“Okay, I’ll order dinner and cancel the cards. How about chicken piccata? And a salad?”
“Sounds good.”
Leaving Hugh behind, I traipse down the long corridor to the master bedroom. After draining the water glass, I peel off my blouse, bra, pants, and underwear and stuff them all into the hamper, though I’m tempted to chuck them in the waste basket. There’s a sour, sweaty smell emanating from them, and they have a clammy feel, too, as if I’ve been in them for days.
After grabbing my robe, I search all around the space, and also in the alcove off the bedroom, which I use as a home office when I don’t go to WorkSpace. There’s no sign of my purse anywhere, but my laptop is here, in the middle of my desk—exactly where I always keep it when I’m home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I hadn’t had it with me today, because surely it would be missing now, too.
I open the laptop and click on “find my phone,” hoping for a miracle. But a miracle doesn’t happen. The response isphone not found. It was either turned off or ran out of battery in the general vicinity of my apartment building.
Next, I check the day’s calendar to see what light it can shed. The hours from 8:30 to 11:00 are blocked off with the notation “work on book,” and at 11:30, there’s a note to myself to “call Jackie,” a reference to my book agent. Obviously, that call never happened.
I’m not usually an early morning person, and I can’tfigure out why in the world I’d gotten up and left the house by 7:15, which is when I must have departed to have arrived at Greenbacks by 8:05. Had I planned something I hadn’t noted on the calendar?
I rest my hands on the desk, one on each side of the computer, and try to picture myself here. Hugh generally leaves in the morning before I do—he’s recently been made a junior partner at his law firm and likes to be in his office most days by 7:30—and after he’s gone I like to take my coffee into the alcove. I scan through theWall Street Journalonline and review my schedule. But my efforts to recall this morning are futile. It feels as if I’m trying to light a match that’s been soaked in water.
I trudge to the bathroom, start the shower, and close my eyes as the warm water gushes over me. I soap my hair twice with shampoo, kneading my scalp with my fingers.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and settle onto the stool in the bathroom, finally sensing my body relax a little. I’ve always loved this room. It’s entirely white and spalike, with shelves holding impossibly thick bath towels, one of which I’ve swaddled myself in. At the end of a tough day, I’ll often light the room with candles and soak in the tub, feeling my tension melt away. Letting go of the silly need to do everything perfectly. Yet somehow, for a few hours this morning, I managed to forget that this room, this entireapartment, even existed.
What if it happensagain? Me not knowing where I live or who my husband is or whoIreally am? I grip the edges of the stool, terrified at the thought.
I rise quickly from the stool and return to the alcove, where I type out an email to Dr. Erling.
Can you possibly squeeze me in for an extra appointment before Wednesday? Tomorrow would be best. Something really scary happened to me and I need to see you urgently.
A few minutes later, dressed in a long-sleeved tee and sweats, I find Hugh standing at the granite-topped island that separates the kitchen area from the rest of the great room, opening a bottle of Italian red wine. His tie’s off now, as well as his jacket, both draped over the back of one of the barstools along the island.
“I thought I’d have a glass of wine, but you probably shouldn’t, right? At least not tonight.”
“Right, I’d better not. Water is fine.”
“Let’s sit for a bit, okay?” he adds, pouring me another glass of sparkling water. “Dinner should be here soon.”
He’s dimmed the overhead lights, I notice, and switched on a few table lamps so that the lighting is soft and soothing. The city is sparkling outside the windows now. This is the kind of apartment I fantasized about during my early days in New York, and though we were able to buy it in large part because of Hugh’s generous salary, I contributed a nice chunk to the down payment thanks to the savings I’d dutifully squirreled away. I’ve always practiced what I preach as a personal finance reporter.
We settle onto the couch a foot or so apart. There’s something slightly awkward about our interaction, I notice. This can’t be easy for him.
“You must have been really worried when the hospital called you,” I say.
“Forget about me. I was just concerned aboutyou... and not being able to get there fast enough. There was a brief moment when all I could think was, ‘How do I hire a freaking chopper?’”
I smile. “I don’t think that hospital has a helipad on the roof, though.” I take a long sip of water, realizing how thirsty I am. “They said they couldn’t reach you for a while.”
“Yeah, I’d gone to Westport to meet with that potential client—Ben Sachs—and two of his associates.”
“That’s what I guessed.”
“Unbeknownst to me, he’d decided to turn the office meeting we’d set up into brunch on his boat, and needless to say, the cell service sucked. Apparently, Melinda was trying to reach me for hours without any luck, so she ended up sending someone to the marina to wait for me.”
“Well, I’m just glad she finally got through.” I let my eyes roam the great room, hoping that clues will present themselves. “Hugh, I really need you to help me fill in a few blanks, okay? According to my calendar, I’d blocked off time this morning to work on my book, so why would I have left here so early? Did I mention anything to you about an appointment or last-minute meeting today?”
His expression clouds. “I can’t help you with this morning.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.
“I didn’t see you.”
“You mean I left even earlier than you did?”
