Hope Street (18 page)

He’d get to tour the area on Saturday, she acknowledged. Surely the negotiations would be done by tomorrow evening, and then he’d have a day to play. When he’d scheduled his
flight, he’d told her he was giving himself that extra day so he could visit the Golden Gate Bridge and Fisherman’s Wharf.

She reviewed their conversation in her mind and sighed. Even if he’d been at some law firm, even if business people were within earshot, he could have told her he loved her, couldn’t he? He could have told whoever was around that he was checking in with his wife. They would have understood if he’d said something affectionate and personal to her.

Then again, things had been awfully chilly between them at home ever since that night, a little over a week ago, when she’d rebuffed him. Maybe sounding chilly and distant on the phone was his way of letting her know he was still pissed at her.

The silence in the house gave her too much freedom to fret over whether his terseness reflected his professional mind-set or his annoyance with her. She went to the den and put a CD on the stereo—not Peter’s rowdy hip-hop music, but Bonnie Raitt. Curt had been such a big fan of Raitt’s after he’d seen her perform in Harvard Square during his first year in law school, and he’d turned Ellie into a Raitt fan, too.

Some of the songs were bluesy, but some were upbeat and confident. Ellie poured herself a glass of wine and lingered over her meal, tasting every mouthful, inhaling the wine’s bouquet before she sipped. Once she was done and the dishes had been put away, she realized she was feeling a little less morose about Curt’s absence.

Friday went better than Thursday. She felt stronger, somehow, more awake and aware. Instead of contemplating the hush that enveloped the house when she got home, she piled a stack of CDs onto the stereo—the Doobie Brothers, Bruce Springsteen, Sly and the Family Stone, music that would make a normal person want to dance.

Ellie was far from normal, but the music energized her. She turned up the volume so it blasted through the house. Then she climbed the stairs, walked down the hall and stepped into Peter’s room.

“It’s time,” she said. Time to empty the bottle of Gatorade that still sat on his night table. Time to throw out the bag of Goldfish crackers on his desk—not the same bag that had been there when he died; since that day, Ellie had consumed countless bags of Goldfish while sitting at his desk and trying to channel his spirit. “It’s time,” she told herself as she crumpled that Goldfish package and tossed it into a trash bag.

Time to strip the sheets off Peter’s bed and launder them. Time to reshelve
The Great Gatsby
in the den bookcase. The earth-science textbook, she discovered with chagrin, belonged to the high school. She should have returned it to the school a year ago.

She found more textbooks in his backpack and made a neat stack of them to take to the high school on Monday. She emptied the rest of his backpack, including a peanut-butter sandwich so stale it could have been used as a roofing slate, and tossed the battered, stained bag into the trash. She left his clothing alone—the girls might want some of his old flannel shirts or sweaters. His other belongings—knickknacks, toys he’d never quite outgrown, his comic books, his globe, the model of the Wright brothers biplane, which he’d constructed from a kit—all that could wait, as well. She intended to keep his numerous sports trophies. He’d been so proud of them. And the baseball signed by all his teammates after he’d pitched a no-hitter in Little League. And his beloved stuffed panda—Peter Panda, Peter had dubbed him, convinced that he and his panda ought to share the name. And his CDs, and the helicopter he’d constructed with his Lego set, and the kitsch lava lamp the girls had given
him for Christmas when he was thirteen. It wasn’t yet time to deal with all those things.

But the homework papers and old math tests crumpled and stuffed into assorted drawers of his desk—those could go. The smelly gym socks on the floor of his closet—into the trash. The pencil stubs. The scraps of paper with video-game codes scribbled onto them. The ball constructed of rubber bands. The mud-caked cleats. The toothbrush still propped into the stand in the bathroom.

All of it, into the trash.

By the time Ellie had tied the garbage bag and lugged it to the garage, the front of her sweater was damp with tears. But she felt good. So sad she shivered from the pain, but good, as well, as if a sore had been lanced and drained.

She slept well that night, despite the strangeness of not having Curt in bed with her, and she awakened feeling even more energized. When she peered into Peter’s bedroom, it didn’t look much changed, but it smelled of freshly washed linens instead of stale dust and muddy cleats, and a bright October sun spilled light through the window.

