The Wife Between Us(68)

A sharp, tinny sound to my left jerked me out of my thoughts.

I twisted my head around and peered into the dim light. The unit next to Richard’s was packed with furniture; it blocked my vision.

This was an old prewar building, I told myself. The noise was only a pipe clanging. Still, I shifted so that I faced the opening of the storage unit. That way I could glimpse anyone who might be approaching.

I quickly folded the newspaper back around the wedding picture. I’d found what I had come here for; I should go. But I felt compelled to see what else was tucked away, hidden from the orbit of Richard’s everyday life. I wanted to continue digging through the stratum of Richard’s past.

I reached into the bin again and pulled out a small wooden plaque with a heart and the word Mom etched by the top. Richard’s name was on the back; he must’ve made it for his mother, perhaps in a woodshop class at school. There was also a crocheted yellow blanket, and a pair of bronzed baby shoes.

Toward the bottom of the bin was a small photo album. I couldn’t identify any of the people, but I thought I recognized his mother’s smile on one of the girls holding the hand of a woman in pedal pushers and a halter top. Maybe the album had belonged to her, I’d thought. The next item I touched was the white box that held our wedding-cake topper.

I lifted the lid and picked it up. The porcelain felt delicate and smooth; the colors were soft pastels.

Ever think he’s too good to be true? Sam had asked the day I showed her the cake topper. I wished she’d never asked that question.

I looked down at the handsome groom and the flawless bride with her light blue eyes. Absently, I caressed the figures as I turned them over and over in my hand.

Then the figurine slipped from my fingers.

I frantically fumbled for it, desperate to prevent the cake topper from shattering against the concrete.

I caught it two inches from the floor.

I closed my eyes and released my breath.

How long had I been down here? A few minutes, or had it been closer to an hour? I’d completely lost track of time.

Perhaps Richard had texted me back. He’d be worried if I didn’t respond. Just as the thought struck me, I heard a faint noise, again to my left. The pipe? Or maybe it was a footstep.

I suddenly became aware that I felt trapped in this metal cage. I’d left my cell phone upstairs, in my purse. No one knew where I was.

Would sound even travel up to the doorman in the lobby if I screamed?

I held my breath, my pulse quickening, waiting for a face to appear from around the corner.

No one came.

Only my imagination, I told myself.

Still, my hand shook when I began to return the topper to its box. As I laid it flat, I noticed some tiny numbers embossed on the bottom. I looked closer, squinting to make out the numerals in the dim light. A date: 1985. That must have been when the topper was sculpted.

No, that couldn’t be right, I thought.

I pulled out the figurines again and peered more closely at the numbers. They were unmistakable.

But Richard’s parents had already been married for years by then. He would’ve been a teenager in 1985.

Their wedding was held more than a decade before the cake topper existed. It couldn’t have belonged to them.

Maybe his mother had simply found the figurine at an antiques store and had purchased it because she’d thought it was pretty, I reasoned as I rode the elevator back up to Richard’s floor. Or maybe this was my fault. It could be I’d simply misunderstood Richard.

I could hear my cell phone ringing inside the apartment as I fit my key into the lock. I rushed to grab my purse, but it fell silent before I could dig it out.

Then the apartment line began to shrill.

I ran into the kitchen and snatched it up.

“Nellie? Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Richard’s voice sounded higher than usual—stressed. I knew he was on the other side of the world, but the connection was so clear, he could have been in the next room.

How had he known I was here?

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “Is everything okay?”

“I thought you were at home.”

“Oh, I was going to, but then I was so tired—I just thought—I figured it would be easier for me to stay at the apartment,” I blurted.

Silence crackled between us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I didn’t have an answer. At least not one I felt I could share with him.

“I was going to . . .” I stalled. For some reasons tears filled my eyes and I blinked them away. “I just figured I’d explain tomorrow rather than send you a long text while you’re with clients. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It bothered me far more to imagine that something had happened to you.”

“I’m so sorry. Of course, you’re right. I should have told you.”

He didn’t respond for a beat.

Then he finally said, “So why didn’t you answer your cell? Are you alone?”

I’d made him angry. His clipped tone was the giveaway. I could almost see his eyes narrowing.

“I was in the bath.” The lie just shot out of me. “Of course I’m alone. Sam went out dancing with her roommate but I didn’t want to, so I just came here.”