The Wife Between Us(44)
“Your mother?” Nellie asked. “I know she was a homemaker. . . .”
“Yeah. Well, a Virginia Slims smoker and soap opera watcher, too.” It could have been a joke, except no humor was in his tone. “My mom never went to college. Maureen was the one who helped me with homework. She pushed me; she told me I was smart enough to do anything I put my mind to. I owe her everything.”
“But your parents—they loved you.” Nellie thought of the photographs on Richard’s wall. She knew his parents had died in the car crash when he was just fifteen and that he’d gone to live with Maureen then, but she hadn’t realized how deeply formative a role his big sister had played in his life.
“Sure,” he said. Nellie was about to ask more about his parents, but Richard’s voice stopped her. “I’m beat. Let’s drop this, okay?”
Nellie laid her head on his chest. “Thank you for telling me.” Knowing he’d struggled—that he’d been a waiter, too, and hadn’t always been sure of himself—conjured feelings of tenderness in her.
He was so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he flipped over on top of her and began to kiss her, his tongue slipping between her lips as his knee spread apart her legs.
She wasn’t ready for him and sucked in a breath as he entered her, but didn’t ask him to stop. He pressed his face into her neck, his arms on either side of her head. He finished quickly and lay on top of her, breathing hard.
“I love you,” Nellie said softly.
She wasn’t sure if he’d heard, but then he lifted his head and kissed her gently on the lips.
“Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you, my Nellie?” He smoothed back her hair.
She shook her head.
“You were smiling down at a little boy in the airport; you looked like an angel. And I thought you could save me.”
“Save you?” she echoed.
His words were a whisper: “From myself.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Years ago, shortly after I’d first moved to New York, I was walking to work, taking in the sights: towering buildings, snatches of conversations in multiple languages, yellow taxis darting through the streets, and calls from vendors hawking everything from pretzels to fake Gucci purses. Then the flow of foot traffic abruptly stopped. Through the crowd, I could see a few police officers gathered ahead, near a gray blanket someone had left crumpled on the sidewalk. An ambulance idled at the curb.
“A jumper,” someone said. “Must’ve just happened.”
I realized then the blanket covered a shattered body.
I’d stood there for a minute, feeling as if it was somehow disrespectful to cross the street and walk past the scene, even though the police were directing us to do so. Then I saw a shoe by the curb. A low-heeled, sensible blue pump, lying on its side, its sole slightly worn. The kind of shoe a woman might reach for to wear to a job that required her to dress professionally but also be on her feet for long stretches. A bank teller, maybe, or desk clerk at a hotel. A police officer was bending down to place the shoe in a plastic bag.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that shoe, or the woman it belonged to. She must have gotten up that morning, gotten dressed, and stepped out of a window into the air.
I searched the newspapers the following day, but there was only a tiny mention of the incident. I never knew what had made her commit such a desperate act—if she’d been planning it, or if something inside her had suddenly snapped.
I think I’ve figured out the answer, all these years later: It was both. Because something inside me has finally cracked open, but I’ve come to realize I’ve also been heading toward this moment all along. The phone calls, the watching, the other things I’ve done . . . I’ve been circling around my replacement, drawing closer to her, assessing her. Preparing.
Her life with Richard is beginning. My life feels as if it is ending.
Soon she will step into her white dress. She will smooth makeup over her clear young skin. She will wear something borrowed and something blue. The musicians will lift their instruments to serenade her as she slowly makes her way down the aisle, toward the only man I ever truly loved. Once she and Richard look into each other’s eyes and say “I do,” there will be no point of return.
I must stop the wedding.
It is now four A.M. I haven’t slept. I’ve been staring at the clock, going over what I need to do, playing out the various scenarios.
She hasn’t moved out of her apartment yet. I’ve checked.
I will be waiting to intercept her today.
I imagine her eyes widening, her hands flying up to protect herself.
It’s too late! I yearn to scream at her. You should have stayed away from my husband!
When it’s finally light outside, I rise and go to my armoire, and without hesitation I select Richard’s favorite emerald silk dress. He loved the way it brought it out the green in my eyes. Once it hugged my body, but now it is so loose I clasp a slim gold chain-link belt around my waist to cinch it. With a precision I have not attempted in years I apply my makeup, taking time to blend my foundation, curl my lashes, and apply two coats of mascara. Then I remove the new tube of Clinique lip gloss from my purse and run the sticky, soft pink wand over my lips. I slip on my highest pair of nude heels so my legs look long and lean. I text Lucille that I will be out today, aware that her response will almost certainly be that I should not come in ever again.