by Merry Jones
“Look, Nick. You do anything like this again and I mean it— we’re done.”
Nick looked as if I’d slapped him. But if my harshness startled him, it startled me more. Even as I said the words, I regretted them. After all, I wasn’t the only one who was stressed out. Nick was pushed to his limits, too, and he hadn’t meant to hurt me. But it was too late. My words were making their way through his head, and I couldn’t take them back. Nor could I apologize; I hadn’t done anything wrong. But if Nick was the one who’d done wrong, why did I feel so bad?
I didn’t dare look at Nick. I was afraid of what I’d see in his eyes. So, before either of us could say another word or do more damage, I turned away, rushing off with Luke to the ladies’ room. In my peripheral vision, I saw Molly running after me, Anna trailing behind.
SIXTY-EIGHT
THE SWANN CAFÉ WAS five-star elegant, thickly carpeted, candlelit, divided into sections, each hosting only a few china- and crystal-laden tables. At dinner, I sat at Nick’s unscarred side, separated from him by a wedge of hurt feelings and uncertainty. As we looked at menus, he took my hand, leaned over and whispered that he loved me. I squeezed his hand, nodding, responding that I loved him, too, but in truth, I hadn’t fully recovered. I was still angry, still distrustful.
Anna had gone with Molly and Luke, assuring me that they’d be home, the kids in bed, by eight. Even so, I had uneasy feelings. What if the thugs looking for the jump drives came back to the house while they were there alone? I told myself that wouldn’t happen. That we’d only be away for a few hours. That I needed to get over being angry with Nick and focus on the moment. That this was, after all, the beginning of our wedding celebration; I needed to participate.
I looked around the table, noting how candlelight softened the faces around me. Susan glowed, her eyes sparkling, her smile warm. The creases on Tim’s face faded, making him look less harried, more youthful. And Tony—his chiseled cheekbones and generous eyelashes cast gentle shadows over his face, creating a living study of contrasting shapes, of darkness and light. Chatter and laughter blanketed us; as the wedding party drank and ate, it became increasingly jolly. My dad and Sam hit it off, making bets about everything. About how long it would take for the appetizers to come. About how a woman at the bar would react if my father sent her a drink. About whether or not Sam could tie a cherry stem with his tongue in under ten seconds. I tuned in and out of their playful, increasingly animated voices, listening to Tim and Nick discuss the upcoming Phillies season, Susan and Tony chatting about the history and evolution of South Street. Seated at the center of the table, occasionally holding Nick’s hand, I watched them, oddly removed, the only one without a conversation partner. And, soon, the only one who was sober.
As drinks flowed and the meal progressed, the table united. Every time a wineglass got filled, another toast was given. With Tony and Nick interjecting some objections and corrections, Sam went on at length, recounting Nick’s lengthy and checkered history with women, crossing lines of bad taste, congratulating him on showing some surprisingly good judgment in ending up with a classy dame like me and concluding by presenting us with shares of stock in a company he’d been backing and a week’s vacation at our choice of his many time-share properties around the globe.
Susan caught my attention and rolled her eyes, letting me know what she thought of Sam. As she downed the wine in her glass, I signaled her to escape with me to the ladies’ room, but before we could get up, Tony clanged his glass with a spoon and began to talk about the bonds of family, and how Nick’s marriage was going to extend those bonds to a new generation. Glowing with the effects of the wine, Tony expounded upon his budding affection for me and the kids. Susan clapped her hands to that and, refilling her glass, stood to give her own sincere and somewhat slurred toast.
“Zoe. You are my best friend, the woman who knows me best, the person—aside from Tim—who I count on most in the world. You are the only one—including Tim—who I know for sure will tell me if my outfit makes me look fat and who will talk to me even in the throes of PMS. Through thick and thin—I mean our waistlines, of course—I am blessed to have you as my friend.”
Everyone drank and applauded. Susan’s face looked blurry; my eyes were filled. Oh Lord. I didn’t want to be sappy. Susan had been drinking, so she had an excuse for being sloppy and sentimental. But I was stone sober; why was I getting maudlin and weepy? I blew her a kiss, mouthed J love you and blinked to clear my vision.
