The Affair (24 page)

T
he condo was still and silent as she pushed open the door, then picked up her shopping bag off the step and carried it into the hall. Old Mrs. Moore, Stephanie’s downstairs neighbor, watched her enter the building from her bedroom window, and for a single instant Stephanie had been tempted to wave at her, but she didn’t feel like having a conversation with her. Mrs. Moore liked to chat and involve herself in people’s business. She was better than a burglar alarm; she phoned the police at the slightest intimation of something amiss. Three weeks ago, when she saw two young men skulking along the alley, she’d called the police and a roaming patrol car had stopped the two men for questioning. They had been carrying gloves, screwdrivers, and masking tape in their bag. They claimed they were apprentice carpenters. They found it slightly more difficult to explain the dozen twists of silver paper containing heroin and an assortment of credit cards in different names in the same bag. A local police officer had called to personally thank Mrs. Moore for her assistance. Since then Mrs. Moore had assumed the role of security guard for the building. Stephanie made a note to get her a nice Christmas present. She should probably get presents for everyone in the building: the young couple who were expecting a baby, and the old man in number four who always reeked of marijuana.

Stephanie opened the left door to number 8 and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She immediately hit the button on the answering machine and listened to the messages as she unpacked the few groceries she’d picked up on her way home. Robert always teased her because she had a classic bachelor’s fridge: beer, wine, yogurt, and salsa. But she rarely ate there—snacked, breakfasted, lunched certainly, but she’d never cooked a full meal in the oven. That’s why God had invented the microwave.

“Stef . . . this is your mother. Are you there? Why aren’t you there?”

Stephanie pulled open the fridge and added the half gallon of soy milk to the empty tray in the door, alongside the half-empty carton of pure orange juice and an unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio. She hated when people called her Stef.

“You’re probably out enjoying yourself. . . .”

Stephanie shook her head in resignation. She knew where the lecture was going. Her mother, if anything, was consistent in her nagging.

“I was just checking to make sure that you were not going to come home for Christmas. . . .”

Stephanie added a container of Greek yogurt to the fridge. She had told her mother at least a dozen times that she’d be staying in Boston for Christmas. One year—just one—she had made the mistake of returning to the family home in Wisconsin for the holiday, and every year thereafter her mother had phoned and put pressure—subtle and not too subtle—on her to come again.

“All your brothers and sisters will be here. Your cousins too.”

Stephanie Burroughs had grown up in Madison, Wisconsin, the daughter of a college professor and a high school teacher. The family was staunchly Catholic, and the seven children, four boys and three girls, had grown up in a four-bedroom house, in a Catholic neighborhood, living a quiet, respectable version of the American dream. There was only a twelve-year age difference between the oldest, Bill, and the youngest, Joan. Stephanie fell more or less in the middle of the group and had somehow managed to avoid the cliques, pairings, and groups that form in any large family. That had left her feeling slightly distant from the rest of her extended family, who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time living in one another’s pockets. She had always felt like the outsider, which had actually made it easier to leave home and move away, first to New Jersey, then up and down the East Coast. She was also the first member of the family to own a passport and was now, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, the last one left unmarried. Billy was on his third wife, much to their mother’s disgust.

“Your father went online last night and discovered some last-minute flight bargains. If there’s a problem with money, you know he will send it on to you. . . .”

