“So, short blond hair, that’s all you have? And you’re mad that you think I brought you flowers?”
“Come on. Just—Don’t. I’m so sick of this, Cora, goddamn it. I am so tired of defending myself to you all the time.”
“What the hell? First off, I wasn’t there. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about!”
“You didn’t add a nasty message in the card? Who else would do that?”
“That’s a great question!” I say with a raised voice.
“So the card says,I’m on to you. Well, I happen to know a blonde who knows where I work who always seems to think she’s on to me. Who the fuck else could it be, Cora?”
I don’t say anything. I force myself to stay angry instead of crying. I will not let him get the better of me.
“So cut the whole act, and give me back my laptop,” he says, sitting down at the kitchen island with his drink. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and makes a grunting noise. I am absolutely disgusted with him. Who the hell ison to him? If he even knew how much he was giving himself away right now by accusing me. This one time, he’s wrong. It wasn’t me.
“Givewhatback?” I say in a forced calm voice. “Now there’s a missing laptop? The story just gets better and better. Please tell me what else I did while I was on my mission to ruin your life. Sounds like I had a busy morning!”
He puts his head in his hands, then slowly lifts his head, taking his time to be dramatic, then he sips his drink.
“I work in goddamn cyber security. Do you know how it looks that I got my computer stolen? Do you know the sensitive shit that’s on there? I could be fired. I’m...fucked! Because why this time? What now? What are youon to? You know what? I don’t even... I don’t even know anymore,” he says, and I feel my heart breaking with each word he utters. Tears spring to my eyes, and I turn to the sink so he can’t see them.
“Don’t know what?” I ask.
“You need help,” he says, and then I hear him get up and he’s about to walk away and leave it like this, leave me confused and devastated, just to make sure he has the upper hand in the situation. No.
“When exactly was I at your office?” I ask, blotting my tears with a paper towel before I turn back to him.
“Just don’t,” he dismisses me.
“Whendo you say I was at your office today?” I practically scream. I do scream. My throat hurts from the effort, and he stops in his tracks and turns around, shocked. Then he almost dismisses me again.
“Because I was out all day,” I say, pulling my purse from the kitchen stool and grabbing a handful of receipts from my billfold. “Ten fifteen, coffee with Janine Watkins at Wild Roast. Eleven twenty, a parking-meter printout.” I slam each receipt in front of him, and I gain confidence with each piece of evidence. “Eleven forty-five, Deluxe Nail Salon. Twelve thirty, lunch at Perry’s Steak House with Amy Patecki about the next Meals on Wheels event. One thirty, gas at Conoco. Two o’clock, last-minute stop for chicken and salad mix for dinner. And now it’s—what?—two thirty? When, exactly, did I have time to bring you flowers and steal your laptop?” I say, throwing the receipts in his face and watching them flutter to the ground. I keep every one of them for write-offs for my charity work. I don’t use all of them at tax time because I don’t nitpick a cup of coffee here or a mile of gas there—it’s charity after all. I just know I’m supposed to keep them, so I meticulously do. They finally came in handy.
After what seems like an eternity of deafening silence in the room, he finally says, “You spend too much money,” and walks out. Raw anger heats my blood, and I shake with rage. My hands tremble so violently I can barely pick up the strewn receipts, so I don’t. I leave them for him to deal with. It’s hours before I have to be at the restaurant to play the piano, but I am not going to stay in this house until then. I am not going to follow him and plead my innocence. Instead, I’ll go spend some more money. That’s what I will do.
I’m not dressed for the piano bar, but I won’t go upstairs to get clothes. He is expecting me to stay and to apologize and cook dinner and tiptoe around his mood, but instead I’m gonna go buy a new dress and shoes for tonight, then get to the restaurant by six and treat myself to a long, slow dinner with appetizers, pasta, and dessert. And wine. Then I’ll play vintage jazz in front of a nice group of folks who actually appreciate me. That’s what I’ll do instead. Fuck him.
A couple hours later, after I picked up a cornflower-blue, A-line dress that I wear out of the store and a pair of glittery Louboutin stilettos, I still have a little time to kill, so I go to Glow Up Day Spa and get my hair done. I decide that it’s time for a change. I’ve always kept my hair above the shoulders and wavy, and I’m not sure why: I just got stuck in a comfortable style. So I feel completely out of my element when I ask for extensions and platinum highlights. No, I remember why now. Finn once said he liked shorter hair. That’s why I never changed it.
When it’s done, I barely recognize myself. I examine my reflection in the mirror. I could almost pass for a curvier Reese Witherspoon, I decide, delighted. I turn sideways, and then back again, several times. I don’t look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in a housecoat who flipped a table on one of Finn’s bitches and cried and apologized for months after. I look like Cora. A woman with movie-star hair and a nice rack who gives an extra-generous tip just because she can.
Grant is surprised to see me at Moretti’s so early. He makes a pretend big deal of me eating there and tells the staff to take extra-good care of me because I’m their star musician. He compliments my new hair and says it suits me just fine before disappearing back to manage the kitchen.
I eat crusty bruschetta drizzled in olive oil and Parmesan cheese, compliments of Grant, who stops by my table now and then with a white napkin draped over his wrist and a bottle of red wine he refills my glass with. I don’t take out my phone to see if Finn tried to reach me or even to entertain myself. I just take in the Tommy Dorsey piping softly through the speakers and the din of quiet conversations at the candlelit tables around me and enjoy the moment. I don’t let myself worry about anything else. I order artichoke and tomato panzanella and a pineapple semifreddo for dessert. I don’t feel one bit guilty.
I play the piano for a couple hours. A portly man with a pockmarked face gets drunk and sings “My Funny Valentine” four times. A young couple put a twenty in the tip jar on the piano and sing “Every Time We Say Goodbye” horribly off-key, but mostly I just play old classics as background music for the bar. Then, as if the day hadn’t been unexpected enough, Grant takes the microphone. He asks if I know “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” I say of course I do, and I think he’s joking, but he stays standing there in front of the piano with the mic, and when I play, he starts to sing. All of the chatty couples at booths and the patrons bellied up to the bar all stop and listen. He has a lovely, euphonious voice, and I’m completely taken aback. He’s a shy singer who doesn’t try to make eye contact with anyone or put on a show, and when the song is over, the place erupts with applause. The off-key couple, a little tipsy, even give him a standing ovation and shove more money into the tip jar.
After everyone is gone for the night except a few kitchen staff taking inventory in the back, I linger. I think maybe Grant has taken the back staircase up to his room and I’ve missed him, but then he appears from the swinging kitchen door with a couple glasses of wine in hand.
“May I join you?” he asks. I slide over on the piano bench, allowing him to sit down.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the glass of wine. “Nobody told me you were putting out a record.” I hold my glass up to clink. “You were...really good.”
He clinks back but gives me a dismissive gesture.
“Do you always sing? Is that why piano-bar nights are so popular?” I ask, and I think I see him blush.
“No. That’s the only song I know,” he says, and I laugh.
