Goodnight Beautiful(35)

“Hi, it’s me. I’m at Sam’s office.” She’s quiet. “No, I came alone.” She pauses, sniffs. “I found the key in one of his coat pockets.” Something is off about her voice, and it takes a moment for me to realize what it is: her French accent is gone. “I just got here.”

It hits me then. That voice. I know that voice. It’s the same voice from that YouTube lecture—“Misery and Womanhood,” which I’ve now watched at least twenty times. My head swims. The French Girl isn’t a French girl at all.

The French Girl is his wife.





Chapter 23




“And?” Maddie asks nervously. “How does it look?”

Annie slowly opens another drawer in Sam’s desk, seeing a row of pens and the grid notebooks he likes. “Fine,” she says. Books in place on his shelves, vacuum lines still in the carpet. “I was here the other day, and it looks the same.”

Annie hears Maddie inhaling, and she pictures her cousin standing outside the restaurant she owns in Bordeaux, smoking the one cigarette she allows herself at the end of the night, after the last dinner serving. Maddie and Annie—eleven months apart—were often mistaken for sisters during the summers Annie and her parents spent in France, at the olive farm on which her mother grew up and where her aunt and uncle now live. Maddie and Annie kept a countdown calendar every year, ticking off the days until Annie would arrive and they’d share a room, even though there was space enough for Annie to have her own.

“I don’t love you being there by yourself,” Maddie says. “Can you go now?”

“Yes,” Annie says.

“Promise?”

“Yes.” Annie hangs up and scans the room. It’s peaceful here. The view of the yard, covered in a carpet of fog. The Palladian-blue walls that, Sam explained, were meant to evoke serenity. (“I thought that was your job,” she told him when he showed her the swatch.) She walks to the table next to his chair, riffling through the papers on top. A copy of an academic article on Anna Freud and defense mechanisms. The latest issue of In Touch Weekly, a story of Kris Jenner’s secret Mexican wedding on the cover.

She sinks onto the couch and stares at Sam’s empty chair across from her, picturing him as he was a few days ago, when she appeared unexpectedly in his waiting room, pretending to be a patient.

She closes her eyes, remembering the look on his face. A woman in a pin-striped suit and red lips had left five minutes earlier, nodding hello to Annie on her way out. “Annie,” Sam said, confused, seeing her in one of the white chairs, flipping through a New Yorker. “What are you doing here?” He came to embrace her. “I’m expecting a new patient any minute—”

“Annie?” she said in her best French accent. “You must have me confused for another patient, Dr. Statler. My name is Charlie. I emailed to set up an appointment.”

“That was you?” Sam paused, and she watched him connect the dots. The email he’d gotten three days earlier from a Google account she’d created for the occasion; twenty-four-year-old Charlie, restless and unsure of her future. He’d written back, suggesting this time, and Annie had been wondering if he’d go along with it. Here, at his office; the most precarious iteration of “the chase” yet. “Yes, of course. Charlie,” Sam said, as she’d hoped he would. “Forgive the mistake. Please come in. Sit wherever you’d like.”

“Anywhere?” she’d said, stepping into his office and removing her jacket. “Even your chair?”

He played his part wonderfully—the principled, curious therapist, asking her questions about her background, speaking in his most professional tone. She savors the thought of it. Sitting on the couch, describing, in explicit detail, the experience of having sex with another man, knowing her perfume would linger, distracting him for the remainder of the day.

She’d planned to bring the game to a close the night of the storm, sending the text from Charlie the evening before, inviting him to her house. That afternoon, she stopped on the way home from teaching to buy two bottles of red wine and the ingredients for Sam’s favorite meal: lasagna and a loaf of warm garlic bread. All day, she’d been anticipating opening the front door to him. She planned to pour them wine and light a fire, sit barefoot on the couch. Sam would start, explaining that having feelings for one’s therapist was not wholly uncommon. She’d tell him he was smart and then go on to describe the things she’s been imagining them doing together. She was starting dinner when his text arrived, right on time at 5:03, after his last patient left.

Hi Charlie. I’ve been thinking about your invitation.

And?

And I’ll be there.

She remembers the minutes passing as she stood at the window, watching for his headlights. He’s making me wait. That was her thought, initially. He was taking his time, lingering at the office, toying with her. But then it went on too long, and he wasn’t answering her calls or texts, and she stopped believing this was part of the chase. Something had happened.

She hears the lightest creak of floorboards above her, bringing her back to Sam’s office. Sam’s landlord is home upstairs. Too good to be true. That’s how Sam described finding this space. He’d taken the train from New York to tour the available office spaces and had called her in the morning, dejected. A few hours later, he called again, giddy. Someone had stuck a flyer under his windshield, advertising an office space for rent. He’d gone to see it: the ground floor of a historic home a few minutes from downtown. It needed some work, Sam explained, but the owner was willing to let Sam design the space himself, create the office of his dreams. “It’s fate,” he said. “If we were looking for an indication that moving to Chestnut Hill was the right choice, we got it. It’s going to be great, Annie. I know it will.”