Stephanie poured herself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher and shook her head. Including salary, bonuses, and expense account, she earned about two hundred thousand dollars a year. She—and the bank—had just purchased this condo; she owned her own car, had weekly massages, ate out regularly, had a premium gym membership, and went to the theater and movies whenever she wanted. She flew business class and was probably the most successful and financially secure of all of the Burroughs children, and yet somehow Toni still thought of her daughter as a secretary or a lowly researcher earning a pittance. Also, because she was not married with at least one child, Stephanie knew her mother was seriously worried about her. Being the only unmarried Burroughs was one notch lower on the totem pole than her gay brother Jack, who had caused uproar in the family when he had come out three years earlier. But even Jack had a partner and a newly adopted kid from Haiti. And as soon as she had met her newest granddaughter, Toni Burroughs had “forgiven” her son for being gay. But she still hadn’t forgiven Stephanie for being single. Or given up on finding her a potential mate. The last time Stephanie had been home—Thanksgiving—Toni had arranged for a string of young and eligible and not-so-young and even less eligible men to troop through the house in a somewhat macabre parade. To appease her mother, Stephanie had gone on one date with a computer programmer, and even half a bottle of chardonnay hadn’t saved her from one of the dullest evenings of her life.

“It would be lovely to see you. Maybe if you ask nicely, your bosses would give you a little extra time off. Tell them you’ll make it up to them in the New Year.”

Stephanie still had ten vacation days left to take out of this year’s allocation. She was going to try and carry them forward into the New Year. If she could persuade Robert to take a few days off, she might take him back to the Midwest, and they could travel out to Madison to meet her parents. She stopped, suddenly struck by the thought. Meeting the parents: That was a very formal thing to do. She knew they would both adore him—a successful businessman. They might have an issue with the sixteen-year age difference, but she was a big girl and she knew what she was doing. Didn’t she? But you only introduced a partner to your parents if you were serious about him. And then she smiled, and her face lit up. She was serious about him—then the smiled faded slightly—and becoming increasingly serious as time went by.

“Well, call me if you get a chance, but I guess you’re too busy. You might call on Christmas Eve. All the family will be here, your brothers and sisters and their spouses and all of the grandchildren. We’ll have a full house here. . . .”

Here it comes, Stephanie thought, and mouthed the words along with her mother.

 

Stephanie lay back in the thick-foaming bubble bath and pressed her cell to her ear as she repeated the conversation to her best friend. “So then she said, ‘We’ll have a full house here, all except you of course.’ Talk about emotional blackmail!”

Izzie laughed. “My mother is exactly the same. Mothers the world over are the same. I’m sure they go to Mommy School and take lessons.”

Stephanie lifted her leg out of the water and allowed the bubbles to run down her smooth skin. Putting the claw-foot tub into the condo had been outrageously expensive, but money very well spent. After a long day on her feet, even the best shower couldn’t compete with a hot bath. “But you know what, I was actually tempted. It would be fun to go home, be with all the family again. See all of my nieces and nephews. Plus, I’m really conscious that both Mom and Dad are getting older.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Izzie asked, seriously. There was a sharp intake of breath, and Stephanie clearly heard the crackle of cigarette paper burning. She could just visualize Izzie standing outside a bar somewhere, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Even though Izzie was a successful surgeon, she still had all of the bad habits of their undergraduate days at Princeton.

“Why don’t I what?”

“Get on a plane Christmas Eve and surprise everyone? Don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Just turn up.”

“I couldn’t!”

“What’s stopping you?” Izzie asked sharply. “I bet your mother would be thrilled to see you.”

“I’m sure she would.”

“And you said yourself, one of these Christmases will be their last.”

“I know. I don’t like to think about it, but it’s true.”

“But . . . ?” Izzie prompted.

“But what about Robert?” Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she mentioned her lover’s name. She knew what was coming.

“Oh, yes, Robert,” Izzie said coldly, and Stephanie could just see her sucking hard on that cigarette. “Let’s see. Hmmm, I wonder where Robert will be? Gosh, let me think about it for a millisecond. Oh, I know: Robert will be at home with his wife and children. Like he was last year and the year before that, like he will be next year and the year after that.”

Stephanie sat up and reached for the glass of Pinot Grigio perched on the edge of the tub. “You really don’t like him, do you?” she said brightly, trying to avoid another argument with Izzie over Robert.

“Not much. No.”

