The Vanishing Year(49)
I smooth the crease of the page flat with my index finger and wipe the ink on a dish towel. I’m perched at the kitchen island, waiting for Henry. The apartment is restored, the break-in erased with a deft hand, the fingerprint powder scrubbed clean. The slashed sofa has been replaced—it’s not an exact replica, but a shade darker, a bit rounder and puffier. I wonder if there were surreptitious conversations about the sofa: I’d like it to be just the exact same size. Can it be slightly larger? It’s only slightly. Does she beg? Does she plead for Henry to accept her suggestions? Who holds the power between them? I can’t figure it out. Does Henry keep these conversations away from me purposefully? If I asked him, he’d say no. That he just has them at work. They’re minutiae, he’d say. Pat my hand.
Penny has left a tapas plate of Brie and olives to rest on the counter, and the apartment is heavy with the aroma of braised lamb. I pinch an olive and pop it in my mouth. Because it is Wednesday, Henry will have had a light lunch, takeout from the catered delivery service at the office. Wednesdays are beef and lamb days. My stomach rumbles and I lick my thumb and turn the page.
There is one photograph of me. The camera is behind me and I am talking to Sophia Restan, a B-list celebrity who was famous in the nineties for her antics as a spoiled heiress but who has become active in and supportive of the city’s charities. She attends almost all the CARE benefits with a different guest, someone with a large checkbook and the desire to impress his date. Our heads are bent together and we’re both smiling, but my features are barely distinguishable in profile. I nod slowly and exhale. It’s a good piece, focusing on the influence of the cause and how it has helped thousands of “system kids” graduate from high school, trade school, and sometimes college. The college graduates always come back.
I hear the elevator doors swoosh open in the hallway. Henry comes through the front door, dusting off the sleeves of his suit, his mouth tipped in a half-grimace.
“Hi!” I stand in his path, raised on my toes to kiss him, and he blinks twice like he’s forgotten who I am. He then leans forward and kisses me, distracted. Perfunctory.
“This goddamn city drives me crazy. I can’t go two blocks without walking under scaffolding and getting covered in sawdust.”
I study his suit and see nothing. I shake my head with a little smile, just to see how easy it will be to break his mood. He stops and smiles back at me. “I’m a grump. I’m sorry. I’ve spent most of the day arguing.”
I tug on his hand. “Come. Look at this.” In the kitchen, we pick at cheese and I fan the paper out in front of him. He reads it, nodding thoughtfully, his fingers tapping gently against the countertop. The bottom half of the second page is devoted to the event, and as his eyes travel down the page, his fingers stop tapping and he frowns.
“What?”
“I don’t know, Zoe, this guy, whatshisname?”
“Cash.” I square my shoulders.
“He seems very interested in you.”
I snatch the paper from his hand. “What are you talking about? This was my event. Of course I’m featured heavily.”
“A lot of quotes from you, that’s all. I have a feeling you were a big influence in the entire write-up. Maybe he talked to other people, but all of this about the scholarships and the schoolbooks? These are things I’ve heard you mention.”
“Well, he did talk to me. That should be fine. The story is what’s important.” I can feel my hackles rising, my chin jutting out.
“And this picture? It’s practically a seventies smoking ad. You’re all curves and seduction.”
“You can’t even see my face.”
“Exactly. Just your bare back, a glimmer of shoulder, long sexy hair, and a hint of a smile in profile.”
I can feel my mood plummeting. “It’s not like that, Henry. This is what I wanted.” I shake the paper at him. “This is a good thing. Why is it always like this with you? You’re so afraid to be happy, you automatically jump to the negative. Just be happy for me.”
“I’m happy for you. It’s a decent article, as far as newspapers these days go. Reporting isn’t what it used to be.” He shrugs. The oven timer goes off and I toss the newspaper back onto the countertop and stalk to the kitchen. I hear him snap the pages back open.
In the kitchen, I remove the lamb, prep the plates, the china clattering off marble, the silverware tinny, making as big a racket as I can. Henry hates plate clanging.
We’ll sit in the dining room with our lamb and salad and pesto orzo, prepared by Penny but served by me. I’ve complained a few times that I can’t handle being served dinner, Penny hovering like a skitzy bird over our chairs, ostensibly to see if we need anything but, to my mind, just plain old-fashioned eavesdropping. I can’t handle her light feather touches to Henry’s shoulder, and yet her eyes dart around when I speak to her, as though she’s channeling an apparition. She squints in my direction, though not so much at me. Though she is never outright rude, I need to feel comfortable dining in my own home.
I carry the plates to the dining room, where Henry has brought the paper with him. He jangles ice in a whiskey glass as he studies the print over the top of his reading glasses. I can’t help but think that he looks sexy, even when I’m exasperated with him.
“Who did you argue with today?” I set his plate in front of him, lightly scratching his neck, expecting him to do what he usually does when he’s unreasonable or childish, which is offer me an impish smile and some vague overreaching flattery, but he does none of those things.