It's Always the Husband

by Michele Campbell

  Griff graduated and went to work in New York. He had just about resigned himself to his hollow life when he literally ran into Keniston Eastman on the street. It happened downtown, during a hot June lunchtime, in the dark shadows of the skyscraper that they both worked in, about a year after his Carlisle graduation. They worked twenty-six floors apart, it turned out, for different firms. Griff was a junior analyst at a firm headed by a friend of his father’s, learning the ropes. (Griff’s dad had instituted an antinepotism policy the year Griff graduated from Carlisle, and refused to let Griff come work for him. It was only later that Griff realized this was done to protect him.) Griff exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Eastman. He asked about Kate, but then, he always asked everyone about Kate. Maybe something in his eyes as he said her name gave him away. They parted ways, and he thought nothing more of it. Then, a couple of days later, he got a call from Keniston’s secretary asking him to lunch. He thought at first that it was a recruiting call. Everyone was constantly trying to recruit Griff, since Marty Rothenberg was one of the most sought-after finance connections in all the world. He declined politely, saying he was happy where he was, and five minutes later, the secretary called back to say that actually, Mr. Eastman had something of a personal nature to discuss, and would he reconsider.

  The executive dining room of Keniston’s firm was on the forty-seventh floor of the building, with harbor views. You could see all the bridges, and Lady Liberty holding her torch. It was a fine, clear day, but Griff couldn’t enjoy it, nor could he appreciate the trout meunière or the excellent white Burgundy, because he was waiting for Keniston Eastman to come to the point. This had to be about Kate, right? Finally, over coffee, once the room had cleared out, Keniston brought up his daughter’s name. And Griff got the opening he’d been waiting for for years.

  According to her father, Kate was in a bad way. He’d done his level best for her, supporting her in a fine style in Europe ever since she left Carlisle. He’d sent her to the right school, let her spend time in Paris and the Côte d’Azur and places where she would be noticed, paid for her clothes and travel. Keniston had done all this, it became apparent, in the hope that Kate would make an advantageous marriage with some wealthy European. Now, Griff could have told him that idea was at least a century out of date. If that happened at all anymore, the Europeans were the ones preying on the rich Americans, not the other way around. But mostly people just fucked and nobody ever got married, which was why the birthrate in Western Europe was in the tank. But there was no need for Griff to tell Keniston this, since he’d already learned it for himself, the hard way. Kate had picked up a parasite. A Dutch musician named Markus Rijnders, who had a minor recording contract and a major heroin habit, which it was Keniston’s greatest fear that Kate might come to share.

  “I don’t know why I don’t just give up on her,” Keniston said, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that Griff recognized.

  “I do, sir. I understand why.”

  “Yes,” Keniston said. “I thought you would.”

  Keniston couldn’t go to Europe himself to reclaim Kate, for a host of complicated reasons. Kate would never listen to him. His wife had lost patience with Kate’s antics. Business obligations, social engagements, and so forth. But Griff was a young man of means, still carefree, whose employer surely valued his contributions enough to be willing to grant him a leave of reasonable if uncertain duration. And if not, Keniston would be happy to put in a word. His extensive business dealings with Griff’s boss made him think he had some influence there.

  In other words, Keniston hoped that Griff was enough of a stooge, and sufficiently hung up on Keniston’s crazy daughter, to fall into an obvious trap. Which he proceeded to do with alacrity.

  Next thing Griff knew, he was on an airplane, watching dawn break over the Atlantic, too excited to sleep. Memories of Kate washed over him like a delirium. It had been nearly four years since he’d been in her presence, but her face was etched in his mind. He couldn’t believe he would get to look at that face again, so soon. It was almost too much to contemplate. That whole first day, he wandered around Paris in a daze, letting the reflected light from the limestone buildings dazzle his eyes, stopping here and there for a coffee or a pastry to restore his flagging energy. He had her address in his pocket but he couldn’t bring himself to call on her yet. The anticipation of seeing Kate was so sweet that he didn’t want it to end. Plus, naturally, given the things Keniston had told him, Griff was afraid of what he might find.

