She let it ring, four times, five, hypnotized, before she hung up. What would she say if Charlie or Sam answered? How could it possibly make anything better?
Isabelle put the phone back into her purse.
SHE WALKED OVER to Houston and then headed up Hudson Street. It began to snow. Instantly, she was covered with flakes. The thin, fancy red flats she had bought for the party skidded on the damp sidewalk. A woman ran past Isabelle, her hair dappled with white, and she glared at Isabelle as if she blamed her for both the terrible weather and her tragic hair.
Isabelle felt woozy and hungry and her headache was worse. In two more months, she’d be thirty-nine.
A cab zipped by, the top light on, but it was packed with people. She crossed Fourteenth Street, past Twenty-sixth Street. She was still ten blocks from her apartment, an easy walk in nice weather, an even better run, but she needed to take a break. Coffee, maybe. Or hot chocolate cooled with cream. She ducked into the first café she saw. It was a small space, with ten cozy, pale wood tables and everything lit with candles, and there wasn’t a single person in there. Empty restaurants weren’t a good sign in New York, but she was cold and hungry, and she sat down.
As soon as she scraped her chair out, a man popped out from the back, a white apron about his waist. “The electricity’s out,” he apologized. “Actually, everything’s out. I can’t even scramble you an egg, and I just sent the waitstaff home.”
She looked up at him. He was all shades of black and white. Pale skin. Black T-shirt, sneakers, and jeans. He had a ruckus of black hair and a weathered-looking face. “Can I just sit here for a bit?” she said. “It’s beginning to snow harder out there.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Be my guest.” He studied her for a moment and then abruptly disappeared into the back room.
She began to relax, watching the glow of the candles. She felt weightless, as if the merest rush of air would float her away. The snow fluttered and stuck against the window, so all she could see was what was here, inside. She stretched her legs and then he appeared again and set a plate in front of her. Three kinds of hard cheese, some crusty bread, and red grapes. She looked up at him. “Oh, I didn’t order,” she said.
He waved his hand. “It’s a cold feast, but it’s on the house,” he said. He poured her a cup of coffee. “This is what you need,” he said kindly. “It’s actually still hot.”
She stared at the food.
“If you don’t eat it, it’ll just spoil, so you’re actually doing me a favor,” he said.
She nodded. “You’re so kind,” she said, and he looked at her, surprised.
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she picked up her fork. Her stomach roiled and her mouth began to water. The food was delicious, the cheese sharp and dotted with bits of cranberry and orange. He looked at her happily as she ate. He went to the boombox behind the bar and put on some music, an Italian aria. “Thank goodness for batteries,” he said. “Now we have atmosphere,” he said.
“You don’t have to do all this for me,” she said.
“Why not? I do this for all my customers.”
“It’s getting nastier out there,” she said. “We both should go home.”
He shrugged and she noticed that his eyes were this eerie electric blue and for a moment, she wondered how old he was. Forty-five, maybe. Fifty tops.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said. “This isn’t really my restaurant. I’m babysitting it for a friend tonight, a silent partner for my own restaurant.” He dug into the pocket of his apron and handed her a bright green card. Frank’s, it said. “All my life all I wanted to do was cook,” he said. “I was that weird little kid who made his own breakfast and took fancy lunches to school that everyone else made fun of.” He looked at her with interest and she suddenly was aware of her hair, damp from the snow, and she flushed. “What do you do?” he asked. “I know you’re not supposed to ask a question like that, but you look like you do something interesting.”
When Isabelle told him she was a photographer, that she was in school, he sat up straighter. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “Would you photograph me in front of my restaurant? I’m doing this new package for investors and I need a picture of myself. I hate being photographed. I’d pay you, of course. And I’d make you a real dinner.”
“Don’t you want to see my work first?” she asked, and he waved his hand. “You haven’t seen my work yet, either, so we both can be surprised,” he said. “And anyway, I trust you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I can read people. I’m a good judge of character.”
“This is for real?”
