The Objects of Her Affection (23 page)

“Well, my parents basically ignored me growing up, and my mom has blown me off for the last fifteen years. I don’t know which is worse.”

Harry leaned against the back of the booth, looking at her. “Did they pour silver polish over your head?”

“No.”

“Did they grab your belly fat and jiggle it for your friends’ amusement?”

Sophie crossed her arms in front of her stomach.

“Did they find hundreds of ways, on a daily basis, to express their grievous, excruciating disappointment in the way you turned out?”

“Okay, no.”

“I have not been neglected.” Harry cracked the knuckles of one hand, then the other. “Far from it.”

Sophie felt the tips of her ears turn warm. Of course there were childhoods more miserable than her own. Of course her parents hadn’t abused her, hadn’t even hurt her, really. Harry had the decency not to say it, but the truth was, Sophie’s upbringing made a pretty shabby excuse for poor behavior.

“Dammit, Harry,” Sophie said.

“What.”

“It’s just…” Sophie looked around the restaurant. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Harry waved his hand. “My dad’s always had impossibly high standards. He’s always wanted me to be successful, like him.” He sat back in the booth and said robotically, as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, “He taught me everything I know, and I mustn’t forget that.”

“I guess.” Sophie pulled an olive out of her glass, contemplated eating it, then dropped it back in. She thought about ordering another drink, then remembered she was supposed to keep her wits about her. “Well,” she said heavily, “on another note, we still have a piece of unfinished business.”

“What’s that.”

“The tazza.”

Harry brightened. “Right! Did you find it?”

“It never was in my house, was it?”

“Nah. I gave it to my client. He loved it.” He laughed ruefully. “Sorry, love.”

“Shithead.” She pulled the olive back out and ate it. “So who is he, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Come on. I’m dying to know. Who’s collecting all this stuff?”

“I told you. It doesn’t matter. Why would you want to know that?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious. Is he a celebrity? Is that why you’re so secretive about him?”

“Trying to cut me out, my dear?”

“Harry!”

“Sorry. I’m not telling you. It’s for your own good, love.”

Sophie saw the waitress coming toward them; two men stood up at different tables and walked in their direction.

“Harry,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about this. But trust me—if you tell them, they’ll make a deal. Okay?”

“What are you on about?”

“Just tell them who he is and they’ll work something out.”

The waitress had her badge out, and so did the two diners, and then Agent Chandler and Agent Richardson walked out of the kitchen.

“You bitch,” Harry said, not even looking at the badges being flourished like auction paddles. He just stared at Sophie, his lower jaw clicking back and forth under his cheeks, now gone bluish-white.

Things got confusing then, the agents crowding around the booth, diners standing up to see what was going on, people saying things to Harry about being under arrest, telling him to stay calm. The damp smell of sweat tinged with adrenaline clouded the air. Harry stood up, his eyes still on Sophie, and one of the agents attached handcuffs to his right hand. Before he could snap them on to Harry’s other wrist, though, Harry lunged toward the booth, reached out with his free hand, and seized the candlestick, pulling it out of the box in a rain of Styrofoam peanuts. Sophie shrank back into her side of the booth. The agents dove after Harry’s left arm and wrenched it backward; then, with a smile for Sophie, Harry relaxed his hand, letting the candlestick slide from his fingers. It hit the floor with an ugly crunching sound. Agent Chandler jerked Harry’s arm backward, snapped the other side of the handcuffs closed, and roughly pushed him toward another agent, who led him toward the exit. Ceramic shards cracked under their feet.

“Thank you, Sophie,” said Agent Chandler, reaching out and awkwardly patting her on the shoulder. “We got most of what we need.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the collector’s name.”

“Oh.” Chandler dismissed this with a shrug. “We’ve got enough to put Harry’s feet to the fire. He’ll talk. We can probably get his charges dropped.”

“I hope so.” Sophie retrieved the tote bag from under the table and handed it to Agent Richardson, then pulled the microphone and transmitter out of her blouse and laid them on the table. Her hands, she observed with strangely detached clarity, were still shaking.