  The next day, Griff timed his visit for late afternoon, when he’d been told Kate would be alone in the apartment. She was living in Montmartre in a dump of a fifth-floor walk-up with that musician guy. Keniston must have had the detectives on them, because he knew all the details of their comings and goings. She answered the door herself, in jeans and a dirty T-shirt, looking like she’d just woken up.

  “Griff? I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?” she said, but she looked happy to see him.

  “Passing through on business,” he said, and mentioned the name of a mutual friend he’d been told she was in touch with by way of explaining how he’d gotten her address.

  He was shocked at her appearance but careful to hide his reaction. She looked much worse than he’d imagined—emaciated frame, lank hair, shadows under her eyes. He glanced at her arms and thankfully didn’t see needle marks. That would’ve been too awful. Cocaine, yes, but heroin was a trailer-park drug, wrong for her. She wasn’t the Kate he remembered, but she was still recognizably herself. He almost loved her more like this. Maybe, finally, she needed him.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked, when they were still making small talk at the door after a couple of minutes.

  “The place is a wretched dump. I won’t inflict it on you.”

  “Come out with me then. I saw a tabac on the corner. Let me buy you a coffee and we can gossip for a bit. I have an hour to kill before my next meeting.”

  She hesitated.

  “Come on, Kate. It’s not often I get to Paris.”

  Griff had thought through his approach very carefully. He knew better than to tell her that her father was concerned and had asked him to come over, or that Griff had missed her terribly, or anything that placed her under any obligation. He smiled nonchalantly, and finally, she nodded.

  “All right. Hold on a second,” she said.

  She marched off to the next room, and came back a moment later covered up in dark sunglasses and a baggy jacket.

  The tabac was dim inside, with a greasy tile floor and a couple of small tables crammed in a corner. They sat down at one, and his heart rolled over in his chest at the touch of her knees under the table. The place reeked of cigarette smoke. Kate smoked one cigarette after another, Marlboro reds. Griff cast his memory back but couldn’t recall a time when she’d had a tobacco habit like that. Another bad sign. He bought her a coffee laced with brandy. As she sipped it, spots of color returned to her cheeks and the tremor disappeared from her voice. He talked of trivial things that he knew would entertain her. The apartment he was having decorated, which friends would be in the Hamptons this summer, a boat show he’d been to with a cousin of a friend of Kate’s from Odell. He kept up the patter, which felt a bit like trying to lure a timid bird out of a tree.

  “New York seems so far away,” she said wistfully. “I miss it.”

  “Why not come back for a visit?”

  “I can’t. I’ve been staying away.”

  “Yes, I noticed. Why is that?” he asked.

  “That trouble at the bridge freshman year. Don’t you remember?”

  “That’s what’s keeping you in Europe? Not because you prefer it here?”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid to go back.”

  “Seriously? Why?”

  She wouldn’t answer.

  “Kate, I don’t know what happened that night, and I’m not asking you to tell me. But I’m certain that if you were in trouble over anything, they would hav
e come after you by now.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  He watched the pulse beat in the hollow of her throat. He’d forgotten that pulse. He used to kiss it sometimes.

  “I do,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and shook her head miserably. “I can’t believe it would just go away.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Maybe I could advise you better if I knew.”

  She brought the coffee cup to her lips, then put it down again and stared into it. “Lucas died,” she said finally, in a tiny voice.

  “I knew that. But it was a suicide. Right?”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. He’d never seen her look so desperate before. Her hand on the table moved toward the pack of cigarettes, but before she reached it, he stopped it with his own.

  “You can tell me anything. I would never think less of you,” Griff said.

  “You should.”

  “I won’t. What happened that night, Kate?”

