The Good Liar(26)

Teo takes a step back, as if my stream of words pushed him. “It’s fine. And no. I was married once, in my twenties—I guess you’d call it a starter marriage now—but no kids.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s fine. Besides, I still have time.”

Teo’s forty-two. “Men have all the time in the world, it seems.”

I slap my hand across my mouth, the way I often did in the first days after October tenth when it seemed as if I’d lost control over the link between my brain and my mouth, like I was a kid again who didn’t understand social cues. What a terrible thing to say. No one has all the time in the world. Tom certainly didn’t, but I don’t need to be saying that out loud. What’s wrong with me today? Is it the vote? The lingering aftereffects of the memorial? I thought I was past all this.

Teo pulls my hand away, his fingers warm on my cold skin. “It’s fine. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I hate when that happens. I used to have better control of myself. I thought I did again.”

“That’s life. And you’re right. Barring unforeseen events, I still have time to have kids, if I want. Which is good. Life is good.”

Teo turns and splays the cue cards out over the table, like he’s dealing a hand. We both look at them, seeing different things, I’m sure.

“So, what happens now?” Teo asks. “With the compensation?”

“It has to get approved by the Supra Board, but I’m sure it will go through.”

“Supra Board?”

“That’s what I call the muckety-mucks who administer the fund. We’re only the recommending body. They make the final decision.”

“Seems complicated.”

“You ever watch that film about the guy who was in charge of the 9/11 compensation?”

“I have, in fact.”

“Of course you have. Stupid question. Oh wait—you didn’t make that film, did you?”

“Don’t worry. Wish I had.”

I watch him continue to move the cards around. I can’t figure out what the colors mean. Where the peaks and valleys in the action are. Whether there will be surprise twists and turns.

“How’s this all shaping up?” I ask.

“Too soon to tell, I think.”

My phone beeps. It’s a text from Cassie. She’s having dinner at a friend’s and will be home by curfew. Henry texted me something similar earlier. After all the togetherness of the memorial, we’re now scattering to the four winds—or three. Ugh. Is this the beginning of a pattern? As our grief shifts, will we find there isn’t anything holding us together anymore? Was Tom, despite everything, our glue?

“I should go.”

Teo looks up. He has an expression on his face I haven’t seen before. Shyness, maybe. Uncertainty. “What about you get dinner with me instead? Or do you have to get home to the kids?”

“I . . . No, Cassie and Henry are both out tonight.”

“Then you’re free.”

“I am, in fact.”

“And you’ll come?”

“Off the record?” I ask.

“Off the record,” he says.





Chapter 12


A Stranger in a Strange Place

Kate

As Kate walked the twins home from the park, she was struck, as she often was, by the contrast between the environment in which she’d spent her first week in Montreal and where she was living now. Westmount was full of large brick homes built in the early 1900s sheltered by mature trees. Some of them on the flat that lay at the base of the mountain. The rest, climbing in neat rows until the overlook that gave a perfect view of the city and the sparkling Saint Lawrence River. That fall, Kate had watched the colors march down the hill in brilliant reds and golds. In the spring, she’d watched the green creep up, knowing that when it reached the top, she’d feel better. Sherbrooke Street, a few blocks away, was full of expensive shops where you could buy imported artisanal cheeses. Coffee shops and places that sold expensive yoga clothes. Aspirational furniture stores and a large wine store. Enough restaurants to eat a different expensive meal in each night of the week.

In contrast, the Montreal bus terminal was more depressing than the one she’d left in Chicago. Sad-looking people. Decor from the seventies. When she’d gotten off the bus, the first thing she’d seen was a group of drunks sitting in the corner passing a large can of something in a brown paper bag.

This wasn’t the Montreal Kate had dreamed about visiting. The cobblestone streets and old stone buildings that featured in the online postcards. Had she picked wrong? If the rest of the city was like this, how could she survive? But no, it couldn’t be. No city should be judged by the state of its bus station. Kate was panicking because it was actually beginning now. Her new life. Whatever that meant.

She’d arrived in the midafternoon. She made sure to gather everything she had with her on the bus and thanked the driver as she left, then kicked herself for doing so. It wasn’t natural to her to be anonymous, though she’d felt invisible for years.

Kate had gone into the bathroom and counted up her money in a stall that smelled of sharp detergent and urine cakes. Of the original $1,200 she’d started with, she was down to $960. That was probably worth more in Canadian dollars. She might as well find out. There was a money exchange window in the station. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that she had more than $1,600. That should be enough for the next couple of weeks. Put a roof over her head. Buy a few more things to wear, purchase food. Get herself squared away until she could find a job.