The Lies That Bind(45)

She shakes her head and whispers no, she never heard from him.

I ask if he tried to call Byron.

She pauses and looks at me, then shakes her head before taking another sip of wine and several deep breaths. “It must have all happened quickly….We hope and pray that was the case….His company lost one other person—a young female associate. We’re thinking maybe they were in the same area of the building…or maybe in an elevator or stairwell. She never placed a call, either….Then again, maybe they weren’t together at all….” She stares into the distance, then shrugs. “I guess we’ll never know.”

I nod, feeling the full weight of her statement. “I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch her arm for the second time.

“Thank you, Cecily,” she says. “I’m grateful that you’re here…that you care.”

I nod, my heart pounding. “You’re welcome,” I mumble, my face burning.

“And I’m honored that you want to put him in a story. He deserves to have his life talked about….He really was a good man. And a good husband.”

    I meet her eyes and nod again, suddenly so relieved that I haven’t told her the truth. That she can go on thinking the very best about him.

“Would you like to read his obituary?” Amy says, staring at me with wide eyes. “What I’ve written so far?”

“Sure,” I say, even though I wouldn’t. Not at all.

“Okay. Come on,” she says, standing and motioning for me to follow. “It’s in the kitchen. And I can get us a refill.” She glances at my glass, almost as empty as hers.

Already buzzed, I know I should decline the offer. That nothing good can possibly come from downing more wine with the widow of the man I love. Loved. If I’m not going to tell her the truth, there is no reason to prolong the visit and my own torture and deceit.

But I can tell she wants me to say yes. I can see it in her eyes, pleading with me. I wonder why—does she feel a connection with me or does she just not want to be alone? But I decide it doesn’t matter. I will give her what she wants. It’s the least I can do, considering.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s have another glass.”

We transfer to the kitchen—a cheerful space with natural sunlight, granite countertops, and state-of-the-art appliances.

“Do you like to cook?” I ask her, feeling sure that she does. And that she’s good at it. And that she cleans as she goes and always gets the timing just right and isn’t tempted to eat along the way.

She says yes, but that she likes baking better.

“Because it’s more of a science?” I say, the stock answer bakers always give.

“No,” she says, smiling. “Because I like dessert best.”

I smile back at her, adding that to the list of her attributes—she likes desserts and looks like a model. I watch as she pulls a bottle of wine out of a huge stainless-steel refrigerator. She moves so slowly that I wonder if she’s medicated—I bet she is—as she refills our glasses, then brings them over to the counter. She sits on one of two swivel barstools, and I take the other, angling it toward her. Our eyes meet before she turns and looks down at the counter at a notebook, the page covered with small, neat cursive.

    “Is that it?” I say, pointing toward it, my stomach lurching. “Your husband’s obituary?”

“Yes,” she says.

“May I?”

“Yes, yes,” she says, pushing the notebook my way. “Please do.”

She hands me a pen and says, “And feel free to edit. I could use the help. I’m no writer.”

I take the pen, then steel myself as I read. Dates and places and names swirl in my head. His father, his mother, his brother. I try to focus more on grammar than actual content, pretending that it’s the summary of a stranger’s life—which in some ways, it is.

At the end, there are some generic platitudes, stock obituary sentences. Wonderful brother, husband, friend. Love of nature, zest for life. Warm smile and infectious laugh. Lots of trulys sprinkled throughout.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, putting the pen down, then taking a gulp of wine. I feel her staring at me, so I add, “Really beautiful.”

“You don’t have any changes?” she says.

“I really don’t,” I say, glancing down at it again. “I mean…maybe a few tiny things….”

“Please…make as many edits as you’d like,” she says.

I know she’s asking because I’m a writer, not because she thinks I knew Grant, but I still feel transparent—naked—as I reluctantly add a few commas, break up a run-on sentence, and cross out one truly. I finish and put the pen down.

“Is that all?” she asks, so painfully earnest.

I nod, but then look down, scanning again. “Well…I actually might reorder these two paragraphs. Put the family stuff ahead of Stanford and the basketball part.”

    “Okay. Yes. That’s good,” she says, picking up the pen, drawing an arrow, and making a note in the margin. She puts the pen down, sighs, and takes a sip of wine before reaching out for a fabric-covered box I hadn’t noticed before. She lifts the lid and pulls out a stack of photographs. Immediately, I see the one of Grant from the flyer. Looking at his eyes, I feel an electric jolt through my whole body. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe any of this.