She decided to take a walk.

When was the last time she’d taken a walk? Not just walked somewhere she had to be, but walked
nowhere?

Dressed in jeans, comfortable sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt, she ventured into her neighborhood, breathing the cleansing autumn air and delighting in the blazing colors of the leaves. She strolled all the way to the town green—a couple of miles at least—and gazed at the rectangle of grass surrounded by the Unitarian church, the fire station, the town hall building and a few preserved historical buildings. The green’s grass was half-hidden beneath a carpet of brown and orange leaves shed by the
oak, maple and birch trees that punctuated the lawn. The air carried the scent of smoke and tart apples.

Poor Curt, stuck in California during the most beautiful New England fall weekend of the year.

Ass here versed course and hiked back home, she thought about how much she missed him. Even though things had not been good between them, she loved him. He was her anchor, her support, an essential element in her reality. She wished he was with her, appreciating the gorgeous foliage and the refreshing breeze. She wished he could see the job she’d done on Peter’s room.

He would see Peter’s room tomorrow when he got home. He’d be pleased and grateful. He’d put his arms around her.

She’d put her arms around him.

I want you, Curt. I want you home. I want you with me.

Tomorrow, she thought, and a hesitant smile curved her lips. Curt would be home tomorrow. And she would be ready for him. She would never be whole again, but she was healing, finally. Maybe she’d needed a few days away from him to reach this point, but she’d reached it.

Once home, she tackled the living room, the den and the master bedroom, vacuuming, polishing, neatening up. She treated herself to take-out Thai food for dinner—pad thai was a definite improvement over Goldfish crackers—and then settled into the recliner in the family room and watched a Monty Python movie on the VCR. And laughed. Out loud.

Yes, she was ready for Curt.

He was scheduled to arrive home around dinnertime on Sunday. She thawed some strip steaks for dinner, prepared roasted red bliss potatoes with olive oil and herbs and tossed a salad. She carried a bottle of Rioja up from the wine rack in the basement and opened it so it could breathe—she wasn’t sure
what that meant, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt. Then she soaked in the tub, an indulgence she hadn’t let herself enjoy since Peter’s death, and dressed in the laciest underwear she owned. It wasn’t flagrantly sexy—Curt had never been particularly interested in sexy lingerie—but it was feminine and flattering, and wearing it made her feel womanly. She completed her outfit with a beige cashmere sweater and her snuggest pair of jeans. Actually, all her jeans were kind of snug these days, thanks to her Goldfish binges.

She brushed her hair until it glistened, slid the diamond eternity ring Curt had given her for their tenth anniversary onto her finger and poked her diamond studs through her ears. She was nervous, but happy. She was ready. Ready to reclaim her life. Ready to let her husband reclaim her.

He arrived home at around seven. Peeking through the living-room window, she spotted the cab idling at the curb and remained where she was, watching Curt climb out, haul his wheeled suitcase from the seat and close the door. He would be tired, she knew, jet-lagged, bleary. She’d fix him a drink, let him unwind, follow his lead. Wasn’t that what he’d been wanting her to do all along?

He came up the front walk and she swung the door open for him. Clad in faded jeans, a wrinkled shirt and his navy-blue blazer, his hair mussed and his mouth set, he didn’t look as happy to see her as she was to see him. He probably expected to get turned away tonight. He probably thought nothing had changed since he’d left.

So much had changed. Ellie had cleaned Peter’s room. She’d thrown away the Gatorade and the Goldfish. He would be pleased.

“Hi,” he said wearily, tilting his head as she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. That she’d kissed him didn’t seem to register on
him. He smiled briefly, then wheeled his suitcase to the stairs and lifted it by the handle. “Let me wash up, okay? Then we’ll talk.”

She accepted his reserve as a result of cross-country-flight fatigue. And maybe a touch of apprehension. He probably assumed she was the same Ellie he’d left five days ago. Maybe while he washed up, the importance of her having kissed him would sink in. He’d figure it out.

