The One That Got Away (28 page)

When the hockey leagues came in at seven thirty, we said our good-byes and made our way back to the car. I drove home and Jimmy turned around to regale Gloria with tales of skating on real ponds, not rinks, while Sam snored in his car seat. Back at the house, Jimmy carried Sam up to his crib while I directed Gloria to the bathroom and then to her room for pajamas, reminding her it was a school night. She protested and I raised my voice, but when she tried to belabor bedtime with just one more birthday kiss for Daddy, I said it was okay.

Once they were finally asleep, Jimmy and I snuggled in the hammock on the front porch, watching the sun set beyond the oak trees across the street. A lone butterfly, out late and hurrying home, flittered over us.

“I can’t believe how well the kids did today,” I said, thinking about Gloria and Sam in their skates.

“They get it from their old man,” joked Jimmy. “Definitely not from you.”

“I’m not that bad. But yes, they get it from you. And yes, you are an ‘old man.’”

“How many old men can still do this?” he asked, setting the hammock rocking as he humped my leg.

“Sexy,” I said, rolling my eyes.

He laughed and stopped moving, his face golden in the setting sun. He took my hand, raised it to his mouth, and kissed it.
Now,
that
is sexy,
I thought. We swung for a few more minutes, silent and content, watching the evening turn darker.

We began to kiss, slowly at first and then more urgently. He moved his hand down the front of my shirt, over my stomach and to my hips. I rolled closer, giving him better access to my body. His hands found my jeans and unsnapped them, and he slid his hand inside as he whispered in my ear. I let myself enjoy the pleasure that was building, and the naughtiness of being outdoors.

Turned on, and forgetting the motion-sensor light by the door, I rolled on top of him—then froze as the spotlight came on, illuminating us in eight hundred watts. We remained motionless for fifteen seconds, our hearts beating loudly as we waited like scared teenagers for the light to switch off.

When it did, I reached down and, very slowly, stroked him over his jeans. When he was hard, I carefully unbuckled his belt and loosened the zipper, reaching inside. We both started to breathe deeply, both wanting release, but knowing any quick move might set off the light again. It was delicious agony, the threat of exposure restricting our movements to sexy centimeters.

After a few more minutes, Jimmy couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh God,” he moaned, then stood up and twisted around.

As he stood up, his pants dropped to his ankles and the spotlight
snapped back on, illuminating his lower half for all the neighbors to see. I had a view of the back side; any passersby were getting the X-rated version.

Beyond caring, he lifted me from the hammock and carried me into the house like a new bride—which wasn’t easy given that his pants were tangled around his ankles. I was laughing so hard my shoulders shook.

But Jimmy wasn’t laughing; his expression was all business.

Once inside, he kicked shut the door, laid me on the floor, and finished the job.

The CNN crew was long gone, Alex was off shaking hands at a diner, Oscar had run Gloria back to school, and an exhausted Sam was crashed out in his crib. The van Holt apartment was quiet again. It was also unusually dark, even at midday, as gray clouds blew in and settled over Rittenhouse Square, creating a warm, cozy feeling inside the softly lit apartment.

I did something I hadn’t done in almost ten years—took a nap. Stretching out on the wide couch in the family room, I covered myself with a cashmere throw and fell asleep, dreaming of my childhood, of days spent at our neighborhood pool under Roberta’s sort-of-watchful gaze.

“Stay where I can see you,” she yelled between puffs of a menthol cigarette. She rarely got in the water, preferring to bake in the sun for hours with the other ladies banished to the “single mom” area.

To trick her, I would dive low and swim to the deep end, emerging far away from where she was watching.

“Here I am,” I’d call to her, relishing her look of panic before she spotted me at the far end.

I was still floating in that pool, enjoying my weightless body and the sounds of children splashing, when a lifeguard signaled the start
of Adult Swim. His whistle blended into a ring and I woke up. It was my iPhone. I answered, still groggy.

“Turn on CNN,” barked Alex. “Now!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, fumbling for the remote.

I clicked on the TV, already set to the right channel. But instead of Anderson Cooper, it was my face filling the screen. I saw myself sitting beside Alex in the living room, smiling like a constipated 1950s housewife while the words “Like a fairy tale” appeared underneath us.

“Oh my God,” I whispered as I listened to my voice coming through the TV. “I’m so sorry, I was just trying to—”

“Are you kidding? Frank is over the moon,” he said, cutting me off. “He says voters love happy couples. Thinks it will really help.” Then dolefully, he added, “It looks more and more like this thing has a chance of breaking our way.”

“Doesn’t sound like you are too happy about that.”

“I am. I guess it’s just dawning on me. I could end up being a congressman.”

“Yeah, you could,” I said sarcastically.

