"One thing-" he said when he reached the door.
"Yes?"
"Do you want me to put this place back on the market for you? You're not going to stay here are you?"
"You can do what the hell you want with it."
"Whatever I get for it, I'll put in your account." He glanced over his shoulder, though not far enough to lay eyes on her. "Of course, if you don't trust me…"
"Sell it, Mitch. I'll be out of here in two weeks."
"Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet. I've got plenty of friends. Maybe back to Boston. I'll keep Cecil informed."
"Yeah. Do that, will you?"
That was his departure line: a remote echo of a man who'd once cared for her, and whom she'd been ready to call her husband to the end of her days.
What had happened to him? What was happening to them all? It was as though everybody was shedding their skin, and revealing somebody new-or perhaps somebody they'd always been-to the world. The question that lay before Rachel was simple: who was she? She was no longer Mitchell's wife, that much was certain. But then nor was she Galilee's lover. Was she doomed to be one of the melancholy women she saw around town noted only for the brevity of their moment-a failed marriage to a public man, or a taste of celebrity, then eclipse? Growing old as gracefully as they knew how: preserving their place at the table with minor good works though half the time people couldn't quite remember who they were.
She'd go back to Dansky before she'd live a life like that. She'd propose to Neil Wilkens and if he'd take her, settle down to a life of total anonymity. Anything, rather than be pointed out as the woman who'd loved and lost Mitchell Geary.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Her first concern was to preserve her life and sanity in the midst of a situation that was far from safe. She could still see the subtle gleam of lunacy in Mitchell's eyes, and the curl of his lips as he took his fingers out of her.
Feels like a fucking grave…
She shuddered, thinking of what he'd said. Not just of its easy cruelty-though that was horrible enough-but the fact that it seemed to taint her with death. Was that what Mitch really believed? Did he look at her and see a woman who was already halfway to joining Margie on the Golden Floor? It would be nice and convenient for him if she died, wouldn't it? He could play the grieving soulmate for a little while, and then move on to find himself a more accommodating wife-one who'd pop out little Gearys on a regular basis and who wouldn't be too critical of her husband's lack of passion.
This was probably all paranoia, she told herself, but that didn't make her any less fretful. And to add to her sum of anxieties, there was the fact that Mitchell now had the journal. It was plainly important to him; and to Margie too apparently, or else why had she gone to so much trouble to hide it? What was the significance of its contents, that Mitchell had been so happy to have it in his hands?
Well, there was no use sitting and stewing over it all; what was done was done. The best thing to do, she decided, was to get the hell out of the apartment and walk.
She quickly got dressed, and headed down to the street. The day was fine and bright, and she knew as soon as she started walking that she'd made a smart decision. Her spirits lifted, especially once she got into the crowds on Fifth Avenue. There was a pleasant sense of anonymity there; she was just one of thousands striding the sidewalks, enjoying the day.
The subject of Mitch and his vile talk didn't come back into her head, but thoughts of Galilee did. The mysteries that attended him didn't trouble her as they had previously. In the open air, with the bustle of people all around her, they seemed simply intriguing: inexplicable, even magical, elements in her personal landscape. What was he, this man who spoke of shark gods as though they were his bosom buddies? Who had lived several lifetimes, wandering the oceans of the world? Who was so lonely, and yet took no comfort in the presence of other living beings?
She wished she'd quizzed him more closely when they'd been together, particularly about his family. Assuming that he'd been telling the truth when he'd said he had no grandparents, what did that imply about his mother and father? That they were somehow original souls, the Adam and Eve of their species? If so, then what did that make Galilee? Cain or Abel? The first murderer? The first victim?
Biblical parallels wouldn't have seemed so pertinent but for the fact of the man's name. He was called Galilee, after all; somebody in his family knew their Gospels.
Well, whatever he was, whatever the nature of his mystery, she didn't expect to be solving it any time soon. The journal's contents had only served to confirm the suspicion that his path and hers went in very different directions.
She would not be sitting down to talk about his name or his childhood anytime soon. He was gone from her life, perhaps forever; and she had no way back to him. No means of tracing him except through the coils of Geary family history, where she was now effectively forbidden to go. She was an exile, like him. He on the water, she on Fifth Avenue; he alone, she surrounded by people: but still, in the end, outcasts.
Walking gave her a hunger, so she dropped into Alfredo's-a little Italian place she'd gone more than once with Mitchell-for lunch. She arrived thinking she'd have a salad, but when she scanned the menu her appetite sharpened, and she ended up with a plate of spaghetti followed by profiteroles. What now? she wondered as she ate. She couldn't walk the streets of New York forever; sooner or later she was going to have to decide where her best hope of safety lay.
Her espresso was not brought by her waiter but by the owner of the establishment, Alfredo himself: a round, pink, cherubic man who had never lost his thick Italian accent. Indeed he probably nurtured it, as part of his charm.
"Mrs. Geary…" he said, with great gravity, "… we are all so very, very sad when we hear about your sister-in-law. She came in once, with the older Mrs. Geary-Lor-etta-and we all just fell in love with her."
Loretta and Margie, sharing a bottle of wine and reminiscences? It was hard to picture.
"Does Loretta come in here often?"
"Now and again," Alfredo said.
"And what do you make of her? Does everybody love Loretta too?"
The plainness of the question defeated Alfredo's considerable powers of diplomacy. He opened his mouth, but no answer came.
"No instant love for Loretta, huh?"
"She is very powerful lady," Alfredo finally replied.
"Back home in Italy we have such women. Very strong, in their hearts. They are the real power in the family. All the men, they make the noise, they make the violence sometimes, but the women just go on in their way, you know, being strong."
That certainly described Loretta: hard to love, but impossible to ignore. Perhaps it was time Rachel paid her a visit; followed up on the conversation they'd had just after Margie's death, when Loretta had so very clearly laid out her vision of the way things would be, and had asked Rachel to side with her. Was it too late to say yes? She didn't particularly like the prospect of asking for Loretta's help; but the woman had known whereof she spoke that night. We need each other, she'd said; for self-protection. Whatever your dense husband thinks, he's not going to be running the Geary empire.
Why not? Rachel had asked her.
And the answer? Oh, Rachel remembered it well, and with the passage of time it began to look like an astonishing prophecy.
"…he's inheriting a lot more than he 'II be able to deal with," Loretta had said. "He'll crack. He's already cracking…"