An Anonymous Girl (17 page)

Saturday, December 8

Thomas arrives five minutes prior to the appointed time. Punctuality is one of the new habits he seems motivated to adopt.

His broad shoulders fill the doorway as a smile spreads across his face. The first snow of the season has just begun to fall, and sparkly crystals cling to his sandy hair. It’s a bit longer than he usually wears it.

Thomas offers a bouquet of red ballerina tulips and is thanked with a lingering kiss. His lips are cold, and he tastes like mint. His hands move to deepen the embrace as he prolongs the intimacy.

“That’s all for now,” he is told as he is playfully pushed away.

He wipes his damp shoes on the mat and steps into the town house.

“It smells delicious,” he says. He looks down briefly.
“I’ve missed your cooking.”

His coat is hung in the closet next to the lighter jackets he wears in the warmer weather. He was never asked to remove those particular items from the town house, and not only because he moved out so abruptly. Springtime symbolizes hope, renewal. The presence of his belongings served the same purpose.

He is wearing the sweater that brings out the gold flecks
in his green eyes; he knows it’s a favorite.

“You look beautiful,” he says. He reaches out and runs his fingers so gently through a long, loose wave of my hair that his touch is barely discernible.

My taupe and lavender fabrics have been replaced by black suede jeans and a cobalt-blue silk camisole, but only a hint of color is visible beneath a thigh-length black cardigan made of fine
merino wool.

Thomas takes a stool at the granite island with the built-in cooktop. The oysters are on ice; the bottle of champagne is retrieved from the refrigerator.

“Would you?”

He sees the label and smiles. “A great year.”

The cork gives a gentle
pop
; then Thomas fills two slim flutes.

A toast is offered: “To second chances.”

Surprise and pleasure collide on Thomas’s
face.

“You have no idea how happy that makes me.” His voice is a shade huskier than usual.

A slate-gray shell is lifted from the ice and tilted toward him. “Hungry?”

He nods as he accepts it. “Starving.”

The lamb is removed from the oven to rest on the counter. The potatoes just need a few more minutes; Thomas prefers them on the crispier side.

As champagne and oysters are
savored, conversation flows easily. Then, just as Thomas is carrying the platter of lamb to the dining room table, a loud chime sounds. He sets down the tray and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

“Do you need to get that?” It is vital that the question carries no hint of reproach.

Thomas merely returns to the kitchen and places his phone facedown on the island. Inches away from the
torte.

“The only person I want to give attention to now is you,” he says.

He moves away from the phone to bring the decanted red wine to the table and is awarded with a sincere smile.

Thomas’s flowers are placed in the vase in the center of the table. Candles are lit. Nina Simone’s sultry voice fills the air.

Thomas’s wineglass is refilled twice. His cheeks grow slightly flushed;
his gestures more expansive.

Thomas offers up a bite of his lamb: “This is the best piece.”

Our eyes lock.

“You seem different tonight,” he says, stretching out his hand.

“Maybe it’s us being together back in the house.”

He is awarded another brief kiss, then contact is broken.

“Sweetheart? Have you heard anything more from that private investigator?”

His question seemingly
comes out of nowhere; it feels discordant on this romantic evening. But then, Thomas has always been protective. He knows how unsettling it was for me to receive the e-mail from the investigator hired by Subject 5’s family.

This is not the first time he has asked whether the private investigator has instigated more contact.

“Nothing since I responded that I would not violate confidentiality
by relinquishing my notes on her,” he is told.

Thomas nods approvingly. “You’re doing the right thing. A client’s privacy is sacred.”

“Thank you.”

The unpleasant memory is skirted past; tonight’s agenda is already complex enough.

It is time to bring the glass cake pedestal to the table.

He is served a generous three-inch slice.

The edge of his fork slices through the rich,
thick mousse. He raises the chocolate confection to his lips.

He closes his eyes. Savors it. “Mmm. Is this from Dominique?”