“Why would I make it up?”
“Deal,” she said, and when he took her hand to seal the deal, she felt a jolt of heat.
All that week, Isabelle kept thinking about Frank. How easy his kindness had been, how he hadn’t thought twice about taking her in and bringing her food, how he hadn’t once asked what had brought her into the café alone on New Year’s Eve.
THE DAY ISABELLE photographed Frank was blisteringly cold. She tried on two pairs of jeans before leaving the apartment. She brushed her hair until it gleamed.
Frank’s restaurant was on West Eighteenth Street. It was all windows and greenery, and inside were polished wood tables and flowers. Frank wore chef’s whites, which made him look both older and funnier, and as soon as he saw her, he smiled. “It’s a little cold out,” he said. He was alert and snapping with energy, and it made her feel more lively, too.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ll take some inside shots first and then a few outside. I promise I’ll work quickly.” As soon as she started photographing him, she forgot how nervous she had been. She searched out the best, most natural light, over by a window, and had him lean against it. She forbade him to pose with his arms folded, the way most chefs did. “Talk to me,” she ordered, moving back, crouching behind her camera, and when he started telling her about his childhood, his six brothers and sisters in a tiny town in Michigan and how his sister had liked to dress up the family guinea pig in doll clothes, she began snapping.
She went through ten rolls of film. She had him stand in front of the window and in the kitchen, sitting on one of the tables and standing by the counter. The whole time, he didn’t complain once. He didn’t ask her “Are you done yet?” or suggest that his right side was his best, and anything she asked him to do, he did. “Done,” she said finally, standing and stretching.
“Beautiful,” he said, and she thought he meant beautiful that she was finished, but he was looking at her when he said it, and for a moment, before she remembered just who she really was and how she could never ever be that lucky, not after what she had done, she felt the world shimmering all around her.
TWENTY
IT WAS SPRING again and Charlie was sifting through bills. The gas company wanted money. The mortgage was due. There was an invitation to a bowling birthday party for Sam, which made him happy because he worried that Sam at ten was still too solitary, that he didn’t have enough playdates, didn’t even seem to want them, no matter how Charlie coaxed. There was junk mail from a mattress factory and a Cheese-of-the-Month Club invitation, and then, stuck in the middle, was a single gray envelope. Curious, he pulled it out. For one stupid moment, he thought it might be from Isabelle, but he brushed it aside. They hadn’t heard from her in months. No. That life was gone.
He looked at the envelope again. It was hand addressed to April. It was postmarked Pittsburgh, which gave Charlie a jolt. He flipped it over.
No name, though. No return address.
He tore it open, letting the letter fall out into his hands. It was a single sheet of white letterhead paper, carefully folded into thirds. Bill Thrommer, it said on top. There was the same sloppy handwriting that had been on the envelope, and the paper seemed worn, as if someone had folded and unfolded it over and over, deliberating whether to send it or not.
April,
I’ve wri
tten this letter a dozen times to you, and ripped it up a dozen more. I’m taking a chance sending it. Breaking our rules, but what does it matter now?
Maybe you’ve forgiven me.
Or maybe I’m the one forgiving you.
I loved you. I really did. And I just wanted you to know that.
Your Bill
Charlie’s hands shook. He scanned it again. Thrommer. Bill Thrommer. Your Bill.
He reached for the phone and called Hank Williams, his detective. “You don’t say?” said Hank, when Charlie told him about the letter.
“Can you follow up on this for me?”
“I suppose I could.” Hank’s cautious tone irritated Charlie. Why couldn’t Hank jump on this, and then Charlie thought, why did he really need Hank to do it at all? He had a name. He could call information and get a phone number. Why couldn’t he do this himself?
“You know what, never mind,” Charlie said.
“Good for you. You’re doing the right thing. Getting on with your life,” Hank said, and as soon as Hank hung up, Charlie reached for the phone and called information, and a minute after he said Bill Thrommer’s name, he had a phone number and an address.
