The plan energizes me, makes me feel a little giddy. I run the olives through the blender and set a large pot of water to boil on the stove top. I pull cloth napkins from the drawer along with matching place mats. And, yup, candles.
I switch on the pin lights in the ceiling above the dining area. As I set the first place mat, my gaze registers on the center of the table and I jerk in surprise. The orange roses that Sasha brought are no longer sitting in their vase here.
Hugh was working at the table much of yesterday, and perhaps he moved the vase out of his way. We ate takeout on the couch last night, which means I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed they’d been displaced.
I swirl around, letting my gaze sweep across the great room, from the kitchen island, to the small chest near one of the armchairs, to a console table against the wall.
But the flowers aren’t anywhere. I’ve clearly done something with them—and don’t remember it at all.
14
With my breath caught in my throat, I tear down the hallway to the back of the apartment, checking the den, the bedroom, my work alcove, even the bathroom. No sign of the roses anywhere.
Returning to the living area, I search once more with just my eyes. It’s as if they were never here, that I’ve simply conjured them up in my imagination. I circle to the far side of the island and pop the lid off the trash bin. And there they are, shoved deep inside, their thorny stems snapped in half so they’ll fit in the bin.
My heart’s hammering. I must have tossed them out last night, after dinner, because there are a few pieces of uneaten spring rolls scattered beneath. Pivoting, I fling open the door to the pantry closet, and sure enough, there’s the vase. Washed. Sitting in its usual spot.
I plop onto one of the barstools, pressing a hand to my forehead.Think, I command myself. Maybe I threw the flowers away with my brain on autopilot, planning for the next day, thinking ahead to the podcast on Tuesday. But I don’t have even the faintest memory of removing them fromthe vase, or trying to avoid the thorns, or rinsing out the vase afterward.
I snatch a fresh pad of paper from a drawer and scribble down every activity I can recall from last night and today: Chinese takeout with Hugh after my meeting with Roger; a bath, bed, breakfast this morning; working at Le Pain; the appointment with Dr. Erling; Gabby. What am I missing?
I breathe in for a count of four, hold it, release. And then repeat. The breathing technique ends up helping a tiny bit. So does resuming my focus on dinner. I turn the boiling water down to a simmer, scrape the olive paste from the blender into a ceramic bowl, heat a half cup of cream, then pop the baguette into the oven to warm. Creating this respectable meal from the little I had on hand is as close to a loaves-and-fishes-style miracle as I’ve ever pulled off in the kitchen, but I’m still too unsettled to truly relish the moment.
Should I call Erling and tell her about the flowers? I wonder.
I’m lighting the candles on the table when I hear Hugh’s key in the lock a little after seven.
“What’s this?” he asks, eyeing the table.
“I thought you could use a home-cooked meal for a change.”
“That’s sweet, but you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”
“Honey, trust me. It’s that olive pasta dish my mother learned to make in France. Easy-peasy.”
“Uh, okay. Give me ten or so, will you?”
He heads to the bedroom, and by the time he returns, changed out of his suit, I’ve drained the penne and stirred it with the sauce. I’m still rattled but determined to make the evening with Hugh as pleasant as possible. After setting the serving bowl on the table, I pluck the bread from the oven and finally take my seat.
“I was craving pasta without even knowing it,” Hugh says, heaping penne into my bowl and then his.
I smile, pleased that he seems more engaged than when he first walked in. “Any progress on the Brewster case?”
“I reviewed the strategy with one of the senior partners today, and he seems satisfied that it’s the best we can do. Hopefully we can minimize the damage.”
“How could the client be so stupid? Didn’t they realize that emails last forever?”
“If people were smart, they’d never putanythingin an email... but anyway, how was Gabby?”
“Good. It was a relief to finally talk to her face-to-face about everything.”
He nods, snapping off the end of the baguette. I sense he’s wondering how much Gabby knows about the issue in our marriage. I take care not to criticize Hugh to Gabby, but the kids’ matter has been weighing on me so heavily in the last weeks, I felt I had to share it.
“Gabby thinks I should hire a private detective,” I add.
He looks alarmed. “You mean to figure out where you were?”
“Right. I checked out places online today and even sent a query to one.”
