Most nights, Allison would sit in the hallway outside Meg’s door and listen to her daughter talk to herself for five or ten minutes before dropping off to sleep. It was one of Allie’s favorite times of the day, listening to her daughter’s intricate monologue of stories real and imagined, sometimes with bits of songs mixed in.
Tonight, the only sound was the fan’s gentle hush, so she walked down the hallway to her own bedroom and lay down fully clothed on the bedspread. Her body instantly relaxed, and she felt her eyelids getting heavy. Then she noticed that everything had become quiet. For a moment she thought that she’d been asleep for hours and that the party had ended. She looked over at the clock—8:20 p.m. She’d slept for only a few minutes. The band must have gone on its set break.
She lay there for another minute, then rose, used the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and went back downstairs and outside to the yard. Fewer than twenty people remained. A few of them were sitting with their cups of beer on the grass around the fire pit, which now blazed, sending smoke across the yard. The smell sent her back to being a young girl, camping with her parents and members of the church. She’d loved the woods, loved cooking hot dogs and s’mores over the fire, but she knew that sooner or later the marshmallows and chocolate would be put away and her parents and their friends would begin their stern talk of Satan’s treachery. There would be hours of prayer and public repentance. Yet even that she found herself missing, at this moment.
She collected a few abandoned cups from the grass, a few plates and napkins, and put them into the trash bag by the grill. No one seemed to notice her. Ramsey stood with Eric near the stage, talking and periodically glancing upward. Now that the sun had set, the sky was quickly darkening to purple.
She had to leave him. The hows and whens could be sorted out later, but theirs was not a marriage with a future. When she awoke from her brief sleep, she did so with a clear picture of how this would all play out. Ramsey would wake up tomorrow, shocked that his superconjunction was all a bunch of nonsense. He’d find some excuse to get back on the road sooner rather than later. While he was gone, Allie would get down to logistics: hire a lawyer, find a place where she and Meg could stay if Ramsey refused to move out of the house... whatever the details were, she’d tend to them. It would be hard, but her life with Ramsey on the road all the time had only been half a marriage anyway. How could they not grow apart when their home was merely Ramsey’s mailing address? When he didn’t know the names of any of Allie’s coworkers or what Meg had tried eating for the first time or some new thing that she’d said? When he had no clue what it meant to work a full day and then be on all night with a baby, a toddler, day after day after day? When he didn’t understand what her promotion to Assistant Director of Sales, Mid-Atlantic Region meant to her because he hadn’t bothered to ask? Or that maybe she didn’t necessarily want to have sex with him the minute he came home from a week on the road, because she was exhausted from having been a single parent all week and needed some time to reconnect with Ramsey, to remind herself that this was her husband and not just some acquaintance with a key to the front door.
Not that that had been an issue lately. Since June, in a relationship in which any emotional or intellectual connection had long since dissolved, the last vestige of their nominal marriage—the occasional late-night screw—had vanished as well. But that wasn’t a reason to stay. It was a reason to go.
Superconjunction. Give me a break.
Yes—when he was off on his next cross-country haul, she’d end the sham.
And while she was at it, she’d end a second sham, too.
19
If Allie needed confirmation that her decision was the right one, she didn’t have to wait long. Just a few minutes later, the band returned to the stage, and Ramsey walked up to the microphone.
“I want to thank you all again for taking the time to be here on this beautiful and important evening.” Another glance up at the sky. “The beautiful part I think is clear enough. But why ‘important,’ you ask?”
Good lord, she thought. She knew what was coming, because she’d heard the same lecture back in June.
“No, Ramsey.” She came forward, right up to the front of the stage, cutting him off. He looked down at her, and she lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “Nobody wants to hear that. They came for a party. For good music. That’s what they’re here for.”
Chastising while also placating—something she did with Meg. But Ramsey wasn’t a toddler, and come tomorrow he would have to carry on with his life. Even if Allie were to leave him, he’d still have a daughter and a job. So it was important that he keep it together, or at least keep up the appearance of keeping it together—for his own sake, and also for hers. She could do without the Miller house being a topic of juicy neighborhood gossip.
Ramsey seemed to weigh her words. “Allie, these people have a right—”
“No, they don’t.” Because he was standing a few feet above her, the closest approximation to an intimate gesture she could manage was to lay a hand on his shoe. “And what does it matter, really? You wanted to throw a party to make everyone happy, right? Then do that.” She kept her voice barely above a whisper. “Play your music. Make them happy—don’t freak them out.”
He looked up at the sky for longer this time, but not for dramatic effect, Allie could tell. Out of concern. She couldn’t tell, however, if the concern was because of what he believed was going to happen or because it wasn’t happening yet.
He stepped back to the microphone.
“In simple terms,” he said, glancing again at the sky, “the real show tonight won’t be coming from the stage.”
She rushed across the yard, headed for the side gate and the freedom beyond, her eyes blurry with tears.
“Now, we can’t do a thing to prevent it,” she heard as the gate clanked shut behind her. “But that’s okay.”