“Well, there’s still another day to get through,” he said. “Which reminds me, I need some shirts for tomorrow. I’m out.”

“Okay. What do you need?”

“I like those ones you got before. The blue ones.”

“Sure,” I repeated. “I’ll pick some up this afternoon.” I made a mental note to check the tags on the dirty shirts in his hamper.

“Thanks, doll.”

“No problem.”

“And, Abbey,” he said, his voice sobering. “Thanks again for saving my ass today. I love you.”

I started to say “I love you” back, almost as a reflex, but the words caught in my throat.

Did I love him? I certainly liked him. A lot. And he seemed to
genuinely care about the kids and me. But despite living with him, campaigning with him, surviving our child’s near-fatal health crisis, and twice having “marital relations,” I still felt I barely knew him; I didn’t really know what made him tick.

I guess the bigger question was, “
Could
I love him?” Because if that was a possibility, even just an early inkling, then I could say the words back now—like practicing for a future feeling—and they wouldn’t be a lie. Or quite as big a betrayal.

For now, I decided on a more diplomatic response: “Me too.”

“You sure?” he said, confused by the long wait time, but laughing. I laughed too.

I also sensed that now, with him in a good mood and my stock high, was a good time to unburden myself of my secret.

“Alex, I have to tell you something,” I said. “Something you need to know.”

“What did you do?” he teased. “Buy another bag?”

“No, nothing like that,” I warbled, my throat constricting. It was time to fess up.

“What then?”

“I lost one of your mother’s diamond earrings. The ones that were made special for your grandmother. It was the night of the Ballantine Ball and I’ve looked everywhere and, well, it’s gone. And I feel sick about it.”

“I know,” he said nonchalantly. “I have it.”

“What?”

“It’s in my shaving kit in the bathroom,” he said. “I was trying to teach you a lesson. So you’d learn to take care of nice things.”

“What?” I said again.

“Gotta run, doll,” he said. And then the line went dead.

I
didn’t know what was wrong with me. I should have been relieved. The earring wasn’t lost after all. Now I could send it out to Mirabelle and forget it. Instead, I kept replaying his words—
I was trying to teach you a lesson… so you’d learn to take care of nice things
—over and over in my mind. How dare he?

I was desperate to get out of the apartment and clear my head, to find a quiet place where I could think. But I was due to attend an important “afternoon tea” at an auction house and couldn’t back out now. Frank was counting on me to work the influential, all-female crowd and hopefully turn the fifty or so Friends of Lafayette into friends of Alex van Holt.

After leaving her ample instructions and practically frisking her for nuts, I left Sunita—our college campaigner turned temporary babysitter—in charge of Sam and Gloria. She seemed capable enough and Sam was already in love with her long black hair and high-pitched giggle. I knew Gloria would be equally excited for a new babysitter whom she could con into treats, unlimited Nickelodeon, and lip gloss.

Downstairs, Oscar was waiting with the door open, so I crossed
the windy sidewalk quickly and slid inside, my pink bouclé suit bright against the black leather of the backseat. As we pulled out into the midday traffic, I wondered how long this afternoon tea would last. I also wondered if they would have any real food. I had been too distracted by the interview, then too upset over my phone call with Alex, to eat anything. I was starving.

At the end of our block, Oscar turned right, immediately took the next right, then stopped. I leaned forward and looked to the sidewalk in disbelief. I could have walked faster.

“Thanks for nothing,” I told Oscar as he opened the door.

“Sorry?”

“Just a joke,” I said. “Obviously not a good one. But seriously, I won’t need a ride back. I can just walk.”

“Are you sure?” he said.

“I can walk two blocks,” I told him. “I have run a marathon, after all.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but Oscar didn’t blink.

“Okay,” he said. “But call me if you need me.”

“Just get Gloria from school and bring her up to Sunita.”

“And Mr. van Holt?”

“What about him?”

“Will Mr. van Holt be needing me?”

“I have no idea,” I said.
And I don’t really care,
I thought.

A city bus honked, sending Oscar jogging back around to the driver’s side. He pulled away, leaving me in front of a windowless concrete building, its fortress-like appearance made even more menacing by two large bronze sconces flanking a deep-set wooden door. A tiny brass sign announced the “T. Th. Davis Auction House” in a small, ornate font, warning any passersby against casual inquiries. Whatever treasures were inside, they would be bought and sold by a few Philadelphia families, priceless objects moving from one mansion to the next with a casual flick of a paper paddle.

Inside the cool, dark foyer, a willowy blonde in black glasses stepped out of the most recent J.Crew catalogue to greet me.

“Mrs. van Holt! So good to see you again. Mr. Davis was sorry to miss you, but he and Mrs. Davis are in Vienna looking at silver. But he hopes he might arrange for a private showing of our new Alice Neel next month.”

