The Wife Between Us(38)

Now I dial her cell number.

She answers on the third ring: “Hang on a sec.” Then I hear a muffled “Ninety-second and Lexington, please.”

So she is in town already; she comes here in the summer to teach a course at Columbia.

“Vanessa? How are you?” Her tone is measured. Neutral.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “How about you?”

“Fine.”

One of my podcasts recounted a psychology experiment in which a researcher flashed different faces from a projector and students had to quickly identify the emotions portrayed. It was astonishing. In less than a second, with no clues but a subtle shifting of features, almost everyone could accurately differentiate between disgust and fear and surprise and joy. But I’ve always thought voices reveal just as much expression, that our brains are capable of deciphering and categorizing almost imperceptible nuances in tone.

Maureen wants nothing to do with me. She is going to end the call quickly.

“I was just wondering . . . could we meet for lunch tomorrow? Or coffee?”

Maureen exhales. “I’m a little busy now.”

“I can come to you. I was wondering . . . the wedding. Is Richard—”

“Vanessa. Richard has moved on. You need to do the same.”

I try again. “I just need to—”

“Please stop. Just stop. Richard told me you’ve been calling all the time. . . . Look, you’re upset things ended between you two. But he’s my brother.”

“Have you met her?” I blurt. “He can’t marry her. He doesn’t love her—he can’t—”

“I agree it’s very sudden.” Maureen’s voice is kinder when she speaks again. “And I know it’s hard to see him with another woman. To think of him with anyone but you. But Richard has moved on.”

Then the last, frayed thread tying me to Richard is severed with the click of the phone.

I stand there, feeling numb. Maureen was always protective of Richard. I wonder if she’ll befriend his new bride, if the two of them will go to lunch . . .

Then clarity sweeps through my cloudy brain like an arcing windshield wiper. Ninety-second and Lexington. That’s where Sfoglia is. Richard used to love that restaurant. It’s almost seven o’clock—dinnertime.

Maureen must have been giving the address to a cabdriver. The restaurant is a long way from Columbia, but it’s close to Richard’s apartment. Could she be going to meet him—them—there?

I have to get her alone, where Richard can’t see.

If I leave now, maybe I can be waiting on the corner when she arrives. If not, I can ask for a table by the ladies’ room and follow her if she uses it.

Two minutes is all I require.

I glance at my reflection in the beveled glass mirror beside my armoire. Although I must get there quickly, I need to appear presentable so I blend in. I take a moment to brush my hair and apply my lipstick, belatedly realizing the shade is too dark for my chalky complexion. I dab concealer under my eyes and smooth on blush.

As I locate my keys, I call out to tell Aunt Charlotte that I need to dash out for an errand. I don’t wait for her response before I hurry out the door. The elevator is too slow, so I spiral down the stairs, my purse banging against my side. Inside it is everything I need.

The streets are clogged with traffic. It’s rush hour. No buses are in sight. Maybe a cab? As I head toward the East Side, I scan the yellow vehicles, but they all seem full. It’s a twenty-minute walk. So I break into a run.





CHAPTER





THIRTEEN




By the end of the taxi ride, Nellie had pushed away the oppressive sensation of the frat guys’ touching her. It wasn’t too difficult; she’d long ago learned to compartmentalize the sorts of feelings they’d conjured in her. Still, she wanted to take a moment alone in the restaurant bathroom. She suspected she could use a fresh swipe of lip gloss, not to mention a spritz of perfume.

However, when she arrived, the ma?tre d’ informed her another woman was waiting at her table. “Shall I take your bag?”

Nellie relinquished the electric-blue-and-yellow Nike satchel containing her damp uniform, feeling like a rube. She wondered if she was supposed to tip him. She’d have to ask Richard; she was far more familiar with restaurants that featured a hostess offering oversize menus along with crayon packets for children.

Nellie was led through the bar area, past a silver-haired man in a tuxedo playing a grand piano, then through the high-ceilinged dining room. Her stomach clenched. Maureen was sixteen years her senior and a college professor, and here was Nellie, a slightly disheveled preschool teacher who smelled like a deep fryer.

This introduction couldn’t have come on a worse night.

But the moment Nellie saw Maureen, she exhaled. Richard’s sister looked like the photonegative of him. Her hair was cut in a classic bob, and she wore a simple pantsuit. She was peering at The Economist through reading glasses, biting her lower lip the way Richard always did when he was concentrating.

“Hi!” Nellie said, leaning over to give Maureen a hug. “Was that weird? I just feel like we are going to be sisters . . . and I’ve never had a sister.”

Maureen smiled and tucked her magazine into her purse. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”