The Wife Between Us(66)
“Is that how you see Richard? As my rescuer?”
“What?”
“Earlier. You called him the Prince.” I put down my fork. Suddenly I truly wasn’t hungry. “I always wondered if you had a nickname for him.” I was acutely aware of my expensive top, of the cost of the wine we were drinking, of my Prada handbag slung over the back of my chair.
Sam shrugged. “Don’t turn it into a big deal.” She cast her eyes down at her plate and focused on shaking pepper onto her salmon.
“Why don’t you ever want to come out to the house?” I wondered why she had chosen this moment to avoid being straightforward. The one time she’d been over, Richard had greeted her with a hug. He’d grilled burgers. He’d remembered Sam hated sesame seeds on her bun. “Just admit it. You’ve never really liked him.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him. I don’t—I feel like I don’t know him at all.”
“Do you even want to get to know him? He’s my husband, Sam. You’re my best friend. It’s important to me.”
“Okay.” But she left it there and I knew she was holding something back. Sam and Richard had never connected in the way that I had hoped. I’d told myself it was just because they were so different. I almost pressed her for more, but the reality was, I didn’t want to hear it.
Sam broke our eye contact to duck her head and take a forkful of salmon. Maybe it wasn’t simply Richard she didn’t want to get to know, I thought. Maybe it was me as Richard’s wife she was avoiding.
“Anyway, let’s figure out where to go next,” Sam said. “Up for dancing? I’ll text Tara and tell her we’re finishing up.”
I didn’t go out with them, after all. By the time I’d paid the check, I felt exhausted, even though I’d done nothing that afternoon but fold laundry and wait for the plumber to fix a leaky faucet, while Sam had worked a full day and managed to squeeze in a spin class. Besides, I wasn’t dressed for dancing—as Sam had said, I looked as if I were on my way to a PTA meeting.
I dropped Sam off at the club where Tara was waiting and took a cab back to Richard’s place. It was only ten o’clock. We made it an early night. I’m just about to get into bed, I texted Richard. I reasoned that I wasn’t really lying.
A new doorman was on duty and I introduced myself. Then I took the elevator upstairs, creeping by the door of nosy neighbor Mrs. Keene, and entered Richard’s apartment using the key he’d given me long ago. I walked through the hallway, passing the family photographs lining the wall.
I’d never told Sam about Richard’s upbringing, about his checked-out mother and his father, the neighborhood accountant. Richard had revealed it during a private moment, and I’d felt it was his story to tell. If Sam would actually ask Richard about himself rather than categorize him as she did her children, maybe she would’ve seen him differently, I’d thought.
Sam didn’t like who I was when I was with Richard—that was clear now. But I also knew Richard didn’t like the way I acted when I was with Sam.
I headed into the living room, noticing how the configuration of lighting—the darkness of the room combined with the bright kitchen globe behind me—turned the wall of glass windows overlooking Central Park into a mirror. I saw my blurry image, as wispy and insubstantial as a cloud. As if I were a figure trapped inside a snow globe.
In my black-and-gray outfit, I looked drained of color. I seemed to be fading away.
I wished I’d gone with Richard on his trip. I wished I’d handled dinner with Sam better. I desperately craved something solid to hold on to. Something more real to touch than the pristine furniture and glossy surfaces of this apartment.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a few bottles of Perrier and one of Veuve Clicquot champagne. I knew the cabinets held pasta, a few cans of tuna, and espresso pods. In the living room, the latest issues of New York magazine and The Economist were on the coffee table. Dozens of books lined the shelves in Richard’s office, mostly biographies and a few classics by Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway.
I began to walk back down the hallway to the bedroom to turn in for the night. I passed the family photographs again.
Then I stopped.
One was missing.
Where was the picture of Richard’s parents on their wedding day? I could still see the small hole where the nail had been.
I knew it wasn’t in the Westchester house. I checked the other walls of the apartment, even looking in the bathroom. The picture was too big to tuck in a drawer, but I searched anyway. It wasn’t anywhere.
Had Richard put it in the storage unit? I wondered. Other photographs were down there, including some of Richard as a child.
I wasn’t tired, not anymore. I reached into my purse for my keys and retraced my steps to the elevator.
The storage units made available to the building’s tenants were in the basement. I’d been there with Richard once, shortly before our wedding, when I’d brought a few boxes to his place to keep until our move. His was the fifth unit on the left. After he’d spun the dial of the thick padlock and put away my things, he’d opened one of his big blue plastic bins stacked along the wall. He’d pulled out a dozen or so photos—four-by-six glossies, tucked in a faded yellow envelope that said Kodak. They were all taken on the same day, a series of shots of Richard at baseball practice. The photographer seemed to be trying to get a picture of Richard swinging and connecting with the ball, but in every shot, he or she had clicked at the wrong moment.