And then my father began, looking dapper as a game show host. “Here’s to our sweethearts and wives: May they never meet.” He was warming up. “Here’s to love: May we kiss all the girls we please and please all the girls we kiss.”
His toasts were clichéd, a trifle bawdy. Some involved bad puns. “Here’s to champagne for our real friends, and real pain for our sham friends.”
My father’s toasts kept surfacing all during entrees of Chilean sea bass, brandied duck and rack of lamb, but I was actually grateful for the comic relief, not wanting to dive into emotional pools. But as dessert was served, Dad raised his glass and stood, tapping his glass for silence.
“As a younger man”—he held his glass high, strikingly handsome and dapper—”I thought I had it made. I was a player—Zoe can tell you. Life took its toll. For a long time, my daughter and I were on the outs. I lost what really mattered: my family. But now, miraculously, in my old age, I have my beautiful daughter back. Not only that, I’ve got a son and two adorable grandchildren. I don’t know how long I’ll be here to enjoy them, but, today, I’m the luckiest guy in the world. And when I go, I’ll be leaving my family in good hands.” He held the glass out toward Nick. “Thanks for taking care of my little girl. You’re a good man. Here’s to you, Nick.” Dad and the others drained their glasses.
Touched, I stood to embrace him. As his toast had indicated, my father and I had had a long-standing estrangement and had only reunited in the last year. I stepped over to kiss him, and his spindly arms embraced me. A memory, another hug, flickered in my mind. In the kitchen, his muscled arms around me. My father had been so tall, he’d had to bend down to hug me. But before I could fully capture the image, it had gone.
When I took my seat, Susan was crying. Tim was dabbing his eyes, Sam blinking to avoid tears, Tony staring into his wineglass, Nick mistily blowing his nose. They were all a little drunk and sentimental. The maitre d’ approached with a package, announcing that a gentleman had delivered a gift. Nick examined it, probably to make sure it wasn’t a suitcase bomb, and when he deemed it was safe, I peeled off the wrapping paper. It was a photo album. Filled with pictures of our family.
Oh God. I knew right away; it was from Eli. The photographs were recent; all of them had been taken during the last week. There were candid shots of the brothers, Molly, Luke and me. Ivy was in one, Anna, Emily and Susan in a few. Oh my. He’d been around as he’d claimed, watching us, taking pictures.
My father was confused. “You mean there’s more of them?”
Tim wanted to know who Eli was; Susan wanted details. Tony, Nick and Sam were only too happy to oblige, recounting Eli stories. “He’s always got to pull a prank.” Sam seemed annoyed that Eli’s gift might take attention from his. “Always got to upstage everybody, but he can’t be bothered to be here. Eli’s all about Eli.”
The tales went on. Eli was inaccessible; Eli was elusive. Nobody knew what Eli really did for a living. Eli claimed to be a freelance photographer but was more likely working for the CIA or the Mossad. He worked undercover; that’s why he couldn’t be seen in public. He moved around working on secret, sensitive assignments. The stories were familiar; I’d heard them before.
As the others talked, I leafed through the album, saw shots of Tony out jogging, of Sam sitting out on the back patio, puffing on a cigar. There was a shot of Sam and me meeting Molly at the bus stop—that had to be the day the agent had been killed. There were a few of Oliver. Of Luke alone, of Molly alone, of Luke with Nick or Molly.
>
Apparently, just as he’d claimed when I’d found him in Luke’s room, Eli had been watching us all week, unseen, taking our pictures.
My skin prickled. The others, involved in Eli stories, didn’t seem bothered by his gift. But I was. Very bothered. Eli had been peeping. Spying on us. Invading our privacy. Who gave him that right? Who knew what else he’d seen? I felt exposed and resentful. The idea of him secretly taking pictures was creepy. But my privacy wasn’t the only issue. If Eli had been around to take pictures of sweetly innocuous events, what else had he been around to see? Possibly the murder of the government agent? The hit- and-run that injured Bryce? The attack on Tony? The ransacking of our house?