As Sophie yanked the red plastic shopping cart from the firm embrace of the cart ahead of it, it occurred to her that shopping carts, like portion sizes, had almost doubled in size since her childhood. She had a vague memory of Randall, an average-size man, looking slightly ridiculous pushing a petite metal cart through the aisles of the grocery store. Of course, in those days no one would have taken a shopping cart in the first place if they were only running in for a bar of soap. But in a modern-day Target it was sheer hubris to try crossing the store’s acreage without a cart.

Sophie needed soap because Carly’s bathroom was stocked with French soaps made of olive oil, orange peel, and lavender seeds, and the smell of them tended to linger on Sophie’s skin all day, making her feel like some kind of exotic Provencal muffin. She needed white soap—cheap but not too cheap, since the lowest-tier soaps were always the most aggressively scented, presumably to make the buyer feel that she was getting more than her money’s worth.

Sophie knew the soap could be found just to the left of the checkout area, but she decided to take the long way around the store. She had a feeling she needed something else, but she wouldn’t know it until she saw it. Besides, she had always found it soothing to push a cart slowly through the aisles of Target, ticking through the rooms of her life and contemplating possible improvements: new pens, easier-to-carry laundry hampers, a scale that could measure body fat, chocolate.

She paused in the party-supply aisle. Lucy was turning five next month. Sophie and Brian hadn’t talked about it yet. In theory, Brian was in charge of these things now, but Sophie doubted he fully grasped the amount of preparation a five-year-old’s birthday celebration required. Had he reserved a venue? Had Lucy started thinking about a theme? Did he know the rule that you could only bring invitations to day care if every child in the class was invited (otherwise you had to mail them)?

The only times she saw Brian were when he dropped off and picked up the kids for their visits. That’s when they exchanged little packets of information about schedules, playdates, car repairs, mortgage paperwork. There wasn’t enough time to think of everything. Pushing her cart into the stationery aisle, Sophie decided she should buy a notebook for keeping a list of things to remember to tell Brian. The green sippy cup goes in Lucy’s lunch box, the purple one in Elliot’s. Here’s the website for ordering bulk diapers. Help the kids pick out things that start with a P to bring to school this week. Next week is Q.

She scanned the notebooks, wondering what was an appropriate design for transmitting five years of maternal experience. Businesslike blue? A cool Japanese floral design? Something her kids would like, with a robot or a princess on it?

The old familiar wave of sadness washed over her, threatening to pull her back into deeper currents. She fought it off, grabbed a plain black and white composition book, then pushed further into the store. Lightbulbs? Kitchen gadgets? What did she need? Carly’s condo had everything she could want; much more, in fact, than she deserved. The guest bed was made up with eight-hundred-thread-count sheets and a cashmere blanket, the bathroom was stocked with Frette towels. It was disconcerting for Sophie, who, for the last five years, had bought sturdy linens and clothing in dark, stain-disguising colors, to find herself suddenly living in a satiny world of ecru, eggshell, and pearly gray. She’d offered to bring her own linens, but Carly was unfailingly generous with her space, insisting that Sophie stay for as long as she needed to, never complaining when the kids trailed cracker crumbs through her living room, always making herself scarce when Brian came over. She had not asked Sophie a single question aside from, What do you need from me, and What do you eat for breakfast?

Sophie decided to buy a waffle iron. She’d learn to make Sunday morning waffles, just like they’d always had at home. How hard could it be? She lowered a midpriced model into the cart, making a mental note to stop in the grocery section for syrup.

The toy department was next, cleverly located just across from children’s shoes. Normally she avoided these aisles, but now she felt the pull of the toys’ plastic promise: buy me, and inject instant happiness into the life of a child. Buy me, and I will replace your child’s confusion with the simpler, less expensive confusion of noise and lights and polyester fur sewn onto a hard molded body. Buy me, and for five minutes (ten if you’re lucky), your child will stop asking questions.