“No, La Patisserie,” he is told.

“Delicious. I’m almost too full to eat it.”

A pause.

“You’ll work it off tomorrow at the gym.”

He nods and takes another bite. “Aren’t you having any?”

“Of course.”

The torte melts on the tongue. No one would
know it was not purchased at a specialty bakery, just as no one would be able to detect the taste of the two hazelnuts that were ground up and included in the batter.

When Thomas’s plate is clean, he leans back in his chair.

But he cannot settle here. A hand is offered to him: “Come.”

He is led to a small love seat in the library and given a glass of Dalva port. The space is cozy,
with its Steinway piano and gas fireplace. His eyes flit around the room, alighting on original paintings by Wyeth and Sargent, and then a whimsical bronze sculpture of a motorcycle, before landing on the silver-framed photograph of me as a teenager, astride Folly, the chestnut mare, on our Connecticut grounds, my red hair peeking out from beneath my riding helmet. Angled beside that picture is one
of our wedding day.

Thomas wore black tie; the tuxedo was purchased especially for the wedding, since he hadn’t worn one since his high school prom. The bridal gown, with its lace top and tulle skirt, was custom-made; my father had to ask a business associate to call in a favor at Vera Wang because the engagement was so short.

My father did not approve of the low dip in the dress that
reached nearly to the small of my back, but it was too late to have it altered. As a compromise, a long veil was worn during the ceremony at St. Luke’s, the church my mother and father still attend.

Our parents flank us in the photo. Thomas’s family had flown in from a small town outside San Jose, California, two days before the wedding. We’d only met once before; Thomas dutifully called his
mother and father every week, but he wasn’t particularly close to them or to his older brother, Kevin, who worked as a construction foreman.

My father is unsmiling in the photograph.

Prior to proposing, Thomas had driven to my parents’ Connecticut estate to ask for my hand in marriage. He’d concealed this from me; Thomas was skilled at keeping a secret.

My father appreciated the nod
to tradition. He clapped Thomas on the back and they celebrated with brandy and Arturo Fuente cigars. However, the following morning, my father requested my presence at lunch.

He asked only one question. It was direct, as befitting his nature. It came even before we placed our orders: “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

Love is an emotional state, but my symptoms were highly physical: A smile
formed at the mere mention of Thomas’s name, my step felt lighter, even my core temperature—which since my childhood had been consistently recorded at 96.2, well below the average of 98.6—rose by a degree.

The music now switches to John Legend’s “Tonight.”

“Let’s dance.”

Thomas’s eyes follow the path of my cardigan as it slips from my shoulders down onto the love seat. As he rises,
he reaches with his free hand to massage the back of his neck.

The gesture is a familiar one.

He appears a shade paler than normal.

Our bodies fit together seamlessly, just as they did on our wedding night. It’s as though the memory has always been stored in our muscles.

The song ends. Thomas removes his glasses, then presses his thumb and index finger to his temples. He grimaces.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

He nods. “Do you think there were nuts in the torte?”

He isn’t in danger; his allergy is not life-threatening. However, it is triggered by even the tiniest taste of tree nuts.

The sole side effect is a severe headache. Alcohol worsens this sensation.

“I did ask at the patisserie . . .” My voice trails off. “I’ll get you some water.”

Five steps toward
the kitchen, where his cell phone stills rests on the counter.

Now Thomas is positioned closer to the staircase.

This is important; he will be more inclined to think his next movements are of his own accord, rather than the result of a subtle manipulation.

“Would you like some Tylenol? It’s just in the medicine cabinet upstairs.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right back,” he says.

His heavy
footsteps ascend the stairs, then sound directly overhead as he moves toward the master bathroom.

The path has already been traced and timed with a stopwatch. He will likely be occupied for sixty to ninety seconds. Hopefully, it will be enough time to gather the desired information.

One of the first questions in the morality survey:
Would you ever read your spouse’s/significant other’s
text messages?