He was afraid this Bill might not talk to him on the phone if he called. Besides, Charlie wanted to see him. He’d ask his parents to come and watch Sam, and then he’d go to Pittsburgh.
CHARLIE’S PARENTS WERE thrilled to have Sam to themselves. “It’s just for two days,” Charlie told them. “Just business.” He lied so easily. He said he had to go to a building conference. He’d call every night and every morning, and he’d be back before anyone knew it. Charlie didn’t even know how long it would take. It could be two minutes, long enough for Bill to slam the door in his face and refuse to come out. Or it could be two days, where Bill might talk and talk and show him a whole life with April that Charlie didn’t know could possibly exist. The horrible thing was that Charlie didn’t know which of the possibilities would make him feel worse.
“Why can’t I go with you?” Sam said.
“You’d be bored silly. All that talk about drywall. And think what fun you’ll have with Grandma and Gramps. All those cookies. Movies.”
Sam’s face lightened. Ever since Charlie had found out about Bill, he had felt this burning in his stomach, as if he had swallowed lighted matches. Where did Bill fit in? Judging from the letter, the relationship was over.
Would it do any good to know?
He couldn’t bear to think of another man spending time with his son, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Sam if he’d ever met Bill. But did he know him? Did Bill act like a father to him? A friend? Did he bribe him with presents? Tell him knock-knock jokes?
CHARLIE WAS ON a plane halfway to Pittsburgh when he began to worry that what had seemed like such a good idea now seemed like a fool’s mission. What did he expect? He didn’t even know if Bill was home. He could be on vacation or out of the country. He could have a family. “What will it take to put it to rest?” Hank Williams had once asked Charlie. Isabelle had asked him the same thing. The truth was, Charlie didn’t know.
By the time he arrived, it was almost lunch time. Charlie rented a car, got some maps, and drove out into a day golden with light. He didn’t know what he had expected, but he had thought the skies might be murky with soot, that the city would be ugly and cramped. Instead, he was surprised at how pretty Pittsburgh was, how green and hilly. The sky was vast, like a chip of the ocean, and when he reached Oakland, it was lively with people.
There, halfway down a green, leafy street, was Bill’s house, a beautiful little Colonial with blue shutters and a wraparound porch. Tasteful. You could look at this house and just know what it was like inside. Lots of wood floors, he bet. A staircase. An Oriental rug or two. There weren’t any kids’ bikes or toys in the yard.
He heard music. An itchy slide of jazz. A trombone. His father used to tell him, when Charlie said he wasn’t a jazz fan, that the most intelligent people in the world loved jazz, that it took smarts to appreciate it. Charlie parked the car. If a woman answered, a wife or a girlfriend, he’d ask to see Bill alone. He wouldn’t say why he was there until they were out of her range. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.
He rang the bell, and before he could turn and leave, before he could decide this was a mistake, he heard footsteps, and then the door opened and there was a man with a wooden cooking spoon in his hand.
Charlie’s mouth opened. Was this him? This guy didn’t look like someone April would love or even notice if he walked past her on the street. He had a face as ordinary and unhandsome as a baked potato. He was just a guy in a faded black T-shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, with thinning dark hair and a squint. He was older than Charlie by at least ten years. He could have been anybody, but oh God, he wasn’t. And then Bill lifted his other hand to scratch his face and that was when Charlie saw his glinting wedding band, as thin as a wire around his finger. “Bill?” he said, and the man nodded.
“And you are …?” Bill said. The wood spoon was red at the tip. Tomato sauce, Charlie thought. He suddenly noticed the air was spicy with basil.
“I’m Charlie Nash,” Charlie said, and the man frowned.
“Excuse me, who?”
“Charlie Nash.” He looked beyond Bill. There was a blue shag rug in the living room, a clutter of magazines spread across it. “April Nash’s husband.”
Bill’s face changed. “Hold on,” he said, and then he stepped back inside, and for a moment, Charlie thought he was going to shut the door on him and lock it. That he’d refuse to see Charlie or tell him anything. The music stopped. And then Bill was back and the spoon was gone. “Please,” he said. “Come in.”