Sophie picked out a set of spy equipment for Lucy, and a doctor’s kit for Elliot. At least these were slightly more wholesome than the loud, flashy electronic guns, cars, and life-size robotic animals that seemed to be specifically designed to broadcast, “I LOVE YOU MORE THAN YOUR OTHER PARENT.” Sophie wasn’t there yet. The word “divorce” had not yet been said out loud. She’d simply moved out, without being asked, leaving Brian with the number for the day care’s business office so he could call and change the kids’ schedule however he saw fit.

Rugs. Towels. Bathroom decor. They needed a new shower curtain for the third-floor bathroom; the current one smelled mildewy. She picked up a sunny yellow curtain that would look great with their tile. Of course, Brian had never complained about the smell. She didn’t want it to look like she was expecting to come home at some point. She put the package back on the shelf. She had to let the shower curtain be Brian’s problem for now.

If they decided to put the house on the market, of course, the mildew smell would be an issue. She picked the curtain back up. She’d never told Agent Chandler about the money Harry had paid her up front; as far as he knew, the tote bag confiscated at the pub was her entire cut. She’d used the up-front money to hire a lawyer recommended by Carly—a young guy named Joshua Goldmeier, who did not even raise an eyebrow when Sophie explained she’d be paying him in cash. He was trying to help them win the slow race between foreclosure and loan modification, but so far he wasn’t having much more luck than Sophie had. In fact, he said it was beginning to look like the bank had lost all of her paperwork, including her mortgage note. He seemed excited to tell her this. “We’re not there yet,” he said, “but I don’t see why we couldn’t take on your loan servicer for this. Everything I uncover points to gross negligence and misconduct. This thing looks uglier every day.”

Sophie put the shower curtain back on the shelf. He’d told her and Brian not to sell for now, to keep trying for the loan modification because, in reality, they could afford the house on Brian’s salary if they could just negotiate more reasonable payments. “Some people are in much worse shape than you,” he’d pointed out. “I’m hearing about people just walking away from their homes. It’s crazy what’s going on. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if we saw one or two banks collapse after a few years of this.”

Brian thought Joshua Goldmeier was a litigious hysteric, but Sophie appreciated his outrage. It had never occurred to her that some of this wasn’t her fault. It had also never occurred to her that she might not be the only person in the world with mortgage problems.

She pushed her cart into the next aisle, then quickly reversed course. Amy was standing there looking at toothbrush holders. As Sophie tried to maneuver her cart backward out of the aisle, Amy looked up.

“Hey, there! Sophie!”

“Oh! Hey, Amy.”

“How are things going? I feel like we haven’t seen you guys in ages.”

“Yeah. Well. Brian and I hit a…snag.” She needed to brainstorm some better euphemisms. “I’ve relocated to Rittenhouse Square for a little while.”

Amy frowned. “You mean…what do you mean?”

“We’re separated.”

“Oh. My God. I’m so sorry.” Amy’s face contorted itself into a combination of embarrassment, surprise, and pity.

“Yeah, well.”

“I mean, I can’t believe it. You guys seemed so good.”

“Some stuff happened.” What stuff, exactly, would not become public knowledge until Harry’s trial.

Amy nodded slowly, and Sophie wondered what she was imagining. She also wondered if Amy had really been oblivious to Keith’s philandering. She had a new appreciation for just how much drama could be concealed within the narrow walls of a Philadelphia row house.

“I’m looking for soap,” Sophie said.

Amy brightened. “It’s on the other side of the store. Over by the pharmacy.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, say hi to Keith for me.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything,” said Amy. “If you want to talk or whatever. Call me.”

Sophie almost had to laugh as she pulled her cart away. Sweet, normal Amy. She had no idea.

Against everyone’s expectations, Harry had refused to give up his client. Apparently he preferred to go to prison, stubbornly refusing even to post bail. This baffled Sophie, but mostly irritated her. Why wouldn’t he play along? Agent Chandler was equally frustrated; he told Sophie Harry’s client was a “big fish,” and it was driving him mad that Harry wouldn’t cooperate. At Chandler’s request Sophie had gone to see Harry and plead with him to make a deal, but Harry wouldn’t even speak to her. He’d just stared, his eyebrows tense, his neck flushed, reeking of suppressed rage.