  She looked past his shoulder, to the bright outline of the door. He turned to follow her gaze, surprised to see daylight outside. In here, it felt like the depths of night.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she said, in a dead tone. “I was out of my mind, I guess, from a lot of stuff. He broke up with me. I did too many lines, and my breathing got funny. Carlisle got to me. The fishbowl.”

  “I know, I know.” He squeezed her hand tighter.

  “Anyway,” she said, and fell silent, pressing her lips together.

  Griff saw that was as much as he would ever get out of her about what happened at the bridge. It was enough to give him the picture. She’d killed the guy, basically, pushed him off the bridge. He’d suspected; now he knew. It bothered him somewhat. Not enough to change his feelings about her.

  “What does your father say?” Griff asked.

  “We don’t talk much. But one time recently, he said I should come home. That everything was quiet, was how he put it.”

  “You should listen to him, Kate. I think you feel guilty, and that’s why you’re hesitating.”

  “Shouldn’t I feel guilty?” she asked, meeting his eyes tentatively.

  “Maybe you should. But not so much that you ruin your life. Everybody else has graduated and moved on.”

  “Not Lucas.”

  He shrugged. What could he say to that?

  “I never paid for what I did,” Kate said.

  “It seems to me that you’re paying very much. Look at you, look how thin you are.” He pulled her hand toward him, and circled her wrist with his fingers. “So thin. You’re killing yourself over this, slowly but surely. That won’t do anybody any good.”

  Two crystal tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, illuminated by the light from the door. He wanted to catch them with his tongue, to press his lips to her pale forehead. But he knew better, and sat back in his chair.

  “You want to make amends,” Griff said. “That’s good. You should want to. But don’t waste your life over it. Come home to New York, and do something positive with your time. I have a friend who runs a nonprofit that works with girls in the projects. I’ll introduce you to her.”

  Kate gave a sad laugh, but it was still magic to his ears. “What, so I can, like, organize charity balls?” she said.

  “No. Mentor kids. Give back.”

  She smiled, but then her face clouded over. “I’m living with my boyfriend. He wouldn’t want me to.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Really. He doesn’t like me to go places without him.”

  “That’s a hassle. Well, come for a week then. Just for a visit. He can’t object to that.”

  “For a week?”

  “Sure, why not? I’ve got a million frequent-flier miles. I’ll spot you the ticket. First class, as much champagne as you want. How’s that sound?”

  She shook her head. “He’d throw a fit.”

  “He sounds like a pain in the ass. Don’t tell him, then.”

  “What?”

  “Is he home now? It didn’t seem like anybody was at home.”

  “No. His band plays at this lounge on Wednesday nights. He won’t be home till the morning.”

  “Since when does Kate Eastman answer to anyone? Pack a bag and we’ll grab a taxi to the airport. By the time he gets home in the morning, you’ll be halfway to JFK. Leave him a note, if you must.”

  “I thought you had a meeting.”

  “Nothing I can’t cancel. What do you say?”

  Griff made it sound like a grand adventure, a great escape, but he was still surprised when she agreed to come along. They were back in New York the next day. He would have to pretend not to be in touch with her father, so she wouldn’t realize that the whole plan had been orchestrated by the two of them. But that wouldn’t be difficult.

  As they taxied, and the skyline came into view, Kate smiled, and tears stood out in her eyes.

  “I’m glad I came. Thank you,” she said, and kissed his cheek spontaneously. He thought his heart would explode, that’s how joyous it was to be with her again after so long.