If Eli had been watching us all week, it seemed unlikely that he could have missed all of that. And if I ever saw him again, I resolved to have a word with him and find out what else he’d seen. The stories of Eli’s mysterious antics no longer amused me; too many disturbing questions surrounded him. I was determined to find out who Eli really was and what he was involved in. I slammed the album closed, as if shutting the blinds on prying eyes.
It was getting late and the conversation was waning. The men were getting loud, clearly ready to move on to the bachelor party, whatever that involved. I whispered to Nick, asking if he was ready to leave, but he put a hand on my arm and stood. Why? Was he going to give a speech? Of course, I thought. He needs to thank everyone for being here. Saying thank you to our wedding party was the least we could do; why hadn’t I thought of it?
Nick lifted his glass to make a toast. As I was seated beside him, my head came to his elbow and I couldn’t see his face. “Walter,” he addressed my father. “What you said before means a lot to me. In fact, this evening, this group—everyone here—means a lot to me.” He paused. Was he finished? I hoped so. I was on emotional overload, didn’t want to deal with any more, especially from Nick, whose expressions of love were, thankfully, usually understated or even nonverbal. Please, I thought, don’t drone. Just thank them for being here and say good night. Tell them you’ll see them tomorrow. But Nick didn’t say any of that.
“All night,” he went on, “I’ve been trying to think what to say. When I’m emotionally involved, I’m not always real verbal.”
“That’s true.” Sam chuckled. “Usually, he just grunts.”
Tony added. “Or pounds his fists.”
Nick ignored the heckling. “But tonight is different. I have to find the right words.” He turned to me, towering over me. “Because this is my chance to tell this amazing woman what she means to me. Zoe.” He paused and my face began to burn. “You’ve given me the highest honors I can imagine. You’ve allowed me to be not only your partner but also the father of your children. And so, I wish I could promise you that I’m Prince Charming, that we’ll live happily ever after and that you’ll never wish you’d never laid eyes on my sorry face—”
“She probably wishes that now.” Sam again.
“We all do—Zoe, run while you can.” Tony grinned.
“But all I can promise is that I’ll do my best. As a dad and as your husband. You mean the world to me.” He lifted his glass, and everyone around the table stood. “To Zoe.”
“To Zoe” echoed as everyone drank and applauded. People at other tables did their best not to ogle; undoubtedly our table’s rowdiness disturbed their dinners. But feeling oddly weightless, I floated to my feet and reached out for Nick, who put his glass down and wrapped his arms around me, tethering me to the ground. The wedding party was still clapping as I looked into his eyes and saw a deep sea of apology there. And as we kissed, I felt him say he was sorry with his lips.
It’s okay, mine assured him. It really is. And, briefly, I wondered what he was apologizing about, if it was just the sleeping pill or something more.
But that thought was gone by the time we broke our embrace and the wedding party was dispersing, ready to leave.
SIXTY-NINE
“ARE YOU SURE?” NICK offered to have his cab drop me off at the house. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I’ll be fine. Your cab’s way too crowded.”
He frowned. “Well, we won’t be late.” His mouth brushed mine briefly as he headed off with his brothers, my father and Tim to meet his rowing and police buddies at a destination unknown to Susan or me but which, since Sam had planned the event, undoubtedly involved bare-breasted women and poles.
Susan and I stood in the lobby, watching them pile into a taxi. The plan was that we would take the next cabs available and go home. But as the men disappeared into the city lights, I realized I wasn’t ready to go home.
“How about a nightcap?” Susan asked. Apparently, she’d had the same idea. A moment later, we were perched at the brass and mahogany bar in the swank Fountain Restaurant, Susan slurping up a Black Russian, me sipping black tea.
“I think Tim’s going to get a lap dance.” Susan pouted.
“Tim?” The idea struck me as preposterous. Over the few years, Tim had developed a significant paunch. His belly arrived places before he did, protruding farther out even than Sam’s, so that when Tim sat down, he didn’t actually have much lap. I pictured a poor stripper struggling to find enough room to perform and, with no surface to support her, slipping backward onto the floor.
