An Anonymous Girl

by Greer Hendricks

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Saturday, December 8

  If you need I’m always here.

  Dr. Shields’s text arrived just as I was entering Noah’s building for his famous French toast. I began to type out a response, but then I deleted it and shoved the phone back in my purse. As I rode the elevator, I ran a hand over my hair, feeling the dampness of freshly fallen snowflakes.

  Now, as I sit perched on a stool in Noah’s kitchen and watch him uncork a bottle of Prosecco, I realize it’s the first time I haven’t replied to her immediately. I don’t want to think about Dr. Shields and her experiments tonight.

  I don’t realize I’m frowning until Noah asks, “Taylor? You okay?”

  I nod and try to hide my discomfort. My first encounter with Noah at the Lounge, when I introduced myself with a fake name and fell asleep on his couch, feels like a lifetime ago.

  I wish I could undo that decision. It feels immature; worse than that, it seems mean.

  “So . . .” I begin. “I have to tell you something. It’s sort of a funny story.”

  Noah raises an eyebrow.

  “My name isn’t really Taylor . . . It’s Jess.” I give a nervous laugh.

  He doesn’t look amused. “You gave me a fake name?”

  “I didn’t know if you were a crazy person,” I explain.

  “Seriously? You came home with me.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I inhale deeply. With his bare feet and the dish towel he’s tucking into the waistband of his faded jeans, he looks cuter than I remembered. “It was a really weird day and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  A weird day. If only he knew how much of an understatement that was. I can hardly believe I met Noah the same weekend I snuck into the study. That too-quiet classroom, the questions creeping across the computer screen, the sense that Dr. Shields could know my private thoughts . . . And yet things have only gotten stranger since then.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Jess,” Noah finally responds.

  He hands me a glass of Prosecco.

  “I don’t like to play games.” He holds my gaze, then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

  Before I can block it, the notion flutters into my mind that I’ve just passed a test. I wouldn’t have had this thought a few weeks ago.

  I take a sip of Prosecco. The tangy, sweet bubbles feel welcome against my throat.

  “I’m glad you’re being honest now,” Noah finally says.

  You must be honest . . . that was one of the instructions waiting for me on the computer screen when I first entered the survey. Even when I’m consciously trying to dislodge Dr. Shields from my mind, she finds a way to sneak back in.

  Noah starts to lay ingredients neatly on the counter and I take another sip of Prosecco. I still feel like I owe him a bigger apology, but I don’t know what else there is to say.

  I look around his small, gleaming kitchen, noting the heavy cast-iron pan on the stove next to the green stone mortar and pestle and a stainless-steel upright mixer. “So, is Breakfast All Day your restaurant?” I ask.

  “Yep. Or it will be if my funding comes through,” he says. “I’ve got the space picked out, just waiting on the paperwork.”

  “Oh, that’s really cool.”

  He cracks eggs with one hand, then whisks them in a bowl while he pours in a drizzle of milk. He pauses to swirl foaming butter around in a griddle pan, then adds cinnamon and salt to the eggs.

  “My secret ingredient,” he says, holding up a bottle of almond extract. “Not allergic to nuts, are you?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  He stirs in a teaspoonful, then sinks a thick slice of challah bread into the mixture.

  When the bread meets the pan with a gentle sizzle, a mouthwatering smell fills the room. There’s nothing better than fresh bread, warm butter, and cinnamon cooking together, I realize. My stomach growls.

  Noah’s a tidy cook, cleaning as he goes: The eggshells are dropped into the wastebasket, his dish towel dabs at a few drops of spilled milk, the spices are immediately returned to their drawer.

  As I watch him, it’s as if a buffer forms between me and the tension I’ve been carrying around. It isn’t gone, but at least I’m getting a reprieve.

  Maybe this is the kind of Saturday night date a lot of women my age experience; a quiet evening in with a nice guy. It shouldn’t be that remarkable. It’s just that we’ve already kissed, yet tonight seems more intimate than a physical act. Even though we randomly met in a bar, Noah seems to want to get to know the real me.

  He pulls place mats and real cloth napkins out of another drawer, then reaches into a cabinet for a couple of plates. He slides two pieces of golden-brown French toast onto the center of each plate, then sprinkles fresh blackberries on top. I didn’t even realize he was warming the syrup in a saucepan until he ladles generous spoonfuls atop it all.

  I stare down at the food he serves me, feeling a wash of emotions I can’t easily identify. Other than my mother when I go to visit, no one has cooked for me in years.

  I take my first bite and groan. “I swear, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  An hour 1ater, the bottle of Prosecco is empty and we’re still talking. We’ve moved to the living room sofa.

  “I’m going to Westchester to see my family for Hanukkah later this week,” he says. “But maybe we can do something Sunday night when I get back.”

  I lean over to give him a kiss and taste sweet syrup on his lips. As I rest my head on his solid chest and his arms wrap around me, I feel something I haven’t in months, or maybe years. It takes me a moment to define it: contentment.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Saturday, December 8

  Thomas arrives five minutes prior to the appointed time. Punctuality is one of the new habits he seems motivated to adopt.

