Indiscretion (28 page)

She does not come here often because it is so expensive, but she wishes she could. She would like to be one of those women, chicly dressed, like the ones in the checkout line with the Prada handbags, diamonds on their fingers. They seem to think nothing of stopping in quickly for a latte or lobster salad and paying for it all confidently with a platinum credit card. One day she knows that will be her. She is prudent. Never buying what she can’t afford, making do with small economies, dutifully putting part of her paycheck away every two weeks into a retirement account. It is something she learned from her mother. She has a Frenchwoman’s parsimony.

Tonight is different. Tonight she will splurge. I know she does not cook often. She has told me. At her office all day, she trolled different websites looking for recipes. She decided on French because it seemed the more ambitious and also the most familiar. Her mother had known how to cook, had introduced her to snails, sweetbreads, and ortolans, and had taught her how to eat oysters and artichoke hearts. She remembers the simmering burnt-orange Le Creuset pots that once lined the walls of their old kitchen. The bouquets of dried herbs. But that was a long time ago. Her father had never really enjoyed French cooking, preferring instead the homelier fare of his native New England. So their meals became simpler until they stopped altogether. For Claire, cooking felt like retracing steps taken in childhood, of half-remembered rooms and smells.

She had wanted to do something special, had even thought of showing off, but now she is not so sure she can do it. Her oven is so small, her cutlery inadequate. She has no roasting pans and barely any counter space. None of her plates match. For a moment she even thinks of ordering in, but quickly puts that thought out of her head. She clutches the list of ingredients and tentatively fills her cart. I think she made chicken, but it doesn’t really matter. It could have been anything. I’ll write chicken because it is easiest. A large chicken, shallots, organic baby carrots, French butter, new potatoes, two kinds of cheese, green beans, fruit. She wants it to be a real feast for Harry. This is the first time she has cooked for him. Another in a series of firsts. On her way home, she stops at a liquor store to buy wine. She tells the salesman what she is making, and he recommends a Médoc.

Outside, it is still raining. It is hard to carry her bags and hold the umbrella. A quarter of an hour later, she is home, her groceries unpacked, tying on an apron she has almost never worn. She looks at the clock; two hours.

Harry arrives a few minutes after eight. He is carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Hello,” he says animatedly, kissing her at the door. His face is wet and rough with day-old stubble. “I brought you these.” He takes off his damp coat and hangs it on the closet door.

She smiles and takes the flowers. “Thank you. Let me put them in water.” She has an old vase, runs water into it, places the flowers inside, and puts it on the table. “They’re lovely,” she says.

“I also brought this,” he says, pulling a bottle of whisky from a plastic shopping bag. “I figured you could use some more.”

“Can I make you one?” she asks, taking the bottle.

“What an excellent idea,” he says with a grin. “I was hoping you might suggest that. Will you join me?”

“Try and stop me.”

She finds two glasses and fills them with ice. “I’m sorry,” she says, handing him a glass. “Dinner won’t be ready for a while.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No, thank you. Just waiting for everything to cook at this point.”

“I am sure it will be delicious. I’m starved. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

She takes a sip, looking at him over the glass, feeling the sweet, peaty taste of the whisky against the back of her throat, savoring the moment. They are crossing another boundary. One day maybe it will seem like nothing. As simple as sharing a newspaper.

He sits in the chair nearest the tiny kitchen so he can see her. She is happy he is comfortable here. He knows the books on the shelves, the family pictures without looking at them. There is not much else. He fills the room.

“How was your day?” she asks. What she really means is, how is work coming on your book?

“Fine.”

“Still having trouble?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind. I am just trying to work a few things out.”

She has been waiting for him to take her more into his trust. At times it seemed almost as though he was about to.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just not comfortable talking about it now. It’s bad luck.”

“I understand.”

“So how was your day?”

“All right. I left a little early to go shopping. It’s been a long time since I cooked properly. I don’t mind telling you I’m nervous as a cat.”