Bill took him into the kitchen, a bright yellow room with wood floors. “Coffee?” he asked, holding up a pot. Charlie nodded, though he didn’t think he could do more than sip. His appetite had died a long time ago. Plus, he didn’t like how friendly Bill was. He didn’t want to like this man.
Bill glanced at his watch. “I don’t have to be at work until three.” Bill gestured to two seats at the Formica table. Bill’s wedding band glinted in the sun. “Your wife,” Charlie said, taking a seat. “Where is she?”
Charlie put his hands around the cup, warming them. He smelled cinnamon in the coffee, and he thought of April, sifting cinnamon over her morning toast.
“Surgical nurse,” Bill said finally. “McGee Hospital for Women. Met her in an emergency room when I had this kidney infection. Married her a year later.” He took a long, slow sip of coffee. “That was twenty years ago.”
Bill squeezed his eyes shut, so that a fan of wrinkles bloomed in the corners. “Let’s be honest,” he said. “How is April?”
Charlie looked at Bill closely. He saw the tiny scar across Bill’s cheek and wondered if April had kissed it. He saw the way Bill kept tapping one finger on the table, as if he were waiting for something. Charlie had a thousand things he wanted to ask him, how had they met, what had Bill said that made April step out of her life and into his, why had April been drawn to him, and what had even happened? Were they good friends? Were they lovers? April had once told Charlie that she could forgive anything but the one unpardonable sin: infidelity. “You can’t forget that one,” she said.
“April’s dead,” Charlie said.
Bill’s finger stopped tapping.
“She died in a car crash,” Charlie said.
He heard Bill swallow. “When …”
“It’ll be two years September second,” Charlie said.
“What are you saying?” Bill put one hand on his forehead.
“There was a suitcase in the car,” Charlie said, leaning forward. “For the longest time I didn’t know a single fucking thing about you, and now I do and I’m not sure I’m better off for knowing any of it.”
And then, to Charlie’s horror, Bill began to weep.
Charlie didn’t know what to do. Bill didn’t bother sluicing the tears from his eyes. He didn’t cover his face. Ins
tead, he sat crying, a sight so surprising, Charlie averted his eyes. Bill stopped as abruptly as he had begun. He dug out a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “How?” he asked.
The whole time Charlie was telling him, Bill didn’t move. “She was stopped in the middle of the road, her car turned around. It was a really foggy day and another car was coming. Sam got out of the car last minute, and I think that’s what saved him.”
Bill lay both his hands flat on the table. “Sam?” he said.
The sip of coffee Charlie had taken churned in his stomach. “Sam. My—our son, Sam.”
Bill scraped his chair away from the table and stared at Charlie. “She took Sam?” he said. “He was in the car that day?”
Charlie felt sickened. That day. You didn’t say that day unless you knew about what was going on then, unless you were a part of it. “Where were you supposed to meet?” Charlie said thickly.
Bill didn’t speak, but the way he looked down at his shoes made Charlie know what the truth was, and it didn’t matter whether he wanted to hear it or know it, because there it was. And then, Charlie dug out his wallet and took out the plastic binder, and, hands shaking, pulled out a photo. There were the three of them, Charlie, April, and Sam, standing by a big tree in the park, the three of them laughing. It hurt him to look at it now, and he suddenly didn’t want Bill touching it, so he held the photo up so Bill could see, and when Bill reached for it, Charlie jerked it away.
“I can’t believe she brought Sam,” Bill said.
“You knew my son?”
Bill shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t know him. We never even talked about kids. I don’t have them—I never wanted them. It was never a question with us and that was such a relief not to ever have that conversation, not to even think about it. All the places we went—they weren’t for kids. Casinos. Nightclubs.”
“You went to casinos?” Charlie asked flatly.
“There were never any kids around. And if there were, she never even looked at them.”
Pictures of You Page 28