  His broad shoulders fill the doorway as a smile spreads across his face. The first snow of the season has just begun to fall, and sparkly crystals cling to his sandy hair. It’s a bit longer than he usually wears it.

  Thomas offers a bouquet of red ballerina tulips and is thanked with a lingering kiss. His lips are cold, and he tastes like mint. His hands move to deepen the embrace as he prolongs the intimacy.

  “That’s all for now,” he is told as he is playfully pushed away.

  He wipes his damp shoes on the mat and steps into the town house.

  “It smells delicious,” he says. He looks down briefly. “I’ve missed your cooking.”

  His coat is hung in the closet next to the lighter jackets he wears in the warmer weather. He was never asked to remove those particular items from the town house, and not only because he moved out so abruptly. Springtime symbolizes hope, renewal. The presence of his belongings served the same purpose.

  He is wearing the sweater that brings out the gold flecks in his green eyes; he knows it’s a favorite.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. He reaches out and runs his fingers so gently through a long, loose wave of my hair that his touch is barely discernible.

  My taupe and lavender fabrics have been replaced by black suede jeans and a cobalt-blue silk camisole, but only a hint of color is visible beneath a thigh-length black cardigan made of fine merino wool.

  Thomas takes a stool at the granite island with the built-in cooktop. The oysters are on ice; the bottle of champagne is retrieved from the refrigerator.

  “Would you?”

  He sees the label and smiles. “A great year.”

  The cork gives a gentle pop; then Thomas fills two slim flutes.

  A toast is offered: “To second chances.”

  Surprise and pleasure collide on Thomas’s face.

  “You have no idea how happy that makes me.” His voice is a shade huskier than usual.

  A slate-gray shell is lifted from the ice and tilted toward him. “Hungry?”

  He nods as he accepts it. “Starving.”

  The lamb is removed from the oven to rest o
n the counter. The potatoes just need a few more minutes; Thomas prefers them on the crispier side.

  As champagne and oysters are savored, conversation flows easily. Then, just as Thomas is carrying the platter of lamb to the dining room table, a loud chime sounds. He sets down the tray and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

  “Do you need to get that?” It is vital that the question carries no hint of reproach.

  Thomas merely returns to the kitchen and places his phone facedown on the island. Inches away from the torte.

  “The only person I want to give attention to now is you,” he says.

  He moves away from the phone to bring the decanted red wine to the table and is awarded with a sincere smile.

  Thomas’s flowers are placed in the vase in the center of the table. Candles are lit. Nina Simone’s sultry voice fills the air.

  Thomas’s wineglass is refilled twice. His cheeks grow slightly flushed; his gestures more expansive.

  Thomas offers up a bite of his lamb: “This is the best piece.”

  Our eyes lock.

  “You seem different tonight,” he says, stretching out his hand.

  “Maybe it’s us being together back in the house.”

  He is awarded another brief kiss, then contact is broken.

  “Sweetheart? Have you heard anything more from that private investigator?”

  His question seemingly comes out of nowhere; it feels discordant on this romantic evening. But then, Thomas has always been protective. He knows how unsettling it was for me to receive the e-mail from the investigator hired by Subject 5’s family.

  This is not the first time he has asked whether the private investigator has instigated more contact.

  “Nothing since I responded that I would not violate confidentiality by relinquishing my notes on her,” he is told.

  Thomas nods approvingly. “You’re doing the right thing. A client’s privacy is sacred.”

  “Thank you.”

  The unpleasant memory is skirted past; tonight’s agenda is already complex enough.

  It is time to bring the glass cake pedestal to the table.

  He is served a generous three-inch slice.

  The edge of his fork slices through the rich, thick mousse. He raises the chocolate confection to his lips.

  He closes his eyes. Savors it. “Mmm. Is this from Dominique?”

  “No, La Patisserie,” he is told.

  “Delicious. I’m almost too full to eat it.”

  A pause.

  “You’ll work it off tomorrow at the gym.”

  He nods and takes another bite. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “Of course.”

  The torte melts on the tongue. No one would know it was not purchased at a specialty bakery, just as no one would be able to detect the taste of the two hazelnuts that were ground up and included in the batter.

  When Thomas’s plate is clean, he leans back in his chair.

  But he cannot settle here. A hand is offered to him: “Come.”

  He is led to a small love seat in the library and given a glass of Dalva port. The space is cozy, with its Steinway piano and gas fireplace. His eyes flit around the room, alighting on original paintings by Wyeth and Sargent, and then a whimsical bronze sculpture of a motorcycle, before landing on the silver-framed photograph of me as a teenager, astride Folly, the chestnut mare, on our Connecticut grounds, my red hair peeking out from beneath my riding helmet. Angled beside that picture is one of our wedding day.

  Thomas wore black tie; the tuxedo was purchased especially for the wedding, since he hadn’t worn one since his high school prom. The bridal gown, with its lace top and tulle skirt, was custom-made; my father had to ask a business associate to call in a favor at Vera Wang because the engagement was so short.

  My father did not approve of the low dip in the dress that reached nearly to the small of my back, but it was too late to have it altered. As a compromise, a long veil was worn during the ceremony at St. Luke’s, the church my mother and father still attend.

