“What does that mean?” he asked sharply.
“Well, we couldn’t find...”
“Couldn’t find?”
“Yes, we...”
“We?”
“My accountant. I asked him...”
“You what?”
“I asked him to run a check on Carter-Goldsmith. So I could use the information in the poem. But there wasn’t anything, so I...”
“Why’d you do that?”
“For the poem.”
“Asked someone to check CGI?”
“Yes, but...”
“And he found nothing, huh?”
“It’s not listed on any of the ex—”
“That’s because it’s privately owned. You shouldn’t have checked on me.”
“I wasn’t. I...”
“Never mind. Let me hear the rest of the poem.”
“No.”
“Let me hear it.”
“I don’t want to now.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” she said.
She sat stunned by his outburst, trying to understand what had provoked it, suddenly sensitive to her own nakedness, feeling exposed and vulnerable, somehow betrayed, utterly bewildered, and hurt, and close to tears. They were silent for what seemed a very long time. Then, wishing to retaliate, hoping to cause in him the same hurt twisting inside her, she said, “I’m going away this summer.”
His scowl changed at once to the familiar hurt and petulant little-boy look. Good, she thought.
“When?” he asked at once.
“I think he said August.”
Enjoying his discomfort. He would miss her. His face said he would miss her. But the scowl returned almost at once.
“You think who said? Your accountant?”
“My husband. That’s when he usually takes his vacation.
“For how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“What am I supposed to do during that time?”
The petulant look again. His changing emotions immediately flashing on his face.
“You can always call one of your teenagers,” she said, and shrugged. Sitting upright. Arms at her sides supporting her, elbows locked.
“You’re my teenager,” he said.
“Oh sure.”
“I hate these rich lawyers who can pick up and go at the drop of a hat.”
“He’s not a rich lawyer.”
“No? All of my lawyers are rich.”
“All of them? How many do you have?”
“Three.”
“Well, my husband earns eighty-five thousand a year.”
Deliberately using the word “husband.” Still wanting revenge for the way he’d pounced on her over a silly damn...
“Good reason to leave him.”
“What makes you think I’d ever do that?”
“Well...” he said, and shrugged.
Still sulking. Good, she thought. Lying naked on the bed beside her, looking limp and forlorn and gorgeous and utterly adorable. Casually, with the edge of her right hand, she brushed at an imaginary something on her left breast.
“What if I told you I may be able to get away for a few days?” she asked. Brows slightly raised.
“What do you mean?”
“With you.”
Turning to face him.
“You’re kidding. When?”
His expression changing again at once. The eyes brightening with expectation.
“It would have to be in July sometime. During the middle of the week sometime. A Tuesday... Wednesday...”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’ve already asked him.”
Lowering her eyes like a nun. Breasts beckoning, eyes averted.
“And he said okay?”
“Well... reluctantly.”
“But no fuss?”
“A slight fuss.”
“If you were married to me...”
“But I’m not.”
“... and you told me you were going away for a few days...”
“I’m not saying he liked the idea.”
“But he agreed to let you go.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t ever try that with me.”
“Oh? No? What would you do?”
“I’d kill him.”
“Oh sure.”
“I’d find out his name, and I’d kill him.”
“Sure.”
“Try me. Do you know how much I make in a year?”
“I don’t care how much you make.”
Still annoyed that she’d brought up her husband again. Good. Stay annoyed, she thought.
“I never heard of a lawyer who makes only eighty-five a year,” he said.
“He works for the city. That’s what they pay.”
“Eighty-five a year.”
“Yes. Well, actually a bit more.”
“How much more?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Why would someone go to law school for however many years, pass the bar exam, go to all that trouble, and then settle for a job that pays so little?”
“He doesn’t consider it settling. He finds it challenging.”
“Oh, yes, it must be very challenging.”
“It is.”
“Bringing suit against landlords who don’t turn on the heat when they’re supposed to...”
“October fifteenth,” she said. “That’s the date you have to turn on the heat.”
“How do you know that?”
“When we were first married, we had an apartment that was freeeeeeezing cold. We called the Ombudsman’s Office...”
“How’d you know to do that?”
“My husband researched the law, found out the mandatory date for...”
“I hate it when you talk about him. All the things he does or doesn’t do in his crummy little job that pays...”
“Getting the heat turned on had nothing to do with his job.”
“Where will you be going?”
“France. St.-Jean-de-Luz.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near the Spanish border. We went there on our honeymoon.”
“Terrific.”
“Andrew, this won’t be any kind of romantic trip. Mollie’s going with us.”
He was silent for several moments.
Then he said, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’m not gone yet,” she said, and suddenly wanted to take him in her arms again, stroke him, pet him, adore him.
“How’s this thing doing?” she asked.
“There she goes again,” Regan said.
“Leave it on a few more seconds,” Lowndes said.
“Looks like it might need a little help,” she whispered.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Mmmmm,” she said.
“Gobbling it again,” Regan said.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day, and — with the exception of Heather’s estranged husband — the family would be gathering to celebrate at the Fitch apartment on Seventieth and Park. Sarah’s parents had returned from St. Bart’s on the third. Tomorrow would be the ninth. She had spent a lazy Saturday with Michael and Mollie and now, at fifteen minutes before midnight, she was ready to read herself to sleep. But Michael was waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom in her nightgown.