The Wife Between Us(77)

“My wife helped get the funding for a wonderful new charter school not too far from here,” he said. “You should think about getting involved with it.”

“I would love that. I miss teaching so much.”

Paul reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call me next week.” He leaned in a bit closer and whispered, “When I say my wife helped with their funding, I mean my wife told me to write them a big check. They owe us a favor.” His eyes crinkled at the corners and I grinned back. I knew he was one of the most successful men in the room and that he was still happily married to his high school sweetheart, a white-haired woman who was chatting with Richard.

“I’ll make introductions,” Paul continued. “I bet they can find a spot for you. If not now, maybe at the start of the school year.”

A waiter offered us glasses of wine from a tray, and Paul handed me a fresh one. “Cheers. To new beginnings.”

I’d misjudged the force of our glasses connecting. The delicate, thin rims collided with a crash, and I was left holding a jagged stem while wine coursed down my arm.

“I’m so sorry!” I blurted as the waiter rushed back to me, offering his stack of cocktail napkins and removing the broken stem from my hand.

“Completely my fault,” Paul said. “I don’t know my own strength! I’m the one who’s sorry. Hold on, don’t move, there’s glass on your dress.”

I stood there while he plucked a few shards out of the fine knit, putting them on the waiter’s tray. The conversations around us had halted for a moment, but now they resumed. Still, I felt everyone’s heightened awareness of me. I wanted to melt into the carpet.

“Let me help,” Richard said, coming to stand next to me. He blotted my damp dress. “Good thing you weren’t drinking red.”

Paul laughed, but it sounded forced. I could tell he was trying to remove some of the awkwardness from the moment. “Well, now I really owe you a job.” Paul looked at Richard. “Your lovely wife was just telling me how much she misses teaching.”

Richard crumpled up the damp napkin in his hand, put it on the waiter’s tray, and said, “Thanks,” dismissing the man. Then I felt Richard touch the small of my back. “She’s great with kids,” he told Paul.

Paul’s attention was caught by his wife, waving him over. “You have my number,” he told me. “Let’s talk soon.”

The moment he left, Richard leaned closer to me. “How much have you had to drink, sweetheart?” His words were innocuous, but his body held an unnatural stillness.

“Not that much,” I said quickly.

“By my count you had three glasses of champagne. And all that wine.” His hand increased its pressure on my lower back. “Forget dinner,” he whispered in my ear. “Let’s head home.”

“But—Paul bought a table. Our seats will be empty. I promise I’ll stick to water.”

“I think it would be better if we left,” Richard said quietly. “Paul will understand.”

I went to get my wrap. While I was waiting, I saw Richard approach Paul and say something, then clap him on the shoulder. Richard was making excuses for me, I thought, but Paul would perceive the subtext: Richard needed to get me home because I was far too tipsy to stay for dinner.

But I wasn’t drunk. Richard only wanted everyone to think I was.

“All set,” Richard said to me when he returned. He’d already called for our car, which was waiting just outside the building.

The snow was coming down more heavily now. Even though our driver proceeded slowly through the mostly empty streets, I felt nauseated. I closed my eyes and leaned as far back against the door as my seat belt would allow. I feigned sleep, but I’m pretty sure Richard knew I didn’t want to face him.

He might’ve let it go—let me walk upstairs and fall into our bed.

But as I climbed the steps toward our front door, I stumbled and had to catch myself on the railing.

“It’s these new heels,” I said desperately. “I’m not used to them.”

“Of course it is,” he said sarcastically. “It couldn’t be all those drinks on an empty stomach. This was a work event, Nellie. It was an important night for me.”

I stood silently behind him as he unlocked the front door. Once inside, I sat on the tufted bench in our entranceway and removed my shoes. I placed them side by side on the bottom stair, aligning the heels precisely, then I removed my wrap and hung it in the closet.

Richard was still there when I turned around. “You need to eat something. Come on.”

I followed him into the kitchen, where he pulled a bottle of mineral water out of the refrigerator and silently handed it to me. He opened a cabinet and took out a box of Carr’s water crackers.

I ate one quickly. “I feel better. You were right to bring me home. . . . You must be hungry, too. Do you want me to cut you up some Brie? I just bought it today at the farmers’ market.”

“I’m fine.” I could tell Richard was about to disappear as he had done during other arguments that I’d tried to forget; he was struggling to keep his anger from surfacing. From swallowing him.

“About the job,” I said quickly, trying to defuse it. “Paul just offered to introduce me to people at the charter school. It could be part-time or it might not even happen.”