Forgotten: A Novel (21 page)

I inch closer to get a better look, stopping in front of the marble bench where the old women were sitting the other day. His deep voice reverberates above the crowd as he gestures enthusiastically toward a Degas canvas. Two society women are listening to him with rapt attention.

I turn away and take in some of the paintings on the wall where the Manet rested briefly.

“They’re very beautiful, aren’t they?” a man next to me says a few minutes later.

It’s Victor Bushnell. Up close, his eyes shine with intelligence and interest.

“Yes, very. The owners of these paintings are very lucky.”

He gives me a slow smile. “You’re right.” He shifts his body toward Dominic’s wall. “Do you know the artist?”

“A little.”

“He’s going to do great things, I think.”

“Yes.”

“Victor?” an older man calls from across the room.

He raises his eyebrows. “Duty calls.”

I feel tense and nervous as my eyes resume scanning the room. I walk to the bench and sit on the cold, hard surface. The din of the crowd gets louder by the minute. Dominic remains invisible.

One of the catering staff walks up to me. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to get in there. Do you mind?”

“Of course.” I stand and move out of the way while the white-coated waiter bends down and lifts the heavy seat. Inside the bench, there’s a large metal cooler full of white-wine bottles.

“Supplies,” he says unnecessarily.

I nod and turn away. As I do, I catch someone’s elbow and stumble. Two strong hands steady me.

“Emma?”

I look up into Dominic’s startled face. Hours of preparation all ruined by one sloppy elbow. Of course.

“Oh. Dominic. Hi.”

Oh. Dominic. Hi? That’s great, just great. Scintillating, even.

His face reddens. “What are you doing here?”

“I, um, came to see your exhibit. It’s great.”

And now I’m incoherent. This was the worst idea I’ve ever come up with.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Man. I can’t deal with this right now.”

The blood rushes to my head. “
You
can’t deal with this right now? That’s rich. We . . .” I realize a couple of the other guests are staring at us and lower my voice. “We slept together, and then you told me it was all a ‘mistake.’ One minute you’re Superman in a bright red cape, and then,
poof,
you’re just another man up to no good in a phone booth.”

Dominic’s mouth sets into a thin line. “I’ve been trying to apologize for that, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I left you three messages.”

“You what?”

He looks past me to where a Waspy-looking couple are watching us intently over their champagne flutes. “I can’t do this here.”

He takes me by the elbow.

“Hey, what the—”

“Hold that thought.”

He leads me toward one of the Corinthian pillars in the corner. There’s a space between it and the wall that’s a little more private. We stand there facing each other. My brain is shouting out questions like, Why’d you blow me off? Why didn’t you want to come back to the apartment? Why won’t you look me in the eye?

He looks up from the spot on the floor he’s been staring at like he heard me. “How come you didn’t return my calls?”

“You really called me?”

“Your assistant said she’d given you the messages.”

That doesn’t sound like Jenny.

“What did your messages say?”

“What do you think? That I called.”

“Oh.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was I supposed to pour my heart out to your assistant?”

“Only if you wanted to read about it on her blog the next day.”

He laughs, letting it fade into a smile. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“This is where you’re hiding,” Victor Bushnell says as he appears at Dominic’s side. “There are some people I’d like to introduce you to.”

A spasm of annoyance crosses Dominic’s face, which Victor misses as he turns toward me. “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“I’m Emma Tupper.”

“Emma Tupper. Now, why is that name familiar?”

My heart skips a beat. He knows my name. And any second now he’s going to figure out who I am. Oh well, in for a penny . . .

“I’m an attorney,” I say, feeling bold. “I represent Mutual Assurance.”

“Ah, yes. I was reading all about you just yesterday.”

Dominic looks confused. “What do you mean, ‘reading all about’ her?”

“He’s suing my client for twenty million dollars,” I say. “But we really shouldn’t talk about it.”

Victor Bushnell laughs. “I’m sure you’re right, but what’s the fun in that?”

“There you are, Emma,” Craig says, peering around the pillar. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Now my heart’s keeping double time. What the hell is Craig doing here? Dominic’s looking at him like Victor Bushnell was looking at me a few moments ago. I can almost see his thoughts, and they’re all falling into place.

“Are you . . . Craig?” he asks.

“That’s right. And you are?”

