The Last Book Party(35)

“Have you chosen a costume for the party?” I asked from inside the fridge, as I moved the cartons around. I had nearly settled on a character.

“Oh God, no,” Lane said. “I’ll pull something together at the last minute. The whole thing is ridiculous, don’t you think? I mean, really. Grown men and women dressing up?”

“It’s unusual,” I said, closing the refrigerator door.

Lane stretched her legs out, circled her ankles. I couldn’t tell if she was admiring her lean legs or her thick boots. She seemed genuinely unaware of her looks, which was shocking considering how beautiful she was, with her dark brows and heavily lashed gray eyes. She flattened her palms against the kitchen counter. I was surprised to see that her fingernails were bitten down to nothing; the first sign of a crack in her armor. The poise that intimidated me might be the result of more effort than I had assumed.

“The worst are the joined-at-the-hip couples who dress up as paired characters—Anna Karenina and Vronsky. Emma Bovary and what’s-his-name, Rodolphe. Dr. Zhivago and Lara. Humbert Humbert and Lolita, for God’s sake,” she said.

Her choice of adulterous pairings wasn’t lost on me. I stared intently at the sugar bowl as I spooned sugar into my coffee and stirred several times.

“I suppose for the long-married, it’s a turn-on,” Lane said. She hopped off the counter and stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “Some weird intellectual foreplay.”

I took a sip of coffee and tried to sound knowing. “I would think that dressing up in his-and-hers outfits is a sign of a good relationship. Of compatibility.”

“Or a sign of overcompensating,” Lane said, putting her hands on her hips and stretching her torso to the right and to the left, like a boxer about to enter the ring. “Haven’t you ever noticed that the couples that seem the most perfect—always happy, photo-ready, holding hands, and all that—are the ones that later go down in flames?”

I hadn’t and I said so.

“Oh, come on,” Lane said, hands still on her hips. “Mr. Little League coach is a mean drunk after dark. Ms. PTA is a binger-purger. That kind of thing.” She paused. “You should always be wary of people who go on and on about writing their own wedding vows.”

“You think people who promise to always laugh at each other’s jokes are doomed for divorce?”

“Actually, I do,” Lane said.

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“Not so,” Lane said. She pursed her lips. “Honestly, I can always tell what’s going on in a relationship. And it’s often the exact opposite of what people see. It’s just a matter of watching very carefully.”

She looked at me as though waiting for me to speak. Or confess. I looked down at my coffee, blew on it as if it were still hot.

“Time to work,” I said, and left the kitchen.

Upstairs, Henry was sitting at his desk. He stretched an arm out toward me. I put my fingers to my lips and closed the door behind me until the latch clicked quietly. “Lane,” I whispered, pointing to the floor. “I like her, but she scares the shit out of me.”

“Silly girl,” he said, gesturing for me to come to him and then pulling me onto his lap. He buried his face in my hair, nuzzled my neck.

“Who’s silly—Lane or me?”

He lifted his head and, for a moment, looked serious, as if he were giving the question some thought.

“Both.”

I frowned.

“But in different ways. Lane is silly in her seriousness of purpose. She believes it’s a sign of her maturity when, in fact, it’s the opposite.”

I was surprised that he had given Lane that much thought.

“And me?” I asked.

Henry ran his hand along my collarbone, slipped his fingers under the strap of my tank top. “You,” he said, “are delightfully silly in your willingness to let me do this.” He kissed my shoulder. “And this. And this.”





29





“So you’re working for Henry Grey! What’s that like?”

It was an innocent question, and one I expected to get a few times before my parents’ cocktail party was over, but I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t want to lie to Arnold, but the whole truth was obviously not an option. A tax lawyer like my father, Arnold Schein was like an uncle to me, always thoughtful and kind. I had known him since I was four and had discovered his daughter, Tina, while our families were clamming at Cold Storage Beach. Tina and I, having lost interest in digging for sea clams, had teamed up to build what we declared the prettiest drip castle in the world. By the time we were done, we had bonded like sisters and our parents had started what would become an enduring friendship. Tina, still one of my few close friends, was living in Barcelona, which was both a disappointment and a relief. If she had been in Truro, I would have confided in her about Henry and had to hear her opinion, for better or worse. It was easier to keep it to myself.

“The work is interesting in that Henry has eclectic interests,” I told Arnold. “But it’s also sometimes a bit clerical and dull—you know, filing and things like that.” My eyes swept across the hills, down to the marsh and, on its far edge, the narrow Pamet River, which on an incoming tide ribboned toward Henry and Tillie’s house. “The setting is more exquisite than the cubicle I had in the city, but in some ways it was a lateral move.” I imagined Henry chuckling and saying, “Lateral indeed.”