“Well, it smells good.”

She opens the oven door and bastes the chicken. “Does it? God, I hope so.”

He looks over at the small table, which is normally piled high with books and mail and her computer. Now there is a single candle and two glasses. An old tablecloth of her mother’s. Paper napkins. Knives and forks. The bottle of wine sitting unopened. His flowers. “It looks lovely.”

“Thank you. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

He is behind her now, nuzzling her neck, smelling her hair. She closes her eyes. His touch still electrifies her. “You do plenty of nice things for me,” he says.

She giggles and twists away from him. “Stop it. Don’t distract me. The kitchen’s too small. Go over there like a good boy and finish your drink. My oven’s acting up, and I need to finish the beans. Damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know if the thermometer’s working. It’s already been in for an hour and a half, but I can’t tell if the chicken’s ready or not.”

“Try wiggling one of the legs. If it wiggles easily, it’s ready.”

“It’s wiggling.”

“Good. Take it out. It’ll continue to cook. Just cover it with foil.”

“Oh god, the potatoes aren’t ready yet.”

“How much more time do they need?”

“I don’t know. Another fifteen minutes at least.”

“Well, in that case, mind if I open the wine? Give it a chance to breathe?”

“What? Oh, sorry. I had meant to do that earlier.”

“No worries. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll make us each another.”

Fifteen minutes later, they are sitting at the table. Harry has carved.

“It’s delicious,” he says.

“No, it’s not. You’re sweet, but the chicken’s overcooked, and the potatoes are undercooked.”

“Not at all,” he says, chewing the dry chicken. “It’s perfect.”

“Thank you for lying so nicely about it. I’m sorry it’s not better.”

“And the wine is excellent.”

She smiles. “Okay, you can stop now.” She puts her fork down. “How’s Johnny?”

“He’s all right. We had fun last night. We went rollerblading in Central Park.”

She can tell this is something else he doesn’t want to talk about. There is no question that she would join them. Maybe one day. But not now. It is too soon, he has told her.

This evening is part of her apology. He had been furious when she told him she went to Maddy. “I told you not to do that,” he had yelled before storming out, slamming the door behind him. But she had run after him into the cold night in only her shirtsleeves and caught him on the street.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I did what I did because I love you.”

“You had no right.”

“Love gives me the right.”

“Dammit, it’s more complicated than that. There’s Johnny . . .”

“I know. But it’s too late now. It’s done.”

He could only imagine what had happened. It made him physically sick. He turned to leave.

“No, don’t go,” she said, clasping him, preventing him from moving. “I’m sorry. It will be all right. I promise. Come back upstairs. Please.”

He had followed her. She was conscious of her victory but also knew she had to be careful. She had taken a chance, almost too much of one. She had to win back part of his trust, part of his pride. This was about more than the two of them. This was about his family. She understood that better now. Would she have done it any differently? No, I don’t think so.

In the weeks since, they had spent every night together except for the two nights each week he had Johnny. In that time, he had not spoken to Maddy once. When he called the house, Gloria answered and took down messages that went unreturned. When it became apparent that Maddy did not want to talk to him, he stopped leaving messages altogether.

After dinner he and Claire are getting ready for bed. The dishes have been cleaned and washed by hand. He now keeps a toothbrush by her sink.

“I’m tired,” he says.

“Too tired?”

“No, not too tired. Just tired, you know.”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

She doesn’t mean it. Under the covers she is naked. She wants him inside her and then the peace that comes after.

“No, I want to.”

“Good,” she says. She trails her hands over his body, blowing in his ear, arousing him, as she knew she could.

“See, I told you I wasn’t too tired,” he says.

But when they are finished, he rolls over on his side, his back to her. She is used to sleeping on his chest. She reaches out her hand, lightly placing it on his back. He stirs in his sleep but doesn’t move.