“He’s the man of the hour,” Bushnell says.

“Did you come with him?” Dominic asks.

Craig’s face registers recognition. “You’re Dominic.”

“You got it.”

“Remind me how you met Emma?”

“He lives in my apartment,” I say way too loudly in a high-pitched voice.

The three men surrounding me like tall trees turn my way, a mixture of surprise on their faces.

This is so not working out the way I thought it would.

I modulate my tone. “He’s the person who was living in my apartment when I got back from Africa, or moving in, and anyway . . . um, Craig, have you met Mr. Bushnell?”

Bushnell looks amused as he extends his hand toward Craig.

“Nice to meet you, Craig . . . ?”

“Talbot.”

“Ah. Always nice to meet another one of Mutual Assurance’s attack dogs.”

“Well, now, I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Dominic?”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

I turn around slowly, and there’s Emily, standing tall and collected, wearing a silvery silk dress. Her perfect red hair caresses her creamy shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Dominic says, his voice thick with emotion.

Her cheeks are tinged with pink. “I wanted to talk to you, and you won’t return my calls, and . . . what are you all doing behind this pillar?” Her voice falters as her eyes travel to mine. “I didn’t know
you’d
be here.”

“I . . . came to see the exhibit.”

Victor Bushnell guffaws loudly. “Ha! I think this is where I make my exit. Come see me when you’re free, Mr. Mahoney. We should talk.”

Dominic’s eyes don’t leave Emily’s beautiful face. “Yeah, sure.”

Bushnell extricates himself from our tight little corner.

“How do you two know each other?” Dominic asks me.

“We met the other night at Tara’s.”

“Dominic, please, will you just talk to me?”

Craig takes my hand. “Come on, Emma. We should give these two some privacy.”

Emily looks grateful. “Oh, could you? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

Craig tugs on my hand, but I’m frozen to the spot. I turn toward Dominic, willing him to look at me, but his eyes are still locked on Emily. From this angle, I can’t tell what he’s feeling. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me.

And so, when Craig says, “You coming, Emma?” I follow him without another word.

Chapter 21: You’re Shaking My Confidence Daily

W
hen I finally manage to unlock my hand from Craig’s, we’re three galleries past Dominic and Emily and Victor Bushnell. A gallery later I find my voice, and I let Craig have it. What is he doing here? Why’s he following me? What is going on?

He starts to give me some stammering excuse about how he’d noticed the poster when we were at the museum and was curious.

I cut him off. “Try again, Craig.”

He looks sheepish. “I wanted to see you outside of work.”

“So you’re stalking me?”

“I’m not stalking you.”

“It kind of feels like you are.”

“No. I wanted to talk to you, and I knew you wouldn’t say yes if I asked. I took my chances that you’d be here.”

I consider him. “And you wanted to check out Dominic.”

He colors. “I admit I was curious. Especially after how you reacted when you saw that poster.”

I consider denying it, but what’s the point? I
had
reacted, and pretending I hadn’t wasn’t going to change anything. “We know each other too well.”

“Yes.”

I walk to the coat check and give the girl behind the counter my ticket. Craig does the same.

“I could use a drink,” he says. “You?”

I ignore him, staring silently at the rows of coats. The coat-check girl comes back with my wrap and boots and Craig’s coat. He takes my wrap and drapes it across my shoulders.

“One drink, Emma. Then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

I nod and he leads me outside, flags a cab, and directs it to his street. Though his apartment is the last place I want to go back to, I don’t have the energy to protest. Having won his point—for the moment, anyway—he wisely stays silent.

When we get to his place, Juliana’s still there, finishing up the meals she makes for Craig to get him through the weekend. When we were together I often wondered, idly, if Craig and Juliana were a package deal. If we ever got married, would she continue to play such a considerable role in his life? And if she did, would I care?

Juliana’s in the kitchen, wearing the light-blue smock uniform she insists on, though I know Craig’s tried a hundred times to get her to wear something else. Her still mostly dark brown hair is cropped close to her head. Her round face is creased with laugh lines.

“Emma, good to see you again.”

“You too, Juliana.”

We hug briefly, then I retreat to one of the bar stools on the other side of the room.

“I made your favorite,” Juliana says to Craig. “Would you like me to take it out of the oven?”

“I can get it.”

“I’ll be going, then.”

