Serum. Moisturizer. Primer. Foundation. Highlighter. Colors for her cheeks and lips. She’d forgotten the sensuous pleasure of smoothing these creams on her face. Phoebe wasn’t fooling herself that romantic glitter would return to her life, but damned if she couldn’t enjoy covering her lips in vermilion.
They’d meet in Rhinebeck, the town Manhattan folk loved, only a thirty-minute drive from Poughkeepsie. Dicey for Phoebe—it would be an easy place to be recognized—but screw it. She wasn’t a criminal on the run.
? ? ?
She arrived early enough to pick a private table. Aroi Thai Restaurant served all her purposes, with excellent food, a location at the end of the street—farthest from the main drag—and though a popular spot, nobody chose it for people watching.
Phoebe sat with her back to the entrance. “I’ll be the woman wearing a greying bun,” she had warned Ira.
“So it’s longer,” he’d said on the phone. “Your hair.”
“Among the many changes.”
“Is your heart intact?”
Without thinking, she had put her hand to her chest. “I guess I’d describe it as mildly defrosting, though I’m not sure that’s good. Sensitivity isn’t a blessing right now.”
Ira’s kindness made waiting less nerve wracking, but her pulse still raced. This was her first time seeing anyone other than Helen, Deb, and, more recently, Kate since Jake’s arrest.
A slim young man refilled her water glass. “Is your companion coming?”
Her heart slipped. For a moment, the waiter knew her and wondered if Jake would join her. Then she realized he was politely probing whether she’d been stood up.
“He’s coming.” She tried to sound sure, but anything could happen. Pretty Phoebe of Erasmus Hall died long ago.
“Something while you wait? A drink?”
“No, thank you.” No drinking and driving, thank you. The law remained in the front of her mind. Always. Plus, alcohol equaled relaxing. Phoebe didn’t know if Ira maintained his crush, but being vulnerable frightened her. Friendship. That’s the only thing she wanted.
“Phoebe.” Ira slipped in and placed a hand on her shoulder, providing the simple gift of touch. He put out his hands and pulled her to her feet. They stood for a moment, just looking, and then he drew her into him.
“I’m sorry.” He held her tight.
Phoebe raised her head. “For what?”
“I should have called. Waiting for you to reach out was wrong.”
She shook her head. “No. I understand. How could you know—”
“I know you.” He hung his coat on the back of his chair and then pulled out her seat. “I should never have questioned you.”
Phoebe half grinned. “I thought I knew Jake, and we were married since I was a teenager. How can I blame you for being unsure about me?” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about Mira House. And the Cupcake Project. Calling that an understatement is an understatement. That I haven’t contacted you before now is wrong.”
“Now that we’ve determined we’re both truly awful, let’s say hello and enjoy a meal.” His hazel eyes radiated compassion. She’d devalued that trait during her life. Sconces above the white fireplace built a glow over his thick salt-and-pepper hair. The thought made her laugh: in her desperation for connection, she made Ira into a momentary Jesus.
They ordered as though this were the Last Supper, keeping their conversation light as they waited for food. Rhinebeck: beautiful and expensive. Weather: decent for December. Obama’s first year as president: excellent. When their meals arrived, they nodded as though readying to reach the next level.
Crispy salmon infused with spicy mango, Thai spring rolls crunching in her mouth—for the first time in months, Phoebe didn’t eat like an animal crouched over her kill.
“Yes. Mira House lost a lot. True, true,” Ira said, picking up the trail of the serious conversation for which they were fated.
“An enormous amount. I’m amazed you survived.” The surrounding couples made her feel like she fit in and as though society had opened its arms for a night. “Credit probably goes to you. Your calmness.”
“Mira House is doing fine for a number of reasons. I figure it like this: the money we invested with Jake, well, we’d never expected those funds to begin with. That came from the Cupcake Project, and not everything went to Jake. We bought things, durable goods for all the programs. Sent kids to college on scholarship. Got new computers. Redid the gym. Hell, Phoebe. We’re ahead.”
Phoebe wanted to touch his worn and winter-dry hands resting on the table. This kind, kind man. “You’re a good man for thinking like that, Ira.”
“And you are a good woman, Phoebe, despite your determination to punish yourself. Do you even know what happened to the Cupcake Project? Do you want to know?”
She examined her ragged fingernails. The last thing that should matter, but still, she wanted to hide the fraying skin, the dry brittleness. “I didn’t call anyone after the one time I spoke with Eva. I didn’t think they wanted to speak with me. Shit. I’m lying. I was afraid of everyone’s anger: Zoya shrieking, Linh crying—”
“Stop. Before you rend your clothes, listen. The woman in charge of the . . .” Ira put his hands in the air, lost.
“The aftermath. Senda Dempsey.” Phoebe had read the name online.
“Right. Her. She appointed someone as overseer for the Cupcake Project, and that person allowed Eva, Zoya, and Linh to remain as managers. They’re making money. My guess is Dempsey is going to have it valued and then sell it.”
“Maybe the three of them can buy it.”
“I doubt it. They’re living check to check like the rest of the world.”
“Maybe I can help figure something out. Maybe—”
“Maybe you can. And maybe you can’t.” A stern expression appeared on Ira’s face. “But you can call Eva. Connect and find out how they are. You weren’t sent to jail. Undo your chains.”
CHAPTER 36
Phoebe
The rituals of entering Ray Brook prison never failed to terrify Phoebe: long lines of cheerless women, restless children frightened into good behavior, and a few stone-faced men waiting to visit, the lack of anything bringing optimism or dignity—color, art, music—and guards pushing all limits of hierarchy as they inspected every scrap of identification offered.
Phoebe compulsively checked to make sure she’d not worn an underwire bra. The website Prison Talk provided too many threads where women described being turned away if the metal in an underwire set off the metal detectors.
Her identification checked, her clothing approved, and having proven she carried nothing but her ID, Phoebe entered the visiting room. Staking out a spot required thought, not because one molded plastic chair might be better than another, but because corners provided a modicum of privacy. Her drab tweed sweater blended with the furnishings.