The Vanishing Year(13)
I love making Henry weak. I love to see his stone face crack with a smile or his dark, clever eyes cloud with want. I love this idea of him: powerful and in control in his boardroom, with its rich mahogany and skyline views, all steel peaks and clouds, and underneath his muscle and dominance, as he barks out orders that men scurry to fulfill, he is unfocused, thinking of me. He’s said that before, You drive me to distraction. I tend to believe that’s one of the nicest things he’s ever said to anyone.
I dress quickly and I’m in a cab in less than a half hour. The diner is no fuller than it was two days ago, and Cash is seated in the same booth, two steaming cups of coffee in the center of the gray-and-blue-Formica-topped table. I slide into the booth across from him and he gives me a wide grin, folding his paper. He clicks open his laptop.
“These photos are amazing, I cannot wait to show you.” His face is animated, his eyes wide, and voice hitches as he navigates the trackpad. His background is of a towheaded child, freckled and gap-toothed. I wonder if she’s his and check his hand. No ring.
He clicks up a slideshow and turns the screen to face me. There are photos of Henry, breathtaking in his straight-cut suit and blond hair glinting under the ballroom lights. He is watching me, staring at me, smiling at me in almost every photo. The shots of me are less confident, my head turned, my expression unsure or nervous, candid shots where I am flicking back my hair or scanning the crowd, or laughing in a small group. He has captured me beautifully, though in fact, I can’t even believe it’s me. There are photos of photos, the large blown-up canvases of children tumbling together on a derelict playground, and shots of the decor, sparkling, dancing whitish-blue lights that look magical against the mirrored walls of the library.
“These are . . . magnificent. How did you make it look like this?” I’m practically speechless, and even as I reach the end of the slideshow and it starts over, I can’t stop watching. He shrugs, a faint blush on his neck.
“Well, cameras don’t invent beauty that’s not there. They just capture it at the right moment. This is what the night really looked like.” He spins the laptop around to face him and begins to click. “These are the ones I want to use.” He shows me.
There are six photos. Two of them are of me: one in profile, head to head with a female guest, giggling like girlfriends, my face in shadow and one with my arm linked through Henry’s, my head resting on his shoulder. The rest are of Francesca, the event itself, the guests, the speaker. In the two photos of me, I can’t see my features clearly; I’m in profile or turned, a vague angle, my face obscured. In one of the six photos, I can make out Molly and Gunther and my heart lurches, an acrid taste in my throat. I trace them with my index finger on the screen.
“Please, just . . . you can use the one of me and Henry. You can remove the one of me in profile.” I point to the screen, my tongue thick. He cocks his head to the side, just as my cell phone trills. The display reads Lydia but I press decline.
“So, you knew that couple? They seemed to know you.” His voice contains the forced nonchalance of someone fishing. He adds cream and sugar to his coffee and stirs it slowly, the spoon clattering against the white porcelain.
“Oh, I didn’t know them. They claimed to know me from college or something, but . . .” I force a laugh. “College was a long time ago now, so who knows?” I lift one shoulder and purse my lips, waving my hand. All I can think is, Please change the subject.
“Oh yeah? Where’d you go to school?”
“UCSF.” It pops out before I can think it through, because being close to thirty means college almost never comes up. I used to have the story down pat, but it’s been awhile since I’d been asked, so the truth bubbled out like an uncorked spring. In an odd way, it’s a relief to say it.
“Oh yeah? West coast girl!” He strokes his chin thoughtfully and gives me a sideways grin. His teeth are straight and he has a kind, jovial smile. “So tell me, why are you so active in CARE? What made you choose that?” With slick movements, he clicks the recorder next to him and I eye it before speaking. “Ignore this. I have to, I have zero memory for this stuff. I want to write about you a bit, though, if you don’t mind.”
His interest intrigues me. Henry is always interested in me, in my hair or my clothing, how I hold myself, or how I present myself. What I’ve done or said at parties that needs mild correction later. What I’ve done with my day, my time. He’s less interested, it seems, in my capricious ideas: my thoughts that flit here and there, unfocused. Aside from my activities at CARE, he rarely asks my opinion on anything.
I admit I don’t always mind being under his thumb. There’s a certain freedom in that, to not have to think about things in life, like what to eat for breakfast or dinner, or where or what to shop, how to dress. He likes to teach me how to be in his world. He flicks away my concerns that I’ve never been fully accepted among the upper echelon. He shakes his head dismissively when I point out how the women pair off, heads tilted together almost systematically, at his functions until I’m left standing in the center of the room, awkwardly alone.
But this is different. Cash seems genuinely interested in me, as a person, and the thrill I feel at that is almost embarrassing. It’s not a romantic jolt, but not since Lydia have I had a friend, an honest friend, and truthfully, Lydia has been more of an acquaintance since I married Henry. He’s not a friend, though. This is all for an article. The thrill escapes, pffffting like air out of a balloon.