The Vanishing Year(7)
He eyes me suspiciously and I shift in my seat. I maintain eye contact, refusing to be the one who breaks first. Finally, he gives me a wry smile.
“Why don’t I show you what I have and we can go from there?”
I nod slowly. Okay, fine.
“But my camera is at home. How about we meet here Monday, same time?”
“When is the article running?” I’m surprised, I’d expected it to run tomorrow.
“Oh, well, it’s a write-up of the event but it’s more a spotlight of the charity, so it’ll run next Sunday.”
I agree to meet him, then almost laugh out loud at a sudden thought. The reason behind my insistence is a better story than the one he’s trying to protect. I realize then why Cash Murray is a journalist for the society pages. He lacks the nose for hard news.
I pull out my cell phone and call Henry.
“Zoe, I had a feeling you’d change your mind. I was headed to Gramercy Tavern. Join me.”
By the time I get there, he is already seated. He has chosen a table in the center of the room with an eye on the door where he can view the comings and goings. He wears a casual Saturday dress shirt with pressed khakis and he flashes me a genuine smile. My heart catches.
“Sit, sweetheart. I’ve ordered you wine. How did you spend your morning?” He eyes me keenly over his menu. He means to look nonchalant but how I spend my time is always of utmost interest to him. Sometimes, this irritates me. Today I do something I’ve never done before—I omit.
“Oh, I spoke with Francesca about last night.” A technical truth.
“Ah, and she was thrilled, I imagine?” Henry studies the first courses. I don’t know why he bothers—he’ll order beef tartare with a single glass of Barolo.
“Completely thrilled. Thanks for all your help. Last night, the past few weeks.”
Henry had been publicly supportive of the benefit, talking it up in conversations with colleagues and giving statements to the media. Above the menu I can see his eyes, crinkled at the corners. He looks older, somehow, than he did even last night.
“Why wouldn’t I? What matters to you, matters to me. Is that so hard to believe?” He folds the menu and looks at me intently. This is his thing, this intense you’re-the-only-one-in-the-room gaze. Everyone from investors to servicemen are equally charmed by Henry Whittaker. Which is mostly why he can order a bottle-only wine by the glass.
Henry motions to someone across the room and through the rest of lunch I sit silently while Henry discusses business—market dips and trades—with anyone who stops by our table. He makes attempts to include me, blathers on about last night, calls me brilliant to his friends. He receives polite nods in return; they’re used to his posturing when it comes to me. I stay for an hour, enough time to placate him, and then excuse myself. I kiss his cheek and walk myself out.
In the afternoon, I nap. Later, I wander the penthouse as dusk settles, enveloping the apartment in darkness, almost without my realizing it, until suddenly I can barely see. I wander to the great room and flick on a single lamp. I love our home. You can see every inch of Manhattan, I swear. I’ve spent cumulative hours staring out the windows in each room, down to the street below, where the cars look like toys and the people scurry by, busy as mice.
The building is a converted textile warehouse, prewar, Henry drops in casual conversation. People seem impressed by this. The floors are deep cherry and the moldings are ornately carved. Everything is heavy and big, big, decorated by a man. Twenty-foot ceilings and elaborate archways give way to sleek furnishings with simple lines. The contrast is a designer’s dream, and when I first moved in I explored every corner, ran my fingertips against every brocade carved mantel, every marble surface. The whole place looked dipped in shellac. I asked Henry once if I could redecorate it, maybe add some light, floral touches. He gave me a funny look: Oh, but Penny does the decorating.
Penny. Henry’s right-hand woman—housekeeper, cook, life organizer, home decorator, retriever of lost keys and wallets, and finder of obscure late-century credenzas. She’s in her sixties, I think, but looks older, weathered like she’d sat too long in the sun, browned like a raisin. I felt stung at the time. I majored in design in college, although I couldn’t tell him that then. I wonder if I can tell him that now? I open my book.
I wait for Henry to come home.
CHAPTER 3
JUNE 2009, SAN PABLO, CALIFORNIA
The bar smelled like old men, the kind of permanent sweat stain that leaches into everything: the unfinished wood grain of the chairs, the thick, ancient varnish of the bar top, the heavy brocade drapes. The air felt hot-wet, like maybe the air conditioner had been on, and now it was condensing on every flat surface in the heat wave. Even the neon bar signs had given up, flickering on and off halfheartedly: Max’s Cocktail Lounge. The name conjured up some kind of 1940s velvet-lined art deco salon, but the reality was shrouded in wood paneling.
I sat at the end of the bar, the beginning of a nightly ritual that started with vodka tonics and ended with whiskey. I had no place to go. Except this place.
I heard him before I saw him. “Well if it isn’t little Hilary, who ain’t so little.” The voice cut through the smoke and the booze and gave me a chill. He stood next to me, his fingertips dancing across the back of my barstool, and all I could think was don’t you dare touch me. The anger filled my throat.