The Vanishing Year(42)

I can’t stop checking my phone. For what, I’m not sure. Another email from Cash? Another picture of her? The clock creeps toward nine and one by one, the tables empty with bids of good-night and nice meeting you, and too-friendly cheek kisses, until Henry and I are finally alone. His fingers tickle my thigh and I shift away.

“What did you do today?” His eyelids are drooping, sleepy-drunk, and he has a dopey smile on his face.

“Not so fast. You were a troublemaker?” I prod, tapping his toe with mine.

He waves his hand, annoyed. “Mr. Zappetti is a storyteller. No, I was not a troublemaker. I was a kid. I think we soaped his windows one Halloween.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Hey, it’s tough to entertain yourself in this town,” he protests, his eyes shining.

“Tell me what you did today,” he says, again, smiling. My mind goes white. I hesitate, my hand fluttering above my wineglass.

All at once, I remember Caroline, her arched eyebrow, her dark wild hair, her mischievous eyes. Then, Aren’t I enough? I can’t do it. I can’t kill the evening, break this spell. I picture his smile fading, his posture straightening, how he would adjust his collar or clear his throat. He’d say something so Henry like, I thought we discussed this before, Zoe or You found your birth mother . . . on Facebook? As though it were laughable and it would be diminished. Instantly reduced in the way that only Henry can, with a flick of his wrist or a twist of his lips. Then we’d sit in silence. I’d clear my throat and he’d throw back the rest of his wine and we’d leave. No, no, no. Henry looks so happy and free, his shoulders loose and the furrow between his eyebrows is smoothed.

“Not much,” I say, deflecting. “I read a book by Ruth Rendell. A mystery novel. Have you read her?” I twirl a fork between my fingers. I’m fishing.

Henry scratches his chin and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t think so.”

“Really? You have one of her books on the nightstand in the other bedroom,” I say and raise one eyebrow, an expression I excel at.

“Oh well,” he says flippantly, “that was Tara’s room. She read voraciously.”

“Oh? The guest room was Tara’s bedroom?” I’m not exactly feigning surprise—I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt about it.

“She would sleep there sometimes. I worked late, she liked to go to bed early. I suppose it sounds odd now. It seemed so normal at the time.”

I picture a Brady Bunch relationship: chaste kisses on the cheek, while he brought her chamomile tea and McVitie’s biscuits. Pats on the cheek. Making love in the dark, missionary style.

“No, I think it’s fine. I just had no idea.” I take a deep breath, the words stuck on my tongue. “Henry, I don’t know anything about her.”

He leans back in his chair. “She was very different than you. Very timid, a bit scared of the world. You wonder why I don’t know what to do with you.” He laughs and I relax back in my seat.

“Do you keep that room hers?” I cock my head to the side and study his face. He averts his eyes, squinting at a grapevine wreath on the far wall.

“Not intentionally, Zoe. I don’t come here much anymore. Do you know that we used to spend every weekend here?” He shakes his head and chooses his words carefully. “It’s hard to come back sometimes.”

“You still love her.” I feel stupid even as I say it. It’s so obvious, but I’m not even sure if there’s anything wrong with it. Why wouldn’t he? She never gave him a reason not to, except for the simple fact that she’s gone. His love for me, then, is by default.

I’ve broken the spell anyway, and for the wrong thing.

“It’s complicated,” he sighs. “It’s not like a divorce. I didn’t have any control over the end of my marriage.” He rests his cheek against the L of his thumb and forefinger and studies me. “Is that hard for you?”

“Not usually. But we’ve been married nearly a year and we’ve never had this conversation. That’s hard for me.” This was the kind of talk that we should have had a million times, drinking wine, wrapped in blankets on a cold winter night. The kind of close, furtive confidences of lovers, whispered kisses and shared breath.

“The room is not a shrine to Tara. I guess I’m lazy. I rent this house out, just a few times a year in the summer and again in the fall to hunters.” His eyes flick across my face.

“You’ve never been called lazy in your life,” I joke. Half-joke. The room is fuzzy and I feel coquettish, preening, looking up at Henry from under my eyelashes.

“You call me out, Zoe. I never knew how much I would love that. I’ve certainly never had it before.”

For something to do, I pour another glass of wine. I realize I’ve drunk almost the whole bottle of white alone, and I slosh more than a sip full down the side of the goblet and onto the tablecloth, which I then rub with the pad of my thumb.

“It’s not a shrine,” he repeats. “It’s just easier. I have a new life. I’m remarried. Sometimes, it’s like I’ve lived twice. I wonder if she ever existed at all. That room is physical proof, that’s all. I don’t think about it, I don’t go in there. Do you want me to change it? I will.” He blows out a breath and it tumbles across the table, warm and sweet. “I’m not preserving it. It’s just that I haven’t changed it, that’s all. Do you see the difference?” He seems desperate for me to understand now, his hands splayed out across the tablecloth, and I feel a stab of guilt.