The Vanishing Year(57)

“Right, I can’t say that I blame him—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “When Henry goes where? When?”

“Japan. Tomorrow?” Both Muriel and Reid look at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot.” I recover quickly and my mind spins. When was he going to tell me? For how long? I scan the crowd but I don’t see him.

Reid plucks a glass of red wine off a nearby waiter’s tray and hands it to me. He then taps my elbow and gives a quick I’ll-be-right-back hand motion. I nod, dumbly. Muriel studies me, spinning the stem of her wineglass in her hand.

“You didn’t know, did you?” She cocks her head to the side. I pause. I’m so accustomed to self-sufficiency that it feels uncomfortable to relent, even with this small an admission.

“No. I didn’t know.” I search the restaurant again and still don’t see him. “He’s been distracted. It’s okay. For how long?”

“A week.” She gives me a comforting smile. “Henry is a tough man, Zoe. I’ve known him for a long time. I never thought he’d recover from Tara.”

“How so?”

“Oh,” she waves her hand around, her bracelets clattering together. She smiles guiltily and lowered her voice. “He was a mess for a while. Determined to find out who was driving the car. That sort of thing. He seemed to all but forget about it after he met you. You’re very different.”

The wine warms my cheeks. “Did you know her well?” I tilt my head back and take the last swig, the red burning the back of my throat.

Muriel gives me a surprised look. “No, I never met her.”

“Really? Why not?” The back of my mouth goes dry.

She leans in, taps my shoulder once. “Tara was agoraphobic, dear. No one ever met her.”

? ? ?

Muriel moves on, circulates among the crowd. Eventually, I find Henry and hover next to him but somehow get pushed outside the circle. He doesn’t make any gestures to include me, and I border on being ignored.

As the night wears on, I grow more and more angry. Why did he invite me? If he’s leaving tomorrow, why not enjoy the night together? Why not tell me you’re leaving tomorrow?

Finally, I grip his elbow and drag him away. “You’re going to Japan. You never told me that.”

“Relax, Zoe.” His tone is dismissive and his eyes narrow. “I was going to tell you tonight.”

“Muriel Young even knows. Reid Pinkman knows. I look like a fool.”

“You’re being overdramatic. You don’t look like anything. Everyone knows how busy I am.” He shakes loose from my grip and holds up his fingers to a waiter, indicating another drink. He turns back to me, his eyes dark. “Besides, I thought you’d know already. You’re so cozy with Reid these days.”

“What does that mean?” I snap.

“Oh, I’m sure you know.” So Reid told Henry I was at the gym.

At that moment, Peter Young taps the microphone and asks everyone to sit for dinner. Henry places his hand on the small of my back, to guide me.

We file into two sides of a straight, long table. It’s a larger crowd than I originally thought, about thirty people. Henry sits to my left and I expect him to pull my chair out but he turns to the man next to him, ignoring me. I’ve never seen Henry act so impolitely; he opens doors for women and carries grocery bags for little old ladies on the street. Reid sits on my right.

“No date tonight?” I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of water. Henry’s back is inches from my face, an obstinate wall.

“Not tonight.” Reid has what is known as boyish charm. Round, pink cheeks, shiny like a newborn’s bottom, and long, curling eyelashes so dark he looks like he’s wearing makeup. I’ve seen women (girls, really) actually swoon from his smile. In this day and age of smartphones, he still keeps a little black book.

Reid is one of those people you meet and instantly know you could be friends. Almost everyone feels this way about him. If you shake his hand, your mind spins with all the future memories you could have, all the mischief you could make. You could almost envision him, a grown adult, egging suburban houses and peeling away in his yellow Porsche. People get confused, Have we met before, maybe when we were young?

Even now, as he talks, I find myself thinking back to the Cynthia night. The night before Musha Cay. The night he helped me, rescued me. I almost laugh at my own dramatizing. Rescue me.

“I need to find a wife. I’m almost forty, you know.” He unfolds a napkin and takes a swig from his whiskey glass.

“No. I thought you were in your late twenties. Younger than me.” I’m honestly surprised.

“I’m an old man. Not in spirit, like your Henry. He’s an old soul. But I’m not getting younger. Know of any single women who are looking for a husband?” He rests his chin on his palm and faces me, his apple cheeks red from the alcohol.

“In New York City?” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you kidding? We must have the highest available woman per capita ratio in the country. Wear a sandwich board and stand on the street.”

He snorts, a quick huff of air through his nose, and shakes his head. “Find me someone. I need a smart woman, independent. No plastic surgery. No fascination with measuring their thigh gap.”