The Vanishing Year(40)

Like mine. It’s all like mine. It’s my face. Aged twenty years.

“It’s her. You’ve found her.”

? ? ?

For the rest of the day, I keep going back to the office and staring at the computer, at that picture. That sassy, smart-aleck face, the expression I recognize but maybe haven’t seen in a long time. I have the vague recollection of making that exact face for a picture during a night out with Lydia. In the bathroom mirror, I try to imitate it, pulling my mouth to the side, arching my already asymmetrical eyebrow. Back in the office, I download the picture and email it to myself.

I stretch and look around the room. On the far wall there are built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling with books: old, new, hardcover, paperback, thrillers, and mysteries; Ruth Rendell, Dennis Lehane, Ross Macdonald, Arthur Conan Doyle. I run my finger along the shelving and wonder if they, too, are Tara’s. The eye-level shelf holds knickknacks and picture frames, and I realize with a start that there’s a simple, black frame that holds a picture of me.

I’m sitting on a rock, overlooking a stream, wearing a violet shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I remember that day, the hike at Breakneck Ridge. It was a strenuous hike, and I was panting by the top, hot and out of breath, out of shape. A breeze was lifting my hair while Henry snapped pictures with his Canon at the summit. I remember him finding the spot for the photo, off the main trail, to a sketchy side path, overgrown and treacherous. Claiming he wanted pictures of me for his offices, at work and in our apartment, something he could look at. I protested, pushing my bangs off my forehead, my hands on my flaming cheeks. It was September, the leaves still green, the air still humid.

I remember him helping me down from the steep rock, the way he pushed me against the closest tree without saying a word, pawing at my clothes, wanting me, his hands everywhere, his mouth hot and gasping. I remember the way the bark scratched my bare back as he thrust, only twice, before he fell against me, his body limp and panting. I remember being surprised by the need, the sharp, tangible desperation, as he whispered “I’m sorry” into my hair.

I had teased him about it later, and he growled at me, “It’s only because you’re so goddamn beautiful.” He’d pulled me against him so I could feel how he was still ready, and he softly bit my neck.

I take the picture over to the desk and hold it up next to the picture on the computer. If not for the age difference, we could be twins.





CHAPTER 13



I’m still staring at the computer when my phone rings in my hand. I jump and answer it without looking, assuming it is Cash. Instead, it is Henry.

“Who did you think it was?” he asks, ruffled, after my distracted Oh.

“No one! I thought it was you. I’m sorry, I’m on the internet. Hey, why was your office door locked?” My tone is accusatory and I silently chastise myself. Catch more flies with honey, an Evelyn favorite.

“Oh, was it? Habit, I guess. I sometimes rent out the house and I lock some of the doors. I don’t need people going through everything. The key is in the kitchen on the key hook. It’s an old skeleton key.” He clears his throat.

“Okay. I jimmied it open. If you don’t want people in there, you should get a padlock. Like the other room.”

There is a beat of silence. “That room has old client files.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, I’m on my way back. I’ll be there in a half hour or so. Dinner?”

“Sure.” I check the clock on the wall. Somehow, it is four o’clock. I’ve literally killed a whole day staring at a picture. My head pulses and I realize I haven’t eaten anything. “Is there a restaurant in this town?”

Henry laughs. “This town is 90 percent Italian. There’s the best homemade Italian food you’ve ever had, inside or outside of the city.” Vacation Henry is back.

I laugh with him. “Then . . . hurry home,” I say coyly, and we hang up.

I can’t stop staring at her. I blow the picture up and use the scroll bars to move across her face. Her right eye is slightly larger than the other. A thin scar slivers her forehead, close to her hairline. Her ears are double pierced, but she only has earrings in one set of holes. With each new discovery, I race to the bathroom and examine my face. I have a tether.

My head hurts and I’m tired of thinking about Caroline, of analyzing her. On a whim, I navigate to Google and type in the first line of the poem on the card from Henry. As you are woman, so be lovely.

“Pygmalion to Galatea,” by Robert Graves. Pygmalion. The Greek sculptor who fell in love with his statue. Henry is typically not overly literate nor self-reflective. Poetry and fiction are time wasters, and self-reflection is a hallmark of self-doubt.

I’m still sitting at the computer when I hear his car pull in the driveway. I shut it down quickly and stand up. The blood rushes to my head and my vision swims.

We meet in the hallway and we both laugh.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He dips me back a bit and kisses me hungrily on the lips. I kiss him back, but distractedly. I haven’t had time to think about what to tell Henry, if anything. He’d hinted at wanting some distance between Cash and me. I’m hesitant to tell him that he helped me find Caroline, especially considering his reaction at my wanting to find her in the first place. I need to handle it delicately, so I push it all away, bury it in my mind.