The Vanishing Year(36)
“Don’t they look beautiful?” She means it, too, and this baffles me. I’m not the kind of person who would ever describe raw meat as beautiful. I nod and try to look impressed. She wraps it up, ties it with string, and weighs it.
I like Trisha. I mean, honestly, you can’t help but like Trisha.
She brings the steaks to the counter. “Do you need anything else? Some salad? Greens?”
“Do you have wine?” I ask hopefully. I have no idea what Henry keeps in his house.
“We can’t sell it, darling, but I’m never without it.” She holds up a finger and scurries into the rear room, through that swinging wooden door again. When she returns she’s holding a bottle of rosé, with a plain white label Table Red. Henry will die, he’s actually going to die. She must see my face because her cheeks flush, round and pink, and she falters. “Oh, I know it’s not what you’re used to but—”
“No, it’s completely fine. I will love it. Who doesn’t love rosé?” I give her a wide, friendly smile. “You know, I do need more than just steaks. What else should I make for dinner?”
She busies herself behind the deli counter, rationing out couscous salad and some simple grilled vegetables: mushrooms, peppers, and onions. My mouth waters.
“I think you have the makings of a wonderfully romantic meal for two.” Her apple-cheeked smile is back, resilient Trisha. You can tell she bounces. “Where’s your house, darlin’?”
I tell her. Her eyes light up.
“I know that place! I walk there every day, usually ’bout six or so. Gotta lose these last twenty pounds. God, my baby is thirteen and you’d think I would have done something about it by now.”
I nod, averting my eyes from her sloping breasts and full belly. She rubs one chubby hand over her midsection and stands up straight. She rings me up. “Twenty-three ninety-two.”
“This would cost double in the city,” I say with a sly wink. She taps my hand.
“You’re funny.” She writes something in a journal next to the cash register, her bright pink nails clicking against the metal spiral binding. On impulse, I want to invite her to eat with us. Henry would kill me; he likes neither impulse nor dinner guests.
I open my wallet to pay the tab, and the heat crawls up the back of my neck, flushing my face. My credit card is gone.
? ? ?
“That reporter, he returned your wallet, yes?”
We have finished eating, one remaining small sliver of venison on a ceramic platter between us. The pine farmhouse table is littered with supper castoffs: half-empty wine and whiskey glasses, crumpled linen napkins. The dining room is dimly lit by flickering tapers and I am sleepy drunk. I have all but forgotten the missing credit card and I blink twice instead of answering him.
When I arrived home Henry called the bank immediately, shrugging it off with only a nebulous murmur of admonishment. When he hung up, he rubbed my back, between my shoulder blades. “You probably just left it at the diner. I’ll leave you cash.” He patted my head. Instead of being grateful, I swatted Henry’s hand away. It was all so patronizing.
It’s a blessing and a curse, having someone like Henry. On one hand, I could sit and drink a glass of wine, let him sweep in on his white horse, wave his giant hands, and fix it all with his booming voice. Take his cash, tuck it into the satin folds of my purse with a demure smile, as though I were a kept woman. On the other hand, lately, I’m tired of simply letting things happen.
“Cash? Yes, he brought it back.” I cross and uncross my legs.
“Interesting.” Henry taps his fork against his plate, a quiet ting in the silent room. The silence up here, hovering on the top of this mountain, kills me.
“You think he took it?” I’m incredulous. That had never crossed my mind.
Henry shrugs. “I’d have no idea, Zoe. We don’t know the man.”
“Well, I know him a little. He doesn’t seem like a thief. He’s a reporter.”
“Ah yes, an honorable bunch.” He pulls his mouth down into an ironic frown that also seems almost like a grin. “It’s just something to think about, that’s all. That man, he’s around a lot when all these . . . things seem to be happening.”
The bottle of table red has worked a number on me. I’ve drunk the bottle alone while Henry nursed a glass of Pomerol he brought up from the cellar. Henry leans back in his chair, his lips lifted at the corners. His hair uncharacteristically mussed, flopping down over one eye. He looks boyish. Henry never looks boyish.
He holds up one finger, like he’s forgotten something. He pushes himself up and comes around to my side of the table. He perches one leg up, smoothly sliding my dinner plate to the side. From his pants pocket, he retrieves a small velvet box and sets it gently in front of me with a wry smile. On top of the box sits a small card, no envelope. I flip it open.
As you are woman, so be lovely:
As you are lovely, so be various,
Merciful as constant, constant as various.
So be mine, as I yours for ever.
“Henry.” I can’t stop the smile, it’s all so unlike him. “Poetry? Did you write this?”
“Of course not. It’s part of a Robert Graves poem. I’ve always loved it.”
He touches his finger to his lips, his thumb poised under his chin, and gives me a look of reflection. I open the lid and nestled inside the pink velvet folds is a bracelet. The chain is intricately braided yellow and white gold and it sparkles in the candlelight. At first blush, I think it is a charm bracelet, which seems uncharacteristically trendy of Henry, and I give him a questioning look. The chain threads through three beads. I unclasp the hooks on either end and delicately hold the jewelry in my palm.