There was a sublime little moment on the front step, when-after she'd called out to Sherrie and before the answering call came-she stood there and listened to the sounds of the night around her. There was no traffic: just the gentle hiss of the leaves of the holly tree that had grown unchecked to the side of the house, and the rattle of a piece of loose guttering, and the tinkle of the wind chime that hung from the eaves. All familiar sounds; all reassuring. She took a deep breath. Everything was going to be fine. She was loved here; loved and understood. Maybe there'd be some people in town who'd look at her askance and spread rumors about what had happened, but here she was safe. Here was home, where things were as they had always been.
And now here was Sherrie looking a little fretful, but smiling to see her daughter on the step.
"Well this is a surprise," she said.
The night after Rachel started her drive to Ohio, "Garrison invited Mitchell out for dinner. It was a long time since they'd had a heart-to-heart, he said, and there was no better time than the present.
When Ralph brought him to the restaurant Garrison had chosen, Mitchell was certain there'd been a mix-up. It was a dingy little Chinese place on Canal Street and Mott; not the most welcoming of neighborhoods. But Ralph hadn't made an error. Garrison was there, sitting toward the back of the narrow room at a table that could have seated six but was set for two. He had a bottle of white wine in front of him, and was drawing on a havana. He offered Mitchell a glass of wine, and a cigar, but all Mitchell wanted was a glass of milk, to settle his stomach.
"Does that really work for you?" Garrison said. "Milk just gives me gas."
"Everything gives you gas."
"That's true," Garrison said.
"Remember that kid Mario, used to call you Stinky Geary?"
"Mario Giovannini."
"That's right, Giovannini. I wonder what the fuck happened to him?"
"Who cares?" Garrison said, sitting back in his chair. "Hey, Mr. Ko?" The manager, a rather dapper fellow with his hair plastered to his pate so carefully it looked as though it had been painted on strand by strand, appeared. "Can we get some milk over here for my brother? And some menus."
"I'm not hungry," Mitchell said.
"You will be. We've got to get your energies up. We've got a long night ahead of us."
"I can't do that, Gar. I've got two breakfast meetings tomorrow."
"I took the liberty of canceling them."
"What for?"
"Because we need to talk." He took out a box of matches and carefully rekindled his cigar. "Chiefly about the women in our lives." He drew on the cigar. "So… tell me about Rachel."
"There isn't a lot to tell. She was up at the farmhouse-"
"-with Margie."
"Right. Then she decided to take a road trip. Nobody knows where."
"Margie knows," Garrison said. "The bitch probably suggested it."
"I don't know why she'd do that."
"To cause trouble. That's her favorite thing. You know what she's like."
"Will you see if you can get some answers out of her?"
"You'd be better off trying instead of me," Garrison replied. "If I ask for something we're guaranteed not to get it."
"Where's Margie tonight?"
Garrison shrugged. "I don't ask 'cause I don't care. She's probably out drinking somewhere. There's three or four of them just go out and get plastered together. That bitch who was married to Lenny Bryant-"
"Marilyn."
"Yeah. She's one of them. And the woman who ran the restaurants."
"I don't know who you mean."
"Thin woman. Big teeth, no tits."
"Lucy Cheever."
"You see you've got a good memory for these women."
"I had an affair with Lucy Cheever, that's why."
"You're kidding. You did Lucy Cheever?"
"I took her down to New Orleans and fucked her brains out for a week."
"Big teeth. Small tits."
"She's got nice tits!"
"They're fucking minuscule. And she's never sober."
"She was sober in New Orleans. At least some of the time."
Garrison shook his head. "I don't get it with you. I mean, she's got to be fifty."
"This was five or six years ago."
"Even so. You could have any piece of ass you want and you go spend a week with a woman who's ten, fifteen years older than you are? What the fuck for?"
"I liked her."
"You liked her." Mr. Ko had returned with the menus and the milk. "Get me a brandy will you?" Garrison said to him, "We'll order later." Ko withdrew, and Garrison returned to the mystery of his brother's liaison with Lucy Cheever. "Was she good?"
"Will you just let it alone? I've got more important things to think about than Lucy fucking Cheever." He drank half of his glass of milk. "I want to know where Rachel is."
"She'll come back. Don't worry."
"What if she doesn't?"
"She will. She's got no choice."
"Of course she's got a fucking choice. She could decide she wants a separation."
"She could, I suppose. She'd be stupid, but she could." He drew on his cigar. "Does she know anything she shouldn't?"
"Not from me she doesn't."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning she talks with Margie. Who knows what the hell they've discussed."
"Margie knows better."
"Maybe when she's sober."
"You've had Rachel sign some kind of prenuptial agreement, right?"
"No."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Don't raise your voice."
"I told Cecil to have her sign it."
"I convinced him it wasn't necessary," Mitchell said. Garrison snorted at the absurdity of this. "I didn't want her thinking she was entering a business arrangement. I was in love with her, for fuck's sake. I still am."
"Then you'd better make sure she keeps her mouth shut."
"I know," Mitch said.
"Well if you know why the fuck didn't you have her sign the prenuptial?" He leaned across the table, catching hold of Mitchell's arm. "Let me put this really simply. If she tries to say anything about our business, family business, to anyone, I'm going to slap a gag order on her."
"There's no need for that."
"How do you know? You don't even know where she is right now. She could be sitting down talking to some dickhead journalist." Mitchell shook his head. "I mean what I say about the gag order," Garrison reiterated. "I don't mind being the heavy if you think you've got a chance of patching things up."
"It's not a question of patching things up. We've had a bad time, but it's nothing permanent."
"Sure, sure…" Garrison said, his tone wearied, as though he'd heard this kind of self-deception countless times before. "You tell yourself whatever the fuck you need to hear."
"I married her because I feel something for her. That feeling hasn't gone away."
"It will," Garrison replied, waving Mr. Ko over, "Trust me, it will." ii
Mitchell discovered he had a better appetite than he'd expected. The food was good, though Garrison was able to tolerate far spicier versions of the dishes than Mitchell. Twice during the meal he exhorted Mitchell to try a forkful of something he was eating, and Mitchell was left gasping, much to Garrison's amusement.
"I'm going to have to start educating your palate," he said.
"It's a little late for that." Garrison glanced up from his plate, his spectacles slightly fogged.
"It's never too late," he said.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You've always had a more delicate stomach than me. But that's got to change. For all our sakes." Garrison set down his fork and picked up his glass of wine. "Did you know Loretta goes to an astrologer?"