The image struck me as hilarious and I burst out laughing, almost choking on my tea.
“What are you laughing about? It’s not funny.”
I tried to stop but couldn’t. “Just picturing it.”
“Okay, Zoe. How about this? Let’s put the shoe on the other—” She pursed her lips. “No, let’s put the dancer on the other lap. How do you feel about some naked-assed bitch spreading her thighs across Nick’s fly?”
Susan was right. That idea wasn’t funny. But she had had a lot to drink and was slurring her words. Lisping. Thighs came out “thizhe,” and Nick’s became “Nickth.” And she was so indignant that her eyes were popping and her spit flying. I couldn’t stop giggling.
“Stop it, Zoe.”
“Sorry.” I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. I was caught in a torrent, as if all my tensions had converted to laughter and were bursting out of me in a flood.
She watched me struggle to look serious, and as she watched, her scowl crumbled, frown inverted, and suddenly we were both howling and guffawing until our ribs ached and tears rolled down our cheeks.
“Oh, man.” She was holding her sides, wiping her cheeks.
I looked at her, saw mascara streaked all over her face, and that started a new round of laughter. “Your face—” I pointed, cracking up.
“Zhoe—” Susan struggled to stop laughing but slurred my name. And that, too, seemed ridiculously comical. Or maybe I was ridiculously hysterical and Susan was ridiculously blitzed. Either way, we roared until we finally couldn’t anymore, and then we settled down and sat quietly, wiping tears, catching our breath.
After a while, we were finally calm again. “Your dad seems good.” Susan examined a dish of complimentary salted nuts.
“He does, doesn’t he?”
She frowned, pushing the dish away. “Frankly, I’m surprised at you, Zoe. Letting them go.”
Letting who go?
“They’re too old for that nonsense. A bachelor party? At our age?”
Oh, she was still thinking about Tim and the stripper. “What was I supposed to do? I’m not Nick’s mother. I couldn’t ground them.” I tried to sound independent and mature. As if I didn’t really care. As if I hadn’t intended to prevent this abominably sexist archaic ritual.
“Like I said. I’m surprised you let them go.”
Damn. She knew me too well. I was surprised, too. “Actually, I was going to ask Nick not to let Sam plan it, but. . .”
Susan sipped Black Russian, waiting. “But?”
But the truth was, what with the agent’s murder, Bryce’s accident, the jump drives and thugs threatening Tony, I’d forgotten all about the bachelor party. But I didn’t want to go into all that. “
I got distracted, I guess.”
Susan nodded. Sitting beside her in dim lights among sparkling bottles, I realized again how solid a friend she was. At the most difficult times of my life—during my divorce from Michael, the terror of a serial killer in the neighborhood, a confrontation with human traffickers on the river, my reunion with my father—Susan had been there, by my side. She was my rock. I got misty, wondering if I’d been nearly as valuable to her as she’d been to me.
Suddenly, Susan put a hand on my arm. “But you know, maybe a lap dance wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
I tried to refocus, confused.
“I mean maybe it would get Tim’s motor moving. You know, inspire him?”
I didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to think about Tim’s motor.
“We’ve been together twenty-four years this June, married for twenty-one. After all that time, your sex life can get pretty—what can I say. Routine?”
Now, I liked Tim well enough. He was patient, pleasant, a good provider and partner for Susan. But the fact was, I didn’t want to confront Tim and sex in the same sentence. So I replaced him with Nick, assuring myself that our sex life would never be dull. And that Nick, at the bachelor party, wasn’t likely to participate in any unsavory sex play. He’d never be interested in something so shallow. Unlike his brother Sam, Nick didn’t see women as life support for their sex organs. In fact, Nick would probably be relieved when the gathering was over and he could come home. But then, I remembered that his buddies would be there. A bunch of macho cops. And buff rowers from his boathouse. And I thought about peer pressure and how powerful it could be. And I began to worry, imagining bare-naked, big-breasted women with sequins on their skin piling on top of the groom, but Susan had stopped talking and was waiting for me to say something.