“That would be lovely,” I told her, though the thought of next month hung heavy in my mind.

“May I take your jacket?”

“No, thank you, it’s pretty chilly in here.”

“I know. We keep it cold because of the art. That’s why I
only
wear cashmere.”
Of course you do,
I thought.
God forbid any man-made fabric touch that perfect skin.
I forced a smile, though, as if we were members of the same obnoxious club.

She motioned for me to follow her down a long hallway, and we walked briskly, passing a medley of animal paintings (horses, sheep, and owls), bucolic landscapes, framed coins, threadbare tapestries, and a faded American flag with the stars embroidered in a circle, not rows. Finally, Miss J.Crew paused in front of two oak doors and swung one open.

“Here they are,” she sang, then turned on her low heel and disappeared.

The main gallery space was dotted with round tables set with delicate white china and bowls of purple irises. A large antique mirror reflected light from six low-hanging brass chandeliers. Farther away was a raised dais with a wooden podium, a few chairs, and a “Friends of Lafayette” banner.

Wealthy women of all ages stood in pairs or trios, their bright dresses and shoes reminding me of a fruit basket spilled on its side. Only two women were sitting, a silver-haired matron in a stiff gray suit and her caregiver, a young black woman in large silver hoops
and a purple velour sweat suit. Under the table the caregiver held the older woman’s frail hand, a silent act of kindness drowned out by idle chatter and tinkling glasses.

I lingered near the entrance, in no mood to be sociable, and hoping to remain inconspicuous. But apparently this was impossible for Abbey van Holt, and within fifteen seconds of my arrival I was spotted. “Abbey!” a voice called, and next thing I knew, I was surrounded.

Luckily, their questions—“How are you?” “Is the beach house finished?” “Are you just exhausted?” “How’s Alex holding up?”—were pretty easy to answer, and if they weren’t, I ignored them and turned the tables with my own questions: “How’s the family?” “Where’d you get that sweater?” “Do you know anywhere I can get a good facial?”

I was pretending to be aghast at one woman’s description of a recent hotel stay—
Just imagine, no room service!
—when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Alex’s high school friend Larry, standing with an older woman whose ebony skin contrasted with the tropical-colored fabric twisted around her head and body, the Haitian version of a power suit.

“Hi, Abbey,” she said. “I thought that was you.”

“Yep. It’s me,” I said. “Having some tea with the ladies.”

“You mean you don’t do this every afternoon?”

“Actually I don’t really like tea. I only drink it at night. When I’m trying not to eat Oreos.” I tried to sound down-to-earth. For some reason, I wanted her to like me.

She laughed but then stopped when her mother cut her off.

“Lawrencia,” said the older lady, the Caribbean lilt in her voice so bewitching. “
S’il vous plaît nous présenter.”

“Sorry, Mother,” she said, sheepish. “This is Abbey van Holt. Alex’s wife.”

I shook her hand while she looked me up and down, taking me in like an artist examining a potential model. She must not have liked what she saw, because as I attempted to ask her if she still painted, she excused herself and floated off toward a group of ladies nearer her age. Larry and I stood awkwardly at first, but then we started in on some small talk, which, thanks to her, turned into the most interesting small talk I’d ever heard.

Larry had not only been a war correspondent; she was a painter in her own right, an avid triathlete and was investigating a story about a city employee who bankrolled his beach house, and the hookers who visited him there, with HUD money. She also loved to cook, was a Big Sister to a nine-year-old West Kensington piano prodigy, and was happily single again after her latest relationship ended over conflict of interest (she didn’t have any). She was also clearly exasperated by her artist turned socialite mother, who insisted she attend events like this one, even when the
Inquirer
’s daily deadlines loomed.

When she mentioned her five-o’clock deadline, I couldn’t help but wonder about the e-mail I had sent and whether she was already investigating the East Falls Ariel story.

“Working on anything for today?” I asked nonchalantly.

“A few things.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Yes.”

“In town?”

“Maybe.” She furrowed her brow, cocked her head, and leaned closer. “Why?”

We both looked at each other, suspicious. But I didn’t dare expose myself as “a concerned citizen.” I looked away dispassionately. “No reason.”

She touched my arm and leaned in close. “If you want to know if I’m doing anything on Alex, I told you before, I’m on the city desk,
not politics,” she whispered. “And I can’t tell you what other reporters are doing. I just can’t.”

“Oh no! That’s not what I meant,” I replied, aghast. “I would never put you in that position.” I hoped she believed me. I didn’t want her to think I was the kind of person who would use friendship for inside information.

Luckily, she smiled and told me, “It’s okay. I understand it’s hard not to ask. Now, let’s go get some crumpets or cucumber sandwiches of whatever other poor excuses for food they have at these things.”