The next time Sophie expected to see him was when she would testify at his trial, which was scheduled to happen in a few weeks. The museum, she knew, would have preferred to have more time. They wanted to get out in front of the story with an exciting event that would, in theory, distract everyone from the impending PR disaster. They’d brought in a freelance conservator to accelerate preparations for the hastily organized gala, and invitations had just been mailed. Sophie knew this because Carly, as one of the museum’s bigger donors, received invitations to every party they threw. She’d left this one sitting prominently in the middle of the coffee table.
Celebrate
the
acquisition
of
a
masterpiece
of
Faience
, it said. Inside, a professional photograph showed the Saint-Porchaire in all its regal splendor.

Of course, Brian probably wasn’t invited to the party. Sophie had heard from Agent Chandler that the museum was working with the FBI to conduct a full investigation of Brian and his department. Michael, Ted, and Marjorie were still allowed to come to work, but Brian had been put on administrative leave until things were cleared up. It killed her to think that he would miss his moment of glory, when the Saint-Porchaire was unveiled before the world.

The candlestick she’d taken to New York hadn’t done the real one justice. A local ceramicist had made it based on photographs; Sophie had counted on the tavern’s dim lighting to obscure the piece’s clumsy painting and thick ornaments. The tape she’d made during her conversation with Harry was enough to get him convicted. According to Chandler, Harry could get anywhere from twenty to forty months, depending on the sentencing judge. Sophie had been surprised by the light sentence, but Chandler just shrugged and said that in a world of drugs and violence, nobody wanted art lovers taking up space in prisons. And if Harry would just give up the name of his client, he could walk away free.

Sporting goods. Automotive. Electronics. Syrup. Sophie had almost gone full circle; she finally found herself in the soap aisle. She chose her favorite brand, something basic and inoffensive. She contemplated buying more than one. How much time did one bar of soap represent? She stood staring at the package in her hand; her thoughts began to wander.

“Finding everything okay?” asked a Target team member, a young girl as bright and full of promise as her red vest and the shelves of skin-care products that gleamed under the faintly buzzing fluorescent light. Sophie frowned at her. The question didn’t make any sense. This place didn’t make any sense. The soap in her hand suddenly seemed like a strange artifact from another world, emptied of its meaning, as bland and worthless as a piece of driveway gravel. She threw it into her cart anyway, and headed for the register.

“No,” she said over her shoulder to the girl. “I’m not finding everything okay at all.”

***

1.
Elliot will pee in the toilet, but not poop. You can let him go without a diaper during the day, but
keep an eye on him
. You can usually tell when it’s about to happen by the look on his face.

2.
Never leave the house without a change of clothes.

3.
No peanut butter in their lunches. No peanut products. Do not even think the word “peanut” while you make their lunches, or someone in their class will end up in the hospital.

4.
Miss Theresa (blond hair, sturdy build) is the one who will take the time to tell you if the kids did/said anything interesting during the day. Be sure to ask how Elliot’s doing with the toilet training, so you can be consistent at home.

5.
Bring home all of their artwork from school, but you should by no means try to keep all of it. Pick out the good stuff and sneak the rest into the recycling. Make sure Lucy doesn’t see it sitting on the curb on trash day.

6.
When you take them to the grocery store, Elliot can ride in the cart but Lucy is
not allowed
to stand on the end of the cart. This makes the cart tip over. Also, watch Elliot when you’re in the checkout line. He will try to shoplift candy.

7.
When you have pried the candy out of Elliot’s hand and he starts to wail, try to get as many groceries as you can onto the belt before he starts attempting to climb out of the cart. Prepare for rapid escalation. Handle it however you see fit—apologize to those around you, pretend nothing’s happening, speak to him in your Scary Voice, but above all—and this is
very important
—do not give that piece of candy back to him.

8.
Release him from the shopping cart at the last possible minute, after the groceries are already in the trunk and Lucy is in her car seat. If you really can’t wrestle him into his car seat, it’s all right to threaten to leave him in the parking lot. What’s important is not to actually do it.