
This wasn’t the shirt he’d worn when he left the house. He kept extra shirts in the office. For racquetball.
He put his hands on her arms. “Be glad I’m working to stay in shape.”
“Are you having an affair?”
He chuckled. “This comes from racquetball? Not wanting to go to bed when Noah might come home any moment? Or are your girlfriends putting ideas in your head? Do you all have so much free time that you craft husbandly ghost stories?” He pushed her away and went to the hall. “When you see what I brought you, you’ll feel like an idiot.”
Phoebe followed, trying to imagine what he had. Jewelry meant he was sleeping with someone for sure. Sapphires or diamonds red-flagged a serious relationship, not just sex. How she knew this baffled her, but it felt true.
Jake opened his briefcase and drew out a bag from Bergdorf’s. He handed it to Phoebe with a flourish. “I thought it was time for a change.”
She saw tissue paper with yellow and white stripes and instantly recognized the wrapping and box. Giorgio. She’d gag if she uncapped it. The heady, thick scent smelled like a cheap woman trying for expensive. She tore the cellophane on the box in silence. She thought Poison overpowering and wore it only at Jake’s insistence, but the overwhelming Giorgio made Poison palatable.
Phoebe couldn’t put together Jake from Brooklyn with this man who apparently prowled the perfume counters of Bergdorf’s until he found what struck his libido and then demanded she wear nothing else until he again became bored.
Phoebe unstopped the bottle and inhaled, trying to understand what kind of woman he wanted now. She’d dab it on sparingly before he came home.
“An affair?” He laughed. “My only affair is with you, Pheebs, and the only way I need to spice it up comes in beautiful crystal bottles.”
CHAPTER 18
Phoebe
Perhaps to prove how much he was not having an affair, Jake had almost attached himself to Phoebe that weekend. On Friday night, he even agreed to see Cry Freedom instead of Robocop.
On Saturday, they took a car service into Manhattan where Jake dropped her at Bergdorf Goodman’s with his American Express and strict instructions to scorch the card while he worked for a few hours.
During their Saturday night meal with Ollie and Poppy, he draped his arm over her shoulders except when actively putting food in his mouth.
On Sunday, they actually drove into Brooklyn with Noah and had dinner with her parents at Peter Luger Steak House, her father’s favorite place.
Three nights in a row, they made love, quite a record for a couple married over twenty years. “Is it the new perfume?” she’d asked at midnight on Sunday.
“All you.”
She didn’t believe him—if anything, it made her more suspicious, his need to show his devotion. Suspicion and actually wanting answers, however, turned out to be different animals.
What proof did she have? None.
Her qualms came from clean clothes, racquetball, and gossip about other women’s husbands. She’d shake this off—Jake’s addiction was money, not women. Where Ollie couldn’t keep his eyes in his head, even with Poppy across the table, Jake acted nothing but appropriate.
When Phoebe was there.
No. No man could carry on a charade that well. She compared him with those she knew best: her father, brother-in-law, and Helen’s husband. Jake fit in with their respect of family; not with Ollie, who pressed so close against her each time they hugged that she mentioned it to Jake.
He made a sound of deep repulsion. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Don’t!” Why did she say that? Why did women feel a need to protect awful men from the truth of who they were; why were they afraid to have it revealed that they’d “told on him”?
“Do.” He’d cupped her face. “No one cheapens my wife.”
And though she’d rather he’d said that no one cheapens any woman, she loved his words.
Ollie never pushed himself on her again.
All weekend, no matter how hard she tried to push away the memories, Jake’s vague answers looped. The comfort Jake bought with spa treatments and new clothes had a short shelf life.
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Phoebe was shocked at the time when she woke on Monday morning. When Jake had left before six, she’d treated herself by calling in to the shop and leaving a message to postpone their meeting for a few hours, never expecting to sleep past ten.
Phoebe stumbled into the shower, skipping coffee and breakfast, knowing she could get both at the store. She calmed her anxiety that she might be late through a series of deep breaths. And of course, her inhalations carried the scent of expensive lemon potpourri sold by a tiny shop in town.
Money muffled Phoebe’s world. The move from Brooklyn to Greenwich taught her what privilege meant. She had grown up in one of the best homes in her neighborhood, but walk a few blocks in any direction, and you ran into the shakier parts of life. Polished worlds such as Greenwich beveled the edges until you believed money shined up everything.
Perhaps people drank, screamed, and fell to their knees in the houses surrounding them but you never saw the pain. All of them worked overtime to make their lives more plush, wanting to reach the level of bliss they thought lived next door, where mounds of silk and gold buried sorrow and gloom and rows of evergreens screened away sound and sights.
Jake’s rapaciousness never let up. When was enough enough? He didn’t only want to consume, he needed to swallow the world whole.
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