I followed her toward the buffet, and between bites of dainty sandwiches, we continued to talk easily, like old friends.

For an heiress, Larry was delightfully down-to-earth and funny and had an endearing way of talking with her hands, her thin arms jerking up and down, over and around. At one point, she got so excited she smacked a passing woman in the face. She apologized profusely, and after the woman moved on, annoyed, she gave me a bug-eyed look and we both struggled to stifle our laughter.

She was also beautiful despite her “Plain Jane” outfit. I wondered why Alex had never made the moves on her. Before I could stop myself, as we made our way across the room, now filled almost to capacity, I found myself bringing him up.

“You’ve known Alex a long time. I bet you have some good stories.”

“Maybe a few. Though mostly stupid high school stuff. Nothing too shocking.”

“Knowing Alex, I believe it. He seems… I mean, he’s a pretty straight arrow.”

“Even though he longs to be crooked. Dangerous.” She laughed like it was a joke, but her words hit home. Perhaps Alex did long to be more like her… out in the world, investigating wrongs, working in foreign countries, and living life to the fullest?

I probed even more. “You guys understand each other so well. Hard to believe there never was anything between you two.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked down with embarrassment. Shoot. If not torpedoed already, my plan to become her new best friend was ruined. No one wanted to be buddies with the jealous wife.

“Oh God, no,” she said. “I could never be with someone so into his looks. Always working out all the time and having to have just the right suits and shirts. He’s such a girl.”

I laughed and she relaxed, but I wasn’t so convinced of her rebuttal. Perhaps, deep down, she harbored a crush. Or used to long ago.

The ringing sound of a fork tapping a glass signaled it was time to take our seats. I found my place at a table in the front as Larry escorted her mother to one farther back. I poured myself some tea, then settled in for what I figured would be a long, boring program. I even kicked off my shoes under the table and stretched my tender toes.

A lady in a checkered suit and glasses attached by a thick gold chain walked to the podium and began to speak. I sat up straighter in an effort to hear her better, but I still didn’t understand, her words nonsensical. Then I realized it wasn’t gibberish but French, spoken at a rapid pace and with a flawless accent. I looked around to see the crowd’s reaction, but there was none. They were all listening intently and nodding along. Apparently the “Friends of Lafayette” took their friendship literally.

I took a sip of tea and pretended to follow along, though I couldn’t understand a word.

Except my name. I looked up and saw the woman at the podium watching me expectantly. As was every other woman in the room.

And then it dawned on me. They were waiting for me to get up. I wasn’t being mentioned; I was being introduced.

My mind raced, unable to focus on anything but the thunderous sound of clapping as I forced myself up and toward the podium. My heart was beating so hard I was sure people could see it thumping under my thick wool jacket, and the cool room suddenly felt tropical. I reached the stage and turned to the crowd, feeling sweat form between my breasts and shoulder blades. To make matters worse, it was only then that I realized I was barefoot.

The woman turned and welcomed me—“
Bienvenue
, Madame van Holt”—and left me onstage. Alone. With all eyes on me. And time passing one horrible second after another.

Of all my phobias, public speaking wasn’t one of them, but still, it wasn’t my favorite way to spend an afternoon. Because I often had to give presentations at work, I had forced myself to become somewhat competent through training and practice. I’d even managed to get a few laughs at last year’s PRSA Pepperpot Awards, thanks to a few hundred bathroom mirror rehearsals and a few sips of Jules’s gin and tonic.

But this was something else entirely. This was an anxiety nightmare come to life. Try as I might, I could not remember one word of high school French. I then tried to speak English, racking my brain for what to say, but even that language eluded me. The room grew quiet, the only sounds a few cups hitting their saucers. A heel scratched the floor. Someone coughed.

I took in the sea of faces, their two-hundred-dollar haircuts and their silk blouses with tiny box pleats. I knew I looked just like them in my beautiful suit. But I was nothing like them. I was a fraud.

I was supposed to charm them, flatter them, and give them a multitude of reasons to vote for my wonderfully kind, smart, and noble husband. I attempted to speak but only got as far as “I… I…”

The whole room leaned in, unsure how to react. Expressions turned from confused to concerned.

“I… I…” Again, repeating one syllable was all I could manage.

The room became even quieter. No one moved, or seemed to breathe.

It was so hot. My face burned and I was sweating. Before I melted, or burst out in tears, I had to get out of there. I turned to the woman who introduced me and mouthed a feeble “Sorry”; then I dashed down the steps of the podium, the microphone announcing my exit with a terrific screech.

I was halfway out of the room when I remembered my shoes, so I spun back around and snatched them from under my seat. Everyone watched, bewildered, as I hopped awkwardly on one foot and then the next, mashing my feet into my pointy-toed heels.