The Guest Room(37)

“No.”

“No? You’re serious?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m serious.”

“Who’s going to handle—”

“Whatever it is, it will get done. No one’s irreplaceable.”

“Do you know who we’re targeting this week? Do you have any idea what companies I am negotiating with to—”

“Yes. I know everything. We’ve already reassigned your work.”

It was a short sentence, but it was a body blow. Reassigned your work. But once he had absorbed it—his mind reeling with the names of his associates and the people he managed who were going to be taking over his (his!) responsibilities—he only grew madder.

“I’ve got things there I want!” he said. “In my office! Can I at least go there and get them?”

“Like what?”

“Like what? It doesn’t matter like what. My office isn’t a crime scene. It’s not like there’s some sort of investigation into something I may have done at the bank. I…I want my things!” He realized he sounded infantile, but the words were spilling out now like coffee beans from the bulk food dispenser at the natural foods market. This was madness.

“If you could name some—”

“I don’t have to name a goddamn thing!”

“You’re upset. I understand. But—”

“Can’t I talk to Peter?”

“I said that would be inappropriate.”

“No, you didn’t. You just said no.”

“Richard—”

“Don’t Richard me in that tone! We don’t know each other that well. Wait: we don’t know each other at all!”

“We can ship you whatever personal items you want. Family photos. Plaques. Paperweights. We will be happy to ship that sort of thing to your home.”

“Plaques. Paperweights.”

“Of course.”

“This is degrading.”

“So was your party on Friday night.”

“Hugh?”

“Yes?”

“Be a human. Let me retrieve my stuff. I won’t take any files. I won’t take any papers. I promise.”

“I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But since you asked like a human, fine. I will meet you at the office. Is four-thirty okay?”

“Where do you live?”

“It doesn’t matter where I live.”

“For God’s sake, I wasn’t threatening you. I was asking to see how much of an inconvenience coming into the office will be for you.”

“I live on Long Island.”

“Then four-thirty is fine. You’re doing me a favor, so I won’t be a jerk and say that’s too late in the afternoon. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You’re going to have security with you, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. See you at four-thirty.”

“And Richard?”

“Yes?”

“Since you’re coming in, why don’t you bring your keys and ID card? You can turn them in this afternoon. It will save us all a little trouble in the next few days.”

When he recalled the conversation, he thought he had shown admirable self-control not wrecking his cell phone by heaving it against the hotel room wall.

…

In the end, Kristin decided that brunch would be best. Sarabeth’s. A few blocks from her mother’s. After that, Richard would have to return to his exile at the Millennium. They met at eleven-thirty, Kristin and Melissa rendezvousing with Richard near the restaurant’s awning on the northeast corner of Madison and Ninety-second Street. There were two tables available, one rather light and cheery near the window, and one in the back corner. The sun was out for the first time in days, and it was clear the hostess wanted to seat them at the front, where they could bask in its warmth. Richard surprised her, asking for a table in the rear of the restaurant. He allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity: this is my future. A life in the shadows. Hiding. Shamed. But it passed when he realized that he really did have his wife and his daughter with him. He rallied, especially when he glanced down and saw that Melissa was wearing the new skirt and tights he had picked out for her yesterday.

“They look great on you!” he said, hoping after he had gushed that his pathetic need for approval and forgiveness wouldn’t lessen him in her eyes. But, of course, he did need her forgiveness. And she would, he feared, forever think less of him anyway.

“Thanks. They’re pretty funky,” she said, and he tried not to read anything into how simply normal her voice sounded. He kissed her on the forehead and then Kristin on the cheek. She didn’t turn away. He tried not to read too much into that, either, but it gave him a small measure of hope amid the hopelessness that might otherwise swamp him.

“You must be hungry,” he said as they glanced at the menus. “I know I’m famished.”

“I had a croissant a few hours ago,” his wife murmured. She didn’t look up from what she was reading.

“And I had cereal,” Melissa added.

“Well, all I’ve had is coffee, so I’m starving. I will be the goop who licks fingers and knives and both of your plates.” He peeked over the top of his menu and took inordinate satisfaction from his daughter’s small smile.