Thomas’s passcode has traditionally been the month and day of his birth.

It is unchanged.

“Lydia? The Tylenol isn’t in the medicine cabinet.” His voice carries from the top of the stairs.

My footsteps are swift, but when my tone comes from the bottom landing, it remains steady and unhurried.

“Are you certain? I just bought some.”

The Tylenol
is
in the medicine
cabinet, but tucked behind a box containing a new skin-care cream. More than a cursory glance will be necessary to locate it.

A creak in the floorboard indicates he is moving toward the master bathroom again.

His glass of water is procured. Then the green phone icon is touched. Recent texts and phone calls are surveyed.

My phone’s camera function is already engaged.

Quickly, but
meticulously, the record of Thomas’s many recent calls is captured. His texts appear completely unremarkable and so are disregarded.

Every photograph is assessed to make sure the digital evidence is clear; quality cannot be sacrificed to speed.

The house is utterly quiet. Too quiet?

“Thomas? Are you okay?”

“Yep,” he calls.

Perhaps he is applying a cold washcloth to his pulse
points.

More photographs are amassed, documenting perhaps thirty-five phone calls. Some numbers are assigned to contacts with recognizable names: Thomas’s dentist, squash partner, and parents. Others, eight in total, are unfamiliar. They all have New York City area codes.

The deleted call record log is similarly documented, which turns up one additional unfamiliar number, this one with
a 301 area code.

It will be a simple matter to determine whether these numbers are completely innocuous. If a man answers, or it it belongs to a place of business, the phone number will be considered irrelevant and the call will be immediately terminated.

If a woman answers, the call will also be quickly aborted.

But that number will be saved for further scrutiny.

His phone is
replaced on the counter. His glass of water is brought to the library.

He should have returned by now.

“Thomas?” He does not respond.

He is met at the top of the staircase just as he emerges from the bedroom.

“Were you able to find it?”

He looks distinctly unwell now. He will require three aspirin followed by a long rest in a darkened room.

The evening’s encounter will
come to a necessary, abrupt end.

The hope in Thomas’s eyes that further intimacies would progress has been extinguished.

“No,” he says. His distress is evident.

“I’ll get it,” he is told.

In the bathroom, he squints against the bright light. The medicine cabinet is surveyed. The luxury moisturizer is moved aside.

“It’s right here.”

Back downstairs, he swallows three pills
and is offered a respite on the couch.

He shakes his head, then winces at the movement.

“I think I’d better go,” he says.

His coat is retrieved and offered to him.

“Your phone.” He nearly left it on the counter.

As it is picked up, a quick glance at the screen confirms it has automatically re-locked.

He tucks it into the pocket of his coat.

“I’m so sorry I had to cut
this night short,” he says.

“I’ll make a call to the bakery first thing in the morning.” A pause. “The woman who waited on me needs to know her mistake.”

Phone calls concerning a mistake will be made tomorrow. That much is true.

But not to anyone Thomas expects.

Monday, December 10

Nothing about Dr. Shields’s home comes as a surprise to me.

I get invited into many people’s residences on Monday mornings to do makeup, and evidence of their weekend’s activities is usually on display: the Sunday
New York Times
splayed out on a coffee table, wineglasses from a party drying upside down on a dish rack, kids’ soccer cleats
and shin guards scattered by the entryway.

But when I arrived at Dr. Shields’s town house in the West Village, I figured it would look like a spread in
Architectural Digest
—all muted colors and elegant pieces of furniture, chosen for aesthetics rather than comfort or function. And I’m right, it’s like an extension of her meticulous office.

After Dr. Shields greets me at the door and takes
my coat, she leads me into the open, sunny kitchen. She’s wearing a creamy turtleneck sweater and dark-rinse fitted jeans, and her hair is in a low ponytail.

“You just missed my husband,” she says, clearing away two matching coffee mugs from the counter and depositing them in the sink. “I was hoping to introduce you, but unfortunately he had to head into his office.”