“Thanks, Jules,” Craig says, his eyes on me.

“Of course.” She pats me on the arm. “Yes, it’s good to have you back.”

I return her smile, but I can’t return the sentiment. I don’t want to be back, and I have to find a way to tell Craig that. Soon.

The kitchen door swings closed behind her, creaking ominously on its hinges. Or that’s probably me reading too much into things, right? A door only swings ominously in a horror film. And as nervous as I feel, Craig’s not a bogeyman waiting to take my head off.

Craig opens a cupboard, taking out two glasses and a bottle of liquor. When he places one of the glasses in front of me, I realize it’s Scotch. And it’s funny, because when we were together, I never drank Scotch, and I can’t understand how he knows this new thing about me, that I’ve developed a taste for it. I ask him why he picked it.

“You looked like you needed it.”

I take a sip and shudder. From the alcohol, but also because it feels weird, being back here. With Craig.

“Good call.”

Craig loosens his tie. He sits on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island. We’re separated by several feet of black granite, like we used to be most mornings. Back then, it felt comfortable and safe, but now it’s just another thing I have to fix.

We sip our drinks in silence for a while. Eventually, he starts to tell me about him and Sophie, all the details I don’t want to know but can’t stop listening to. They
have
broken up, and I was the reason. Craig wants me to know, because he still loves me. He wants to get back together.

“But we’ve barely spent any time together since I’ve been back,” is all I can think to say as he looks up at me expectantly.

“What’s that got to do with anything? We were together for three years. The last few weeks don’t change that.”

I feel an odd urge to laugh, but instead I say, “But you said that you’d moved on, that . . . you were
relieved
when I was dead.”

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. After Cathy Keeler.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that . . . waiting to find out what was going on, if you were alive, was this horrible torture. And accepting that you were dead,
that
was a kind of relief. I could never be relieved that you were dead. Did you really believe that?”

“I don’t know. I guess part of me did. And you chose Sophie, so—”

“No, it wasn’t like that at all. I was trying to explain, but you wouldn’t let me. You left. I thought
you
wanted to end things. I was trying to respect your wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I figured I owed it to us, to you, to let you know what I wanted.”

I watch him across the granite slab. “And you were jealous.”

“Of Dominic? Maybe.”

“Mmm.”

“So?”

“ ‘So’ what? Will I get back together with you?”

“Yes.”

“No, Craig.”

“Why not?”

“Because too much has happened. We can’t go back. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that.”

“I know that, Em. I’m not asking for things to be like they were, I’m just asking for another chance. To . . . go back to the beginning.”

He sounds so much like me, I almost smile. “You want to go back to litigation boot camp?”

He smiles back. “If that’s what it takes.” His eyes look surprisingly gentle, a million miles away from his default setting.

God, I wish I loved this man. I wish he was the part of my life I needed to get back to feeling whole.

I take a deep breath. “Craig . . .”

His smile slips at my tone. “Emma, don’t you think—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t . . . feel that way about you anymore. And to be honest, and I swear, I’m not saying this to be cruel, I don’t think I ever felt as much as you did. I’m not saying I didn’t love you. I did—I still do—but you’re not my future.”

He’s sitting perfectly still with his hands flat against the granite.

“Say something.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What’s next, then?”

I brush my thumb under my eye, catching a tear. “I don’t know.”

“But you know it doesn’t involve me?”

“I’m sorry, Craig, but yes.”

I stand up and walk around the island toward him. He watches me warily.

“Thank you for saying what you did.” I lean forward and kiss him gently on the cheek. “It means a lot. More than I can say.”

“I wish you’d change your mind.”

“I know,” I say, and we stand there like that for a long time.

T
he next morning, I’m walking through a slightly sketchy area of town trying to find the address Stephanie left me on my voice mail with instructions to meet her there at ten. Something about a great “business opportunity” that made me nervous for her. I’ve heard that tone of heedless excitement before.

It’s one of those flat-light days when it’s hard to tell exactly what time of day it is, and there’s a harsh wind whipping between the buildings. Stephanie’s cell phone was cutting in and out as she left the message, so I’m not sure I got it all down correctly. Given the dinginess of the area, I’m becoming less sure by the minute.