“He really is a nice man. You just have to give him a chance. One of these days I’m going to get you two together.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s a wonderful man, pats dogs, kisses babies, helps old people cross the street, recycles, donates blood, pays his taxes, gives money to charity, and makes his wife breakfast in bed . . . while he’s lying to her, of course.”

Stephanie sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Izzie said immediately. “Look, I don’t want to have a fight with you. I just don’t want to see you sitting home on Christmas Eve hoping for an hour with Robert, and then waiting in all day Christmas Day for a visit that will never happen. That’s all.”

“I know.” Stephanie sighed. And she did know. She remembered last Christmas; she had never felt so lonely, so lost, so alone in all her life. She had ordered in Chinese food and watched a James Bond movie marathon, clasping the phone in her hand for most of the day, willing it to ring . . . which it never did. “I know you’re right. God, I feel so pathetic. I do need to talk to him. I can’t go through that again this year.”

“Better do it soon, sweetie—less than a week to go to the big day,” Izzie advised.

“Tomorrow night. We’re having dinner. I’ll talk about it with him over dinner.”

“Okay then. What are your plans for tonight?”

“Absolutely none. I took a half day, then walked my feet off looking for a present for Robert, and I still haven’t really found him anything. What are you getting Dave?”

“A leather jacket, impossible to get tickets for the Celtics against the Lakers, and the
Star Wars
DVD boxed set on Blu-ray. He’ll probably want to watch them all in one day. He’s nothing but a big kid. I also got him the hardback Stieg Larsson books in a boxed set.”

“You’re lucky; at least Dave reads. Robert isn’t interested.”

“Your Robert is a peculiar fish,” Izzie agreed. “I have to admit, I don’t really trust people who don’t read. I’m always uncomfortable if I go to a house that doesn’t have books. People who don’t read . . .” Stephanie braced herself for another diatribe, but then Izzie suddenly said, “Gotta go, Dave’s here. Talk to you tomorrow.”

She hung up, and Stephanie clicked off her own phone. She was sure there had been a distinct tone of sarcasm in Izzie’s voice when she used the phrase “your Robert.” Because of course, he was not “her” Robert; he was someone else’s Robert.

Izzie and Robert still hadn’t met; Stephanie was deliberately keeping them apart. Izzie made no secret of her dislike for Robert; he was a married man who was playing around. She’d been tough on Stephanie too, reminding her how stupid she was for getting involved with someone like him. The two women had fought, and Stephanie’s relationship with Robert had almost cost them their friendship. Finally, she came to her senses and realized that Izzie was just looking out for her, trying to save her friend from what she saw as inevitable pain and heartache.

And Stephanie had been stupid; she knew that. She’d broken one of her own long-standing rules: Don’t get between another woman and her man. There were plenty more men out there. But not like Robert; Robert was different.

Stephanie leaned forward to add more hot water to the bath. She tossed in bath salts she’d just gotten from her Secret Santa at the office party, and the slightly spicy odor of green tea permeated the damp air. She stretched out in the bath, resting her head back on the foam pillow. Over her right shoulder a short fat candle guttered out. In its original layout the condo had come with a power shower but no bath. Before she’d moved in, Stephanie had brought in a team of interior designers to reconfigure part of the second bedroom and incorporate it into the bathroom, effectively taking a corner off the unused bedroom and creating a larger bathroom. She’d gone for a country estate look for the room: An antique-style freestanding bathtub, treated to look like copper, stood in the center of the terracotta floor, and while hand-painted tiles covered three of the walls, the fourth was covered with a trompe l’oeil mural that gave the impression of a door opening out onto a Tuscan landscape. She had even had a skylight installed directly over the bath, so she could look up at the stars on clear evenings. When she’d had a particularly stressful day, she’d fill the bath almost to the brim with the hottest water she could tolerate, add bubble bath or Dead Sea salts, light some candles, and just lie back and stare at the sky. Within moments, she could feel the tensions and anxieties of the day floating away.