He was saying now, “I need to find some clothes for her before the trial. She’s too thin now to wear anything she has... Even her underwear is too big.”
“I’ll help,” I said. “I know how to make four things look like ten.”
This I was good at. A dress, a natural linen blazer, a Starbaby cardigan in muted green with purple buttons, wide-leg wool-and-linen pants a subtle violet plaid, Moon in June midi-skirt, all from Such Sweet Sorrow... nude pumps in the size eight I knew she wore, some sturdy Hanes bras and briefs from Target.
I told Sam, “It won’t cost much. Maybe two hundred dollars.” He gasped. “You think that’s a lot?”
“We don’t have much to spend, because Felicity doesn’t have much money. She can’t even sell her condominium because it’s tied up with Cary Church’s estate. So we’re doing this pro bono,” he told me. “Thanks, Reenie.”
I assured him that I would pick up the clothing and send the things to his office. He could Venmo me the money. He nodded. He made no response to that either.
“What’s going on, Sam? Are you afraid that something is really wrong with Felicity?”
“Not really.”
“What then? You’re acting weird. Is it what I told you?”
Sam said, “Maybe?”
Hardly breathing, I made a show of rummaging through my big purse, as if I’d misplaced something important, which I had—my heart and my mind. I noticed a piece of linen and remembered that, sometime during the night, I had stolen a pillowcase. How nuts I was by that point, I didn’t regret this at all, despite the fact that Sam, precision personified, would probably be looking for it in his laundry for weeks. I said, “We agreed this wasn’t right for now.” Sam nodded. “But after the trial, we’ll try again?”
“I don’t know.”
“So are you ending this?”
He kissed my cheek. Mourning sculpted the corners of his mouth downward. If my face was a mirror of his, we both looked like tragedy masks. Then, slowly, Sam answered, “I can’t say for sure. I’m sorry. Remember that I promised to answer every question you asked but I promised to tell you the truth.”
“Okay. I get it.”
He drove me back to my car at his office. He murmured that the snow had been cleared; that was good. I made a noise I hoped sounded like agreement. I opened the door and stepped out. He didn’t stop me. I closed it behind me. He didn’t stop me.
I took a few steps before I turned back briskly and said, “So okay! Back to business! Can you persuade Felicity to see me?”
But he was already gone.
Distracted, I nearly got lost driving back to my sister’s. Not even bothering to change or shower, I stuffed some clothing into the first thing I found, a reusable grocery bag. I got into my car. I got lost finding the entrance to the highway andfound myself near Sam’s house again. Should I go back? No, I couldn’t go back. I turned around near the gates of the zoo, where those well-housed but unhomed lions longed for the veldt they’d never seen.
I wanted out of this story. Once I honestly believed that Felicity’s connection with me would be my best advantage. Now I was part not only of Felicity’s life but also of Sam’s life, which made me part of this case, and it wasn’t better—it was awful. Never had I doubted my ability to drive my way to the beating heart of a tale. Now I longed to consider the kind of weighty questions I used to consider, like were sunglasses a fashion statement or a quasi-medical device? Were garter belts sexy or slavish? Why did I cast myself into a stew of sex and strippers, plots and poisons? I was worn-out by the prospect of trying to pull all of it together and the trial hadn’t even started.
In that moment, then, as if I’d opened a box like Pandora, all my wishes came true. And just as in that myth, they were all bad. The phone went. My editor. I put her on speaker.
“So are you close to finishing your story?” she asked, adding then, “It’s Ivy.”
“I somehow guessed that.”
“So have you finished it? Can I have a look?”
“Ivy, the trial hasn’t even started. It’ll be weeks. You knew this.”
“So much for swift justice.”
“It’s not as though I’ve been eating bonbons. I’ve had to do a ton of background research and I still have more to...”
“Well, I need you to take a break and go do this little thing about a vintage Kate Spade event, sort of a handbag swap meet, collectors, nostalgia, all that. You know, the rise and fall and rise of a brand.” Ivy chatted on, about how the cool purse right now was SeeSawSo. I hated SeeSawSo clothing, with its stingy little shapes and models who looked like heroin addicts. But SelenaGomez had gone boldly against trend, spotted just recently carrying a Kate Spade bag. “This is the sort of thing that’s right in your wheelhouse. I want you to write about how the sales and prices spiked after Kate Spade’s suicide.”
“That’s hideous,” I told Ivy. “No.”
She didn’t even acknowledge that. Tears welled up in my eyes. How long would the trial be postponed? A week? More? I had no right to refuse. I asked Ivy, “When is this?”