I’m about to give up when I find the address.
4356 BOSTON AVENUE
is written in peeling white letters above the entrance to a closed-up shop. The glass windows are papered over with stiff brown paper. A crack of light illuminates the nondescript black door.

I push the white doorbell recessed into the wall. It buzzes harshly. The door creaks open. Stephanie’s gamine face peeps out.

“You made it!”

“No thanks to your cryptic message.”

“I knew I should’ve called back.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

She takes a step back. “Come into my parlor and see.”

I walk inside. The store is about fifteen hundred square feet of empty space. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The air smells stale, and there are dust motes floating in the air, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“What’s this all about?”

She walks to the middle of the room and flings her arms wide. “Welcome to the Book Connection. Do you love it?”

“Really? You’re going to do that bookstore/love-connection thing?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure this is the right moment in time to be opening a bookstore?”

She shoots me a look.

“I just meant . . . I worry about you. Have you really thought this through?”

“Of course I have.”

“But when did you have time to arrange all this?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “What? You’re the only superachiever allowed?”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know. Anyway, I decided a couple of days ago that I was going to go for it, you know, and I found this commercial real estate broker who showed me around a bunch of places yesterday.”

“You saw this place for the first time yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. And I signed the lease last night. Isn’t that great?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little fast?”

“You know I’ve wanted to do something more concrete for ages.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Don’t you want to bust out sometimes and do something totally spontaneous?”

I laugh. “You know I don’t.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

I feel a flutter of annoyance. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just . . . you could’ve
died,
Emma. Hasn’t that changed anything for you?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I know lots of bad things have happened to you, but what have
you
changed? You know, in your life?”

I walk toward the window. The brown paper blocks out the view of the street. I perch on the window ledge, pulling my knees up under my coat.

“Are you all right, Em?”

“Why does everyone expect me to change my whole life just because of what happened to me?”

“Who expects that?”

“You. Matt. Dominic.”

“Dominic?”

“He had this whole thing, remember? ‘Imagine the possibilities’ or some such nonsense.”

“And did you?”

“No. I don’t want my life to change.”

She starts to laugh. Hard.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your life already has changed, Emma, whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“No, I’m not sure you really do.” She sits on the window ledge beside me. The dust motes rise in a swirl. “You’re not the only one who lost things in all this, you know. Remember, everyone told me you were dead.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I know.”

“I mostly didn’t believe it. But sometimes I couldn’t keep my mind from thinking that it might be true.”

“Steph—”

She stops me. “No, that’s not why I’m telling you this. What I wanted you to know is that in some ways, especially because it all turned out all right, I’m grateful for the experience.” She shakes her head. “That came out wrong. What I mean is, I was glad you knew how much I loved you and how important you were to me. I knew that if you really were dead, at least I wouldn’t have any regrets about us.”

“Everyone has regrets.”

“I know, but I think maybe we should try to minimize them.”

“What are you saying? That I should live each day like it’s my last?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“You can’t live like that.”

“Some people do.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Can you answer that question?”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“I know, but why do I have to live up to some standard no one else does? Just because of what happened to me?”

She rubs my back as I struggle for control. A few fat tears fall to the dusty ground, flattening into small moist circles in the dirt.

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m trying to be. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know, it just is.”

“It’s that stupid movie-plot thing, isn’t it?”

“That what?”

“All those movies where someone has a near-death experience? And then she realizes she always wanted to be a concert pianist or go skydiving, and the guy who teaches her to jump from a plane is gorgeous and slightly lost, and they fall in love and live happily ever after.”

“What movie was that?”

“You know what I mean. And I didn’t even really
have
a near-death experience, unless people thinking you’re dead counts as one.”

“You’d just go back to where it all started?”

“Maybe I would. Except for Craig. I might leave him out.”

She smiles. “I can think of at least one new thing you wouldn’t want to erase. One person, anyway.”

“Mmm, maybe not.” I fill her in on Dominic, Emily, Craig, the Christmas Eve photograph.

“So I guess that’s it,” I say. “Two men down in one night. I impress myself.”

She shakes her head. “You can be so dense sometimes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What you said to Craig, about not being able to go back, do you think it doesn’t apply to you?”

“No, I know it applies to me. But I guess . . . I wish that it didn’t.”

“You can’t undo what happened. Or turn back time.”

“I know,” I say, but in my mind I’m building my time machine.