  Kate stayed in an apartment Griff had in the financial district, one of several he’d bought in a brand-new condo building, thinking he’d flip them for a nice profit in a year or two. The building was sleek, all stainless steel and smoky blue glass, with million-dollar views. He left her alone there to sleep and to think and to look out at the city. She begged him for some drugs to tide her over, so he got her things that wouldn’t make her worse—some Ambien, a few Xanax, a pint of vodka. He had food sent in, things she liked from when they were in school together at Odell and would come back for holidays. She seemed nostalgic for that time in her life. Griff would visit frequently. Riding the elevator up to the thirty-second floor, he’d get butterflies at the thought of seeing her. They’d stay up late, sprawled across the white suede sofa with wineglasses in their hands, talking. She seemed so sad, but he’d never been happier. Eventually he convinced her to call Keniston and let him know she was back (of course, Keniston had known that from the moment their flight landed), and then to check into rehab. Keniston paid for a place in Connecticut that had an excellent reputation, well-appointed rooms, and wide lawns. It was more a spa than a hospital. Kate stayed there for two months, and Griff visited constantly. By the end, they were together for real, lovers again, and Kate never went back to Paris.

  Griff and Kate got married a year later, on the beach in Anguilla in a small ceremony limited to close friends and family. His father’s lawyers had a conniption when he refused to ask her for a pre-nup, but he wasn’t giving Kate any excuses to call off the engagement. Their wedding made the magazines. Kate looked so beautiful, in a simple, elegant white dress, barefoot in the sand with flowers in her hair. For a long time, they were happy. At least, he was happy. It was terrible the way things ended.

  The sound of a car in the driveway punctured Griff’s reverie, dragging him unwillingly back to the present. He wasn’t on the beach in Anguilla with his bride. He was in Aubrey’s drafty cabin. Outside the picture window, the lake looked evil and black. He sat up and watched Aubrey come up the back steps, a bag of groceries in her arms. She looked troubled as she fumbled for the key. Griff felt feverish, but his manners kicked in. He staggered to his feet to help her with the bag.

  “Thanks,” she said, opening the door as he reached for the bag. “Are you okay, Griff? You don’t look so good.”

  “I had a rough night.”

  “I can imagine. I got this,” she said, holding the bag against her chest, shutting the door. “I brought you some food, but I couldn’t get those clothes from your house that you asked for.”

  Their eyes met. He saw the unease in hers. “Why not?” he asked.

  “The police were there, searching the place. They had it blocked off with tape, so I couldn’t’ve gone in if I tried. I decided not to stop. I just drove by. I didn’t want them following me and finding you out here.”r />
  “Good,” he said, leaning against the wall, feeling faint. He slid down to sitting and put his head on his knees.

  “Honey, do you need a doctor?” Aubrey asked, alarmed.

  He looked up and saw the adoration in her eyes. It had been quite some time since anybody looked at Griff Rothenberg that way, and it made him feel relieved. Not because he reciprocated her feelings, but because he knew he could count on her. He had nobody else in his corner, so that was a good thing.

  “No, Aubrey, sweetheart, thank you. But I probably need a lawyer, so if you know a cheap one, I could use a name.”

  26

  Monday morning, Jenny and Tim barely spoke as they went through the motions of getting ready for work. At breakfast, everybody was out of sorts. T.J. was coming down with something, Reed was nervous about a test. They ran late. The boys missed the bus. Tim left to drive them to school before Jenny could try to make up.

  On the drive to town, the horror of Kate’s death settled over Jenny like a cloud. She had to find out what the police knew. The obvious move would be to stop at the police station and get a briefing. But she didn’t have the kind of relationship with the new chief that made that possible. Chief Dudley, the old chief, would have been on the phone to brief her within minutes of pulling a body from the river. But Chief Rizzo hadn’t called, and worse, he hadn’t returned the three separate messages she left for him last night requesting information. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

  Jenny had supported Rizzo for chief. Yeah, all right, the town council vote was unanimous, and maybe he could have won without her support. But maybe not, because the town council followed Jenny’s lead. She could’ve chosen to back the very deserving internal candidate, Robbie Womack, instead. Robbie happened to be a friend of hers and Tim’s. That might very well have turned the tide against the newcomer, but instead she overlooked her personal preference and supported Owen Rizzo because she felt he had a superior résumé. He ought to be grateful to her for that.