She stood on David Magruder’s front stoop, wishing she had a mirror to see how awful she looked. Maybe better not to know. Her eyes burned from crying and from the fire pit smoke.
The music in her backyard had started up again on her walk over, so Ramsey couldn’t have spoken for long. Long enough, though. Jesus. She rang the doorbell and waited. An outdoor light came on, and then the door opened, and seeing David in his T-shirt and those starched jeans, an expression of immediate concern on his face, made her well up all over again. She stepped into his house and embraced him, fighting the urge to full-out bawl. She clung to him tightly, breathing in his scent, feeling grateful to him for simply letting this moment linger while mosquitos and moths and humid air rushed into the house. When she released her grip, he took a half step back, looked her over, and said, “Tough day?”
Her response was a half laugh, half sob, and a split-second decision to end the second sham first. She moved forward again, into him, and kissed David on the mouth. Unlike their kiss of twelve weeks earlier, this one was for real, close and lingering, and when they separated again, the look of surprise in David’s eyes was comical and lovely.
“I think you’d better come in,” he said, looking somewhat dazed.
He shut the front door and turned on a hallway light. Despite how close they’d become, she’d never set foot inside David’s house before. His wife wouldn’t be home tonight. Allie knew that. She was counting on it. When David and Jessica married, she maintained her Greenwich Village apartment, where she stayed when she worked late at the network. Every Sunday night she slept there to get an early jump on the week.
Allie knew this and many other things about David’s life because they were close. They were confidantes. Everything, really, but lovers. She knew, for instance, that he’d been second-guessing his marriage almost since the wedding. She isn’t a warm person, he once told Allie. Not like you are.
He’d been a little drunk the morning he said it, but being drunk didn’t make you lie—if anything, it encouraged truth-telling.
They met for breakfast sometimes,
when Allie had a gap between dropping Meg at day care and her first appointment with a physician’s office. Jessica was usually out of the house at dawn to get to Manhattan, and Allie was pretty sure that David’s wife knew as little about these breakfasts as Ramsey did. But that was David’s concern, not hers. And anyway, there was nothing to hide.
On that morning, Allie had argued with Ramsey over which level of day care to put Meg into. He wanted her to stay in the younger group, the Ladybugs, but for no good reason, and this tiff—it was hardly more than that—made her seethe. He wasn’t home enough to have the right to weigh in. He was dealing in abstractions about what’s best, while she was dealing with their daughter. Anyway, at one point she said, Fuck you, Ramsey—-something she’d never said to him before. There were worse offenses between husbands and wives, she knew, but they had both grown up in hostile households, and civility was something they had long ago promised each other. She was immediately sorry, but Ramsey’s response—to get up from the table and leave for a week without so much as a good-bye—refueled her fury, which battled her guilt to the point where no way could she meet with that dermatology group in Wall Township at 9 a.m. No way could she put on a tight business suit and act bubbly and informative while overstating benefit A and downplaying side-effect B. Their new, hot product was an “exciting new treatment” for psoriasis called D-Derma. In the trunk of Allie’s car were D-Derma mugs, pens, and mouse pads. On none of this swag did it mention that the cream could, in some instances, cause liver damage.
No, the dermatologists could wait. She canceled her appointment, phoned David, and made breakfast plans.
Something in her voice (even she could hear it) made him add, “I’ll pick you up.” In the past, they always drove separately, despite living in the same neighborhood.
On the ride to the diner, she told him about her argument with Ramsey. The moment they were seated at the diner, David ordered two Bloody Marys. When their food arrived, Allie backed off ordering a second drink—the first was potent enough, and there were afternoon appointments to be awake for. But David ordered another.
“This breakfast is actually a celebration,” he said.
“It is?”
“Indeed.” Then he told her his good news: He’d been promoted at the station. Now, in addition to weather, he’d be reporting select news stories on air.
“David!” She smiled. One of his hands was resting on the table. Instinctively, she reached across and took it in hers. “That’s amazing.”
Though trained as a meteorologist, he’d always wanted to do more than report the weather. He saw himself, someday, somehow, anchoring or producing one of the New York network newscasts.
“I wouldn’t call it amazing,” he said, grinning.
“You know it is,” she said, and ordered a second drink for herself.
After breakfast, he drove her home, and she honestly didn’t think anything of it when he said, “I’ll walk you to the door.” They were both a little tipsy. And how they got on to the topic of David’s wife, she couldn’t remember. But that was when David made his comment about Allie being a warm person. Which made her smile, because at the moment he said it, with the start of summer evident in the growing shrubs and trees and grass all around them, the azaleas blooming pink, the yellow coreopsis, the potted petunias and zinnias framing the front door, she felt like a warm person, and then David put his hands on her shoulders as if he were steadying himself.
He’s going to kiss me.
She knew it immediately. But when it came, it was a kiss at war with itself, coming only after resting his forehead against her own for what seemed like an eternity. In fact, the head-touching was almost more intimate than the kiss itself. He put his lips to hers and repositioned his arms around her back, and she felt one of his hands dip a little lower, and none of it lasted more than a few seconds.
