Have You Seen Me?(32)

“That’s sweet, but you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”

“Honey, trust me. It’s that olive pasta dish my mother learned to make in France. Easy-peasy.”

“Uh, okay. Give me ten or so, will you?”

He heads to the bedroom, and by the time he returns, changed out of his suit, I’ve drained the penne and stirred it with the sauce. I’m still rattled but determined to make the evening with Hugh as pleasant as possible. After setting the serving bowl on the table, I pluck the bread from the oven and finally take my seat.

“I was craving pasta without even knowing it,” Hugh says, heaping penne into my bowl and then his.

I smile, pleased that he seems more engaged than when he first walked in. “Any progress on the Brewster case?”

“I reviewed the strategy with one of the senior partners today, and he seems satisfied that it’s the best we can do. Hopefully we can minimize the damage.”

“How could the client be so stupid? Didn’t they realize that emails last forever?”

“If people were smart, they’d never put anything in an email . . . but anyway, how was Gabby?”

“Good. It was a relief to finally talk to her face-to-face about everything.”

He nods, snapping off the end of the baguette. I sense he’s wondering how much Gabby knows about the issue in our marriage. I take care not to criticize Hugh to Gabby, but the kids’ matter has been weighing on me so heavily in the last weeks, I felt I had to share it.

“Gabby thinks I should hire a private detective,” I add.

He looks alarmed. “You mean to figure out where you were?”

“Right. I checked out places online today and even sent a query to one.”

“They can be really pricey, Ally.”

“But it would hardly be a frivolous expense,” I say, surprised at his knee-jerk reaction. Doesn’t he want answers as much as I do?

“No, I understand. I’m just not sure what one of these guys would be able to tell you.”

“Many of them specialize in missing persons.”

“I know. Our firm often uses private investigators on cases, and thanks to technology, they can turn up a lot these days. But one of the key ways they find missing people is surveillance. How would that work with you? There’s nothing to surveil because you’re home now.”

I shrug, half chagrined, half annoyed at his response.

“There doesn’t seem to be any harm in checking it out,” I say.

“You just have to be prepared for the fact that there might not be much they can do—though they wouldn’t necessarily tell you that up front.”

“I get it, Hugh, and I’m not going to give money to some con artist. But I have to figure out where I was. It’s driving me nuts.”

“Of course—I understand. But I also think it’s important to focus on the present, how you’re doing now. I’m eager to hear what the neurologist will say on Wednesday.”

“Speaking of not getting one’s hopes up, I hope you’re not banking too much on that. They were pretty clear at the hospital that my situation wasn’t the result of a neurological event.”

“At least we’ll be crossing all our t’s.” He rests his fork on the rim of the pasta bowl and studies me. There’s something weirdly cool and distant in his gaze. But then he lays a hand over mine. “How are you feeling about doing the podcast tomorrow?”

“Pretty good, I guess.”

“Would there be any merit in postponing it a week?”

It’s not a bad question, especially in light of what’s happened with the flowers. Maybe I should lie low for a few more days and not push my luck. And yet I can’t stand the idea of bailing.

“It’s such short notice at this point, Hugh. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“But will it be too stressful? I thought you were being encouraged to take it easy.”

“I’ll be fine. I mean, it’s not like it’s super stressful for me anymore.”

“You don’t sound a hundred percent convinced.”

I glance down, aimlessly stabbing pieces of penne.

“Something happened tonight,” I say. “Not anything big, but it’s scaring me a little.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember Sasha, the woman who came by Friday night and brought those roses? Well, at some point last night or this morning, I managed to stuff them in the garbage and wash the vase without any memory of doing so.”

“Ally . . .”

“It’s like I was in some kind of mini-fugue state. I’m wondering if I should call Dr.—”

“Ally, hold on. You haven’t forgotten anything. I tossed the flowers out.”

I’ve been massaging my brow with one hand, my gaze still lowered, and as Hugh’s words sink in, I lift my head and stare at him.

“You tossed them out?” I say, simultaneously relieved and baffled. “If they were in your way, why not just move them? I’m sure they weren’t cheap.”

He shrugs. “The petals had started to drop. Gosh, I’m sorry to throw you off that way.”

“You tossed them out because the petals were dropping?”

This makes no sense. Hugh does his share around the house—he helps clear the table and load and unload the dishwasher, handles his own laundry, makes the bed on days he’s not up ahead of me. But I’ve always accepted that he’s fairly clueless when it comes to “decor” stuff; that is, he would never zero in on things like pillows that require fluffing, cloth napkins that have seen better days, or flowers that need tossing. This gesture doesn’t fit with the man I know. I half expect him to cup the skin at the base of his chin with both hands and tear upward, revealing he’s a stranger wearing a latex mask of my husband’s face.