The Vanishing Year(19)

“I wonder if she’s in love with you?”

Henry laughed and dropped his fork. “In love with me? She’s at least twenty years older than I am!”

“That means nothing,” I protested. “You’re ten years older than me.”

“Her husband is terribly disabled, you know. From a fire, when I was a kid.” His mouth bowed in a frown. “So tragic. She needs the money, Zoe.”

And so I felt foolish. Stupid and petty and foolish.

Except sometimes she looks at us so oddly—as though she doesn’t know who he is, like I am a specimen. She doesn’t just look at me, she studies me. Then, when Henry and I are together, she barely glances my way at all. And once I came into the kitchen, just as I heard her saying Henry, but it isn’t right. It doesn’t look proper. And they had straightened up at the sight of me, Henry patting her shoulder and murmuring that they’d talk later. I knew she was talking about me, about my background, my mysterious past, rooted poverty.

But before I could protest or ask her, she’d appear at my elbow, my dry cleaning in hand, the bottle of expensive shampoo I was almost out of but hadn’t yet ordered, our social invitations categorized.

“How was your day?” Henry is squeezing lemon over his salad, picking through the leaves with his fork.

“It was interesting.” I can’t decide how much to tell him. Start with the worst. “I was almost killed today.”

Henry’s fork clangs on the marble countertop and he stares at me with eyes rounded in fear and I realize how reckless I’ve been. How careless. Tara. Penny has whirled around and her mouth hangs open. How cruel. “Oh God, I’m sorry, that came out so awful.”

Henry clears his throat. “What do you mean, killed?”

I place my hand on his arm, caress his wrist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. . . . Well, I was crossing a street and a car ran a red light and almost hit me. A reporter from the Post saved my life.” I use the moment to get in an introduction to Cash, as well. Not that meeting Cash for breakfast is off-limits or anything. Regardless of Lydia’s attitude, Henry doesn’t exert control. He’s always exceedingly interested in how I spend my time, and he’s protective. He means well.

“A reporter?” he repeats.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so blunt about it. I forgot about . . . well, Tara. I was thoughtless.”

He wipes his lips, dabbing one side, then the other. After a moment, he sets his napkin down and pats my hand. “It’s fine. Tara was part of my life, not yours. Tell me this again? A reporter? Saved your life?”

I relay the story and am able to work in Cash’s name again. He leans over and kisses me and his lips taste like lemon and pepper.

“I’m glad you’re safe. People are crazy drivers.” His left hand rests on my thigh.

“How was your day?” I spear a slice of tuna and put it in my mouth. He’s watching me, and I lick olive oil off my upper lip.

“Oh, the same as every day, I think.”

Penny has her back to us and is storing the last of the dishes. She turns to face us, as usual speaking to Henry, not me. “Do you need anything else before I leave?” She casts her eyes downward. I wonder what would happen if I yelled, screamed, talked to her directly. Anything. I wonder where she goes, who she goes home to? Does her husband live with her? I imagine her in a house in Queens, an invalid husband sequestered to a bedroom, small and dingy, surrounded by fifteen cats, all named for Disney characters. Captain Hook eats all the tuna. She talks to them in her whispered, lilting voice, still young sounding, while they mewl and knead at her lap.

Henry doesn’t flinch. “Penny, thank you. This is wonderful. Enjoy your evening.”

Penny gives me a quick head nod and a good-bye, never ever saying my name—I’m not sure she’s ever said it—and I hear the petite footsteps to the door. The latch clicks into place. I turn to face Henry and his eyes go dark and for a moment that seems to last hours, we just stare at each other.

“Who is this Cash?” Henry asks as he slides over, pushing his plate back. He tugs at my hand, pulls me against him and into his lap. I straddle him but pull away a notch. He only seems to want me, to be desperate like this, when he thinks he’s being encroached upon.

“I saw Lydia today.” I play with the buttons of his shirt, tapping them with my nail. I want to tell him about the flower shop, my idea of going back, how it could silence this suffocating notion that I’m not accomplishing anything. I’m going to be thirty years old and I don’t have a career anymore. Or friends. Or anything else that other thirty-year-olds have.

He pulls my hand up and kisses my palm.

“I was thinking I could go back to the flower shop. One, two days a week. There’s not enough to do with CARE to fill a whole week. I need to do something.”

“You do,” he agrees and kisses my neck, and then I realize he’s being facetious. He means him.

“No. Henry, I’m serious.” I lean back, away from him, but he smiles. A warm, open come-on-in smile. I love this Henry, the one who is undone, his face reminding me of a child’s, full of hope and wanting. He slides his hands down to my waist and lifts me onto the marble countertop. His hands trace circles on my thighs and I feel my irritation fading, being replaced with a building want. This is what he does when I try to talk to him.