  Our parents flank us in the photo. Thomas’s family had flown in from a small town outside San Jose, California, two days before the wedding. We’d only met once before; Thomas dutifully called his mother and father every week, but he wasn’t particularly close to them or to his older brother, Kevin, who worked as a construction foreman.

  My father is unsmiling in the photograph.

  Prior to proposing, Thomas had driven to my parents’ Connecticut estate to ask for my hand in marriage. He’d concealed this from me; Thomas was skilled at keeping a secret.

  My father appreciated the nod to tradition. He clapped Thomas on the back and they celebrated with brandy and Arturo Fuente cigars. However, the following morning, my father requested my presence at lunch.

  He asked only one question. It was direct, as befitting his nature. It came even before we placed our orders: “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  Love is an emotional state, but my symptoms were highly physical: A smile formed at the mere mention of Thomas’s name, my step felt lighter, even my core temperature—which since my childhood had been consistently recorded at 96.2, well below the average of 98.6—rose by a degree.

  The music now switches to John Legend’s “Tonight.”

  “Let’s dance.”

  Thomas’s eyes follow the path of my cardigan as it slips from my shoulders down onto the love seat. As he rises, he reaches with his free hand to massage the back of his neck.

  The gesture is a familiar one.

  He appears a shade paler than normal.

  Our bodies fit together seamlessly, just as they did on our wedding night. It’s as though the memory has always been stored in our muscles.

  The song ends. Thomas removes his glasses, then presses his thumb and index finger to his temples. He grimaces.

  “Are you feeling unwell?”

  He nods. “Do you think there were nuts in the torte?”

  He isn’t in danger; his allergy is not life-threatening. However, it is triggered by even the tiniest taste of tree nuts.

  The sole side effect is a severe headache. Alcohol worsens this sensation.

  “I did ask at the patisserie . . .” My voice trails off. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Five steps toward the kitchen, where his cell phone stills rests on the counter.

  Now Thomas is positioned closer to the staircase.

  This is important; he will be more inclined to think his next movements are of his own accord, rather than the result of a subtle manipulation.

  “Would you like some Tylenol? It’s just in the medicine cabinet upstairs.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be right back,” he says.

  His heavy footsteps ascend the stairs, then sound directly overhead as he moves toward the master bathroom.

  The path has already been traced and timed with a stopwatch. He will likely be occupied for sixty to ninety seconds. Hopefully, it will be enough time to gather the desired information.

  One of the first questions in the morality survey: Would you ever read your spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?

  Thomas’s passcode has traditionally been the month and day of his birth.

  It is unchanged.

  “Lydia? The Tylenol isn’t in the medicine cabinet.” His voice carries from the top of the stairs.

  My footsteps are swift, but when my tone comes from the bottom landing, it remains steady and unhurried.

  “Are you certain? I just bought some.”

  The Tylenol is in the medicine cabinet, but tucked behind a box containing a new skin-care cream. More than a cursory glance will be necessary to locate it.

  A creak in the floorboard indicates he is moving toward the master bathroom again.

  His glass of water is procured. Then the green phone icon is touched. Recent texts and phone calls are surveyed.

  My phone’s camera function is already engaged.

  Quickly, but meticulously, t
he record of Thomas’s many recent calls is captured. His texts appear completely unremarkable and so are disregarded.

  Every photograph is assessed to make sure the digital evidence is clear; quality cannot be sacrificed to speed.

  The house is utterly quiet. Too quiet?

  “Thomas? Are you okay?”

  “Yep,” he calls.

  Perhaps he is applying a cold washcloth to his pulse points.

  More photographs are amassed, documenting perhaps thirty-five phone calls. Some numbers are assigned to contacts with recognizable names: Thomas’s dentist, squash partner, and parents. Others, eight in total, are unfamiliar. They all have New York City area codes.

  The deleted call record log is similarly documented, which turns up one additional unfamiliar number, this one with a 301 area code.

  It will be a simple matter to determine whether these numbers are completely innocuous. If a man answers, or it it belongs to a place of business, the phone number will be considered irrelevant and the call will be immediately terminated.

  If a woman answers, the call will also be quickly aborted.

  But that number will be saved for further scrutiny.

  His phone is replaced on the counter. His glass of water is brought to the library.

  He should have returned by now.

  “Thomas?” He does not respond.

  He is met at the top of the staircase just as he emerges from the bedroom.

  “Were you able to find it?”

  He looks distinctly unwell now. He will require three aspirin followed by a long rest in a darkened room.

  The evening’s encounter will come to a necessary, abrupt end.

  The hope in Thomas’s eyes that further intimacies would progress has been extinguished.

  “No,” he says. His distress is evident.

  “I’ll get it,” he is told.

  In the bathroom, he squints against the bright light. The medicine cabinet is surveyed. The luxury moisturizer is moved aside.

  “It’s right here.”

  Back downstairs, he swallows three pills and is offered a respite on the couch.

  He shakes his head, then winces at the movement.

  “I think I’d better go,” he says.

  His coat is retrieved and offered to him.