The Vanishing Year(55)

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Please, leave me alone.” I wrench my arm out of her taloned grip.

“Fine. If you want to be that way, you can pretend all you want, but Gunther and I, we live here now. It’s not that big of a city. You took yourself away, like I didn’t even matter.” Her round bubbly face hardens at the dismissal. “We’ll see you around, Hilary.” Her voice comes out like a hiss, and on the Hilary, her lip curls. It’s the anger that surprises me. I expected confusion, even sadness. She sees it as a rejection and her cheeks mottle. She gives me a small, slight smile and I inhale quickly.

I recognize the look, the covert determination, hollow and self-serving. Our sophomore year, Molly had turned in what she thought was an A paper and had gotten a B. She stared at that paper with this same face, the same dappled cheeks, red and wind-burned, the same hardened black beaded eyes. Three days later, I heard a rumor: The professor was trading grades for sex. Unsubstantiated rumors. He was suspended for three days for “investigative purposes,” after which he was reinstated. No permanently marred record. No real damage. That was the terrifying part, really. I could never prove it was Molly, but I would have bet our whole apartment on it. When I’d asked her, her lips turned up in the slightest smile. She raised her eyebrows and murmured I’m not surprised, really. That’s when I knew.

I turn and rush away, fighting against the lunchtime crowd, away from that smile. I wipe a sheen of sweat from my forehead and pull my hair back, off my neck. She’s not going to let this go; who would? It’s a crazy story. I imagine her friendless while Gunther is at his new office all day, out to happy hour at night with coworkers. I picture her bored, roaming her apartment, not unlike the way I roam mine but without CARE to distract her, performing Internet searches, staking out my building, tracking me down. It could become a hobby to someone. The idea of it squeezes my heart.

I duck into a souvenir store, covered floor to ceiling with hats and T-shirts, prepaid cell phones, and miniature Statues of Liberty.

“Can I help you?” I spin around and the man stands two feet away, crowding me, and I jump back.

“No, I . . . I’m fine. I just needed the air.” The door is open but the shop is air-conditioned. I pretend to peruse postcards before adjusting my shirt and exiting back out into the street. I take a deep breath and scan the street. No Molly. I head home. I don’t look back.

? ? ?

There is a box on the dining room table with a single long-stemmed red rose resting on top and a note.

Zoe, I’m sorry about our fight. I’ve been under stress at work. Please understand, last night was all my fault. There’s a party tonight to celebrate our partnership with Nippon. Wear this, be ready at 6, and I’ll pick you up. I love you. You are the light of my life.

I set the rose down on the table and place the note next to it. Pause, take a breath. I don’t know if this is real, if Reid told Henry he saw me at the gym and this is a placating measure. Was the blonde the real date, the first date? Am I the backup plan?

Slowly, I lift the lid off the square box. I unwrap the tissue paper inside and pull out the gown. It’s a calf length, sleek, silk cocktail dress, in a deep plum. The neckline plunges, more provocative than anything I’d select, and it is trimmed in crystals. I feel my breath catch. It’s gorgeous. A hanger lies diagonally in the box, and I slip it under the spaghetti straps and hang it up in the doorway.

I scan the kitchen: The glass has been cleaned up, like last night never happened. I suppose I should feel at least unsettled by the fact that my home has been righted in my absence, like a pencil eraser over the sketch of last night’s fight. Sometimes it’s as though people move around me, thin and wispy like ghosts, quietly arranging my life to Henry’s convenience. Penny. Reid.

“I’m sorry to intrude. I didn’t know you were going to be home.”

I drop the box I’m holding and let out a quick staccato scream. “Penny. Jesus Christ, you scared the living daylights out of me.”

“I’m sorry, I heard you out here. I was cleaning the bedrooms.” She gives a quick flick of her head toward the hall. “Dusting.”

We don’t have many one-on-one encounters like this. She frequently comes and goes, conveniently, when I’m out of the house. Too frequently to be coincidence, but not in any way that could be questioned. I tend to believe Henry tells her my daily schedule. She fidgets, a duster in her hands, a white button-down shirt tucked into jeans, bare feet pushed into Birkenstocks. Her toenails are painted a surprising red, her feet a healthy tan. She shifts her weight and checks the time on the stove.

“Penny, do you like me?” I don’t mean to ask the question, but I’m a tad fed up from my day, tired of sidestepping people and issues, and trying to do the right thing for everyone else. I’m tired of roadblocks I can’t see, hidden agendas I can’t fathom.

Her head snaps back and her eyes meet mine. “I don’t know you, Mrs. Whittaker.”

“You can call me Zoe. You call Henry, Henry.”

“I’ve known Henry since . . . well, for a long time.” She steps backward, like she’s going to leave the room. I can feel the impending dismissal.

“How long?” I bend down to pick up the box and turn it over in my hands.

“How long what?”

“How long have you known Henry?” I press.