A drunk kiss—she’d been the giver and receiver of them before and felt no need to pull away. She wasn’t even particularly annoyed at David. He’d kissed her because of her warmth. Because they were both tipsy. Because his promotion was making him feel invincible, and because they had become close, these past few months.
He wasn’t much to look at. He was married. She was married. This was going nowhere. So she let herself be flattered and amused, and she decided that David’s transgression was a forgivable offense. And just as she knew would happen, the moment that the kiss was over, his face got red and he made an “oops” expression, and with a pat on his cheek and a single line—“Not the best idea, probably”—she dispelled the moment’s potential severity with a rejection that was its own flirtation. She did it effortlessly, like tossing dust that happened to be magical into the air.
And because David’s friendship was important to her, she made sure to call him the next day and invite him to walk around the block, which gave him a chance to apologize, and gave her a chance to assure him that it was no big deal, honestly—the matter was already forgotten—and allowed for the situation to be put to bed before it ever became a situation at all.
But she knew. He desired her.
She followed him now into the living room. His home, like his yard, was tidy and uncluttered, the sofas all leather, the tables all sharp angles—a home with no children. A peaceful home, which she was making less so with her presence. On the coffee table lay two Sunday newspapers, neatly aligned, and several books.
“Do you have anything to drink?” she asked. “I could really use—”
He put up a hand, silencing her, and went over to the bar (in the corner, with a sink, something she’d never seen in a living room other than on TV), poured her a small glass of Scotch, and delivered it. The first sip was like a full-body massage, and she sank a little deeper into the couch.
He poured himself a drink and, to her disappointment, sat across the coffee table from her. But his smile was warm. “So it seems that you, too, have fled the event of the century.”
From inside David’s house, she could hear traces of music coming from her backyard. In a quiet suburb, sound traveled at night. “I can’t do it any longer,” she said. “My marriage is over. It’s been over for so long.” Lying alone at night, she came up with various metaphors, all having to do with movement: ships adrift, birds flying in two directions, or one flying and the other staying still, which, given enough time, still created a chasm. But she spared David the metaphors. “Ramsey and I—we have nothing. Not any longer. Please”—she patted the sofa beside her—“sit here. I need you right here.”
David rose, moved around the coffee table, and sat beside Allie. She placed a hand on his knee and looked at him. “You and I are good for each other, aren’t we?”
“We are,” he said, and hearing this, she released a breath she wasn’t even aware of holding. “I’m grateful for what we have.”
“You are, huh?” She said it with a sideways glance. She knew what she was doing. The flirtation and the Scotch made her face hot. It’d been a while, this feeling. She missed it. He wasn’t much to look at, but he was a good man, and he was intelligent and going places. And their connection wasn’t some long-ago remembrance that might not ever have been real. It was happening now, in Allie’s adult life, with its experience and its complications, its logistics and uncertainties. An adult connection. It could be love.
She moved her hand up the leg of his pants, just slightly.
“Allie.”
She moved her hand up a little more.
He placed his hand on top of hers, stopping its movement. “Allie—listen. This can’t happen.”
But he was wrong. It could and should. This past year proved it. His kiss proved it. Their easy conversations and their candor and his obvious attraction to her proved it. She wanted to explain all this to him, but when she spoke she was horrified to hear that her voice sounded drunken and pleading and shrill. “Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“No, it isn’t. Nothing is simpler.” Her words came faster.
“I’m getting a divorce. And I know you aren’t in love with Jessica, not really. So you can get a divorce, too. You don’t even have kids. It isn’t complicated at all.”
“Allie, I can’t leave Jess.”
She refused to be fazed by his use of his wife’s nickname. “You deserve to be happy. So do I. Do you know what a superconjunction is?”
He frowned. “You mean the planetary alignment thing?”
“Ramsey thinks the one tonight is going to end the world.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that won’t happen.”
“He’s delusional,” Allie said. “I can’t live with it any longer.”
“Then you shouldn’t. You deserve better.”
“You need to leave Jessica, too.”
He sighed. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He released her hand, stood up, and went to pour himself another drink, leaving Allie to endure the distant but relentless thumping of drums and bass coming from her backyard. David didn’t speak again until he was back on the sofa beside Allie, though not as close as before. “There’s a spot opening up on ABC news. New York network. Jessica’s network. They’ve narrowed their search to two people, and I’m one of them.” He nodded as he spoke. “She’s opened this amazing door for me, and I’m this close.” He must have seen the tears in Allie’s eyes, because his voice raised in pitch, became a little more desperate. “Allie, this is it—the chance you wait your whole career for. God knows I’ve paid my dues for so long, and now Jessica’s opening doors that… well, these are doors that open maybe once in a career. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
She let the words sink in. “Do you love her?”
He looked away. “It’s complicated.”
“You fucking coward.”
“Allie...”
Before He Finds Her Page 22