She gets up and quietly leaves the bedroom, fumbling in the dark for her robe. In her living room, she sits staring out the window with the light off. She can hear the sound of his breathing from the other room. This is how it starts, she thinks. One night they will not make love. There will be an excuse. One of them is too tired or too drunk. And then it will end—or it will evolve. Already they are brushing their teeth together before going to bed. Soon they will be sitting in restaurants, studying the menus with nothing new to say to each other. Is this what she wanted? Things are already very different from what they had been at first. Then it had all been new and exciting. There had been the house, the people, Maddy, myself, and, of course, Harry.

It’s hard not to be caught up in the beauty of life from a summer lawn in the Hamptons. That had been followed by even more excitement. The first weeks of their affair. The sense of unreality, the mutual discoveries. The traveling, the mystery, the hotels, the restaurants. The danger. She had never felt so alive. Then the other night he repeated a story she had already heard him tell. It was a funny story, and she had laughed very much when he first told it to her. Hearing it a second time annoyed her. Didn’t he remember he’d already told her this?

Was he already running out of stories? Had he already come to the point in his life where that was all he had left? Surely, it was only a matter of time before he told it a third time, or a fourth. She was in the phase of life when she was still making her own stories. Was that what Maddy did? Was that all wives did? Sit there and listen to the same stories over and over again? Was that what marriage was about? She remembered how she had felt during those endless afternoons in her grandparents’ apartment. The sense that this was all there was, the old clock ticking in the hallway, the oppression of repetition.

She sighs and stands and stretches. On the street outside a young couple is walking. It is impossible to know how well they know each other. They are holding hands. They could have just met, or they could have been together for years. At the corner, they turn and kiss. Claire envies them.

2

I
t has been several weeks since that night with Maddy. I had woken early in her bedroom and quietly gathered my clothes. She slept heavily, snoring slightly. I left her there in the dark, sneaking out like a thief, hoping I wouldn’t wake Johnny while I changed in the hallway.

Neither of us called the other that day or the next. I didn’t because I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea what was going on inside her head. She had been very drunk. Drunker than I had ever seen her. Did she even remember what had happened? I did remember, though, and the memory was uncomfortable. It had been painful, not in the physical sense but emotionally. Yet she was the one in true pain. I could tell she wasn’t thinking of me, if she had been thinking of anyone. I was merely a device, a beating heart and racing blood. She had not said a word the whole time. Nor, for that matter, had I.

When we finished, she just pulled the covers over her and passed out. I didn’t know whether to go or stay, so I lay there sleepless, not daring to move, staring at the ceiling, listening to her snore, pondering this unexpected turn of events, naked, stunned, and shamed, until I couldn’t take it anymore and left.

A few days later, I called and left a message. I tried to sound as innocuous as possible. How was she? How was Johnny? Maybe dinner this weekend? I was convinced she was standing there the whole time listening to me leave the message, despising me. She never called back.

I tried again a few nights later. This time she picked up.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Sorry, I can’t speak now. I’m already late.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Great.” She had already hung up before I could respond.

I was surprised to hear that she was late for something. She rarely went out, and when she did, it was with either Harry or me. Where was she going? Who was she seeing? For almost forty years, I had known her life almost as well as my own. Now I felt cut off. Or not. Maybe I was overthinking things. I wouldn’t know until I could speak to her.

But when I called her the next day, she still didn’t pick up. Nor the next day. Finally, I got tired of leaving messages. I shuttled back and forth between my apartment and office, looking for distraction in work but invariably finding my eyes drifting over to the photograph of Maddy and me on my desk. It had been taken years ago, by Harry I think. We were on the beach. I had more hair then and a slimmer waist. She looked just the same. Sometimes clients, making small talk, ask if she is my wife. I know it would look odd, having the photograph of another man’s wife on my desk, so I usually lie and say she is my sister. It’s almost the truth, after all, even though I am often tempted to lie and say that, yes, she is my wife.