While he was upstairs, she grilled the steaks, lit the candles she’d arranged on the dining-room table and gave the salad dressing a final stir. He hadn’t come back downstairs by the time everything was ready, and she realized that in addition to washing up he’d opted to unpack his bag. She decided that was a good thing. When he joined her, he’d be done with all his tasks and ready for a glass of well-breathed wine.

And as he’d promised, they would talk. He would tell her all about San Francisco. He’d gloat about the negotiation—she had no doubt it had gone his way—and complain about the hassles of flying across the country. And they’d eat, and she’d reach for his hand and say, “Let’s go upstairs,” and they’d blow out the candles and leave the dishes and make love. She could do this. She swore to herself she could. She wanted it. Her desire would guide her through her inhibitions and hesitations, her fears.

As soon as she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she zapped the steaks in the microwave for a few seconds to heat them. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, she smiled and said, “We’re eating in the dining room tonight.”

“We are?”

She led the way, carrying the steaks on a platter. She’d already put the salad and potatoes on the table, and poured wine into two crystal goblets.

“What’s this all about?” he asked as he took in the festive table.

“Welcome home?” She shrugged. “You were away and I missed you. And now you’re home and I’m glad.” She turned to him, searching his face for a sign that he recognized the profound change in her, that he was willing to forget for now how difficult she’d been, how emotionally crippled. She was better now. Surely he could see that. Surely he could forgive her for whatever pain she’d caused him.

“Ellie.” He sounded pensive.

Couldn’t he tell? Things were good now. He should be smiling. “Sit,” she said, pulling out his chair and then settling into the chair across from him. “Let’s drink a toast.”

He lifted his glass, then lowered it and sighed. “Ellie. We have to talk.”

Her festive mood had failed to infect him. The candles, the wine, the delicious meal she’d prepared, her smile…None of it registered on him. Had his flight been that awful? His entire trip a bust? “Fine,” she said, refusing to drop her smile. “Let’s talk.”

“I had sex with another woman.”

Ellie had been lifting her wineglass, but her hand twitched so hard she nearly snapped the stem in two. She lowered the glass and stared at Curt. The candles fluttered, their golden light dancing across his face. He looked bleak.

I had sex with another woman.
The sentence assaulted her, each word a blade slicing into her. Curt. Her husband. The only man she’d ever loved. He’d had sex with another woman.

She tried to wrap her mind around the idea. It was preposterous. So unlike him. Didn’t he love her as much as she loved him? In sickness and in health, in good times and bad? Wasn’t that the vow they’d made to each other?

“You weren’t in California?”

“I was.” He averted his eyes, grabbed his glass and gulped
some wine. Setting the glass back down, he grimaced, shoved away from the table and stormed into the kitchen. Ellie heard the clink of ice in a glass, the slosh of liquid being poured. He returned with a glass of Scotch. Evidently, wine wasn’t his drink of choice when he was annihilating his wife.

“You were in California,” she said. She could hear an accusation in her voice, a heavy layer of distrust.

“Yes.” He drank some Scotch, then met her gaze. “So was the woman.”

“Oh, my God.” She felt nauseous, but there was nothing in her stomach, nothing but a sip of wine. Closing her eyes, she flashed on a picture of her husband, naked, his beautiful, rugged body stretched out alongside—
who?

Another woman.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re
sorry?
”

“I am. Really.”

Her steak knife lay temptingly close to her right hand. She nudged it away. “What is this, an act of contrition? Do you expect me to exonerate you? Cleanse your soul? What?”

“I’m telling you because I love you,” he said. “Because we’ve always been honest with each other. I didn’t want to have sex with her. I wanted you. But I couldn’t have you for so long—”

“So you went looking for someone else?”

“I didn’t go looking. She was there, and she offered.”

“Oh, my God.” The image of Curt flickered through her imagination again, only this time she visualized the woman—petite, dark-haired, with bright red lipstick. “Moira? Your old law partner?”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. Her mind spun, her
thoughts flying out in all directions, as if her brain were a centrifuge.

“It wasn’t what I wanted.”