And so she’d decided just to let Richard be while in Paris. Talking on and on about his “feelings” would have just made them worse. Instead, they’d spent hours and hours in the museums—Rodin, Picasso, the Musée d’Orsay, and, of course, the Louvre. Richard’s mood had brightened considerably. Though when he had whispered, “This is what my life should have been about,” while standing in front ofThe Raft of the Medusa,Gretchen had to fight back the urge to scream.
Richard could barely draw a stick figure. She wasn’t even sure his taste in art was all that good. But she’d refrained from saying a thing, letting his malaise bounce right off her as they stopped for macarons at the place all her friends talked about. Besides, what was marriage if not giving each other the space to be a little lost?
That afternoon they’d bought the small collage that hung on the wall opposite their bed. Richard had prided himself on being drawn to the specific one that the gallery owner proclaimed afterward was his favorite, a stupid abstract square by a young Ukrainian painter with “exceptional promise.” It seemed not to have occurred to Richard—master negotiator—that the man probably said that about every painting, and so he had spent fifty-three thousand dollars for something Becks could have painted.
These days Richard had several dealers he worked with, and their walls were filled with acclaimed artwork, which was all well and good. But now it seemed Richard had apparently moved on to collecting the artists themselves.
Gretchen stood up, plucked the ugly square off the wall, andlooked around the room for a place to stow the enraging painting. Finally, she sat back down on the bed and slid it between her feet, slinging it so hard that the painting shot across the hardwood and cracked against the wall up by the headboard like a bowling ball.
“Good,” Gretchen said aloud with venom that made her own skin prickle. She didn’t want to be this angry, not at Richard, not right now.
It wasn’t until Gretchen turned back that she noticed a strange outline in the wall where the painting had hung. The safe. She’d forgotten about it entirely.
Gretchen stood again and moved closer, tracing her finger around the edges of the square, then pressed down firmly in the center. Sure enough, a small door in the wall popped open on a spring. Behind it was the safe itself, closed and locked. Whoever had searched the room had evidently overlooked it.
The pandemic had been the first time she and Richard ever used the safe. With all the talk of the banks shutting down, he’d put some cash in there just in case. But Gretchen hadn’t wanted to worry about things becoming that dire. She’d even refused to let Richard give her the combination.
But now she was worried, wasn’t she? Worried that Richard had put something else in there, knowing she’d never see it.
Gretchen took a deep breath and rubbed her damp palms together. It had to be 27-02-14, the days of the three children’s birthdays in age order—the same code they used for the garage in East Hampton, the front door of the Vail house, and their bike room in the basement. Richard didn’t use the sequence for important accounts, of course. For those, he had some app that set carefully randomized passwords.
Richard was so cautious, so good at taking care of them. There was no way he’d have risked everything over this woman. But who could really say? In the past week or so, Gretchen had done things she would have sworn she never could have. Recklessness born of heartache was the most dangerous kind.
Gretchen tried the numbers, slowly and smoothly. Combination locks were so fidgety.Right 27. If the code didn’t work, itdidn’t mean he had something to hide. Except she had the dreadful feeling that maybe he did.Once past left and then 02. Even if hehadused a different code, that didn’t mean—it didn’t mean anything.
Right 14.
And then the whir of the bolt sliding back inside.Thank God.
Sure enough, inside was a stack of cash. Gretchen pulled it out. Counted quickly. Ten thousand dollars in such a surprisingly small bundle of one-hundred-dollar bills. Gretchen reached in again to be sure she hadn’t missed anything else farther back. The safe was deep. Her fingers hit on something, larger and harder than money.
A Moleskine journal, Richard’s handwriting filling nearly the whole book when she flipped it open. When on earth had Richard started journaling? The first page began with the trip he had taken with “the boys” to Bolivia five or six years ago.
Oh, wait, now Gretchen remembered—the whole group had decided to start keeping travel journals on that trip. It had been Van’s idea, or his wife’s, actually. She’d sent Van off with a journal and a fancy pen as a gift for each of them, and shockingly, they’d all embraced it. Gretchen had always found the whole thing a bit odd for that particular group of manly men. To whom were they writing, exactly? To whom were they going on and on about their feelings—themselves? But apparently, they’d become quite religious about it on their trips. Even Brooks, which was the hardest to believe.
Standing there now with her incarcerated husband’s travel journal in her hands, none of it felt silly anymore. She flipped to the last entry.August 17, Africa: I’m not ready to go home. I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’m not sure I ever will be.
Gretchen snapped the book closed. Heart racing. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the journal sailing under the bed, where it cracked against the wall with even more force than the painting had.
I’ve left a mess back home. So far I’ve managed to keep a lid on it, but it’s only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down—job, marriage, reputation. Everything I’ve worked for, that I’ve built. No one warns you how it’s all so interconnected. Like dominoes. One goes and there goes the whole damn thing.
I should have known the second they sent the “corporate coach,” a cleaned-up name for a therapist. It’s a big thing everywhere these days. You know your days are numbered when the coach turns up at your office door.
If I do get pushed out, that’ll be a wrap on the marriage, too. She’s not going to stay if I get fired. She cares too much about what people think.
So maybe it’s not the worst thing that I’m here on the other side of the world without a signal. Maybe I’ll come up with a way out of this disaster.
Before
Frankie
September 7
I head to my studio first thing in the morning. No more ill-advised coffee dates. No more talking to people I shouldn’t be talking to. The climb—all of it—needs to stay where it belongs, in the past and on the other side of the world.
Work. That’s what I need. Funny how most people spend their time trying to escapefromwork when I spend all my time trying to escapeintomine. It’s yet another thing that makes me feel separate, outside. In good ways and bad, depending on the day. Today, I am very grateful to have a place to hide.
I’m also grateful to have such a lovely place to paint—pristine white walls, huge windows that bathe the space in gentle morning light. I still paint at home sometimes; there is a certain comfort in old habit. But my new studio, courtesy of the Pearson Gallery and just a block down on Great Jones near Bowery, is my little haven where all I have to think about is art. After so many years painting in a cramped corner of my cluttered apartment, it’s an incredible luxury, one that I earned without an ounce of shame.
