The Affair: Week 2

by BETH KERY

  “I don’t know. I’m so confused.”

  “Yeah? Join the club,” Emma said under her breath.

  “I’ll be starting school in the fall. You know how hard the program is going to be. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

  “This is one decision I can’t help you with. You’ll have to decide on your own. But don’t not be with Colin because you’re worried I’m still in love with him. I’m not,” Emma said with finality, pushing back her chair.

  “Do you think you can ever forgive me?” Amanda asked shakily.

  Unbidden, a vision of her mother popped into her mind’s eye, her face sad. Worried.

  God, Mom would hate this.

  “I’m going to work on it,” Emma said honestly, briskly drying an errant tear with her thumb. “I’m going to try for Mom and for us. You’re too important to me not to try. But forgiveness is a process, not a snap decision. Don’t push it, Amanda.”

  Later, after Amanda had gone to wash up, Emma sat at the kitchen table with her computer in front of her, mindlessly checking e-mails and reading some articles on the Internet, trying to relax a little on her day off.

  A few minutes later, she squinted at the computer screen, reading intently, certain phrases popping out at her more than others.

  Automobiles Montand, French car company based in Antibes, France, that manufactures some of the most sought-after luxury sports cars and racecars in the world . . .

  . . . Michael Montand (Sr.), French, founded the company in 1959 . . .

  . . . Michael Montand (Jr.), American, sole owner and current chief executive officer of Automobiles Montand in addition to being founder and chief executive officer of Montand Motorworks, located in Deerfield, Illinois . . . exclusive maker of engines, intake manifolds, and carburetors for luxury sports cars and racecars . . . founder and backer of the world-class, experimental road race, The Montand French-American Grand Prix, to be held on the French Riviera . . .

  She clicked on a link and a recent Chicago Tribune article popped up on the screen. Her gaze immediately stuck on the image of Montand at a podium, two gleaming stock cars on display behind him. He looked sober and compelling in a tuxedo, his hands braced on the podium, his posture suggesting the intensity and focus she’d come to expect from him.

  Montand Motorworks Brings American Racing to the Côte d’Azur, the headline read.

  She checked the date of the article. It was July 17, the date when he’d called her to him in the Breakers dining room, she realized, recognizing the tux in the photo. This was the publicity event he’d described, the one with the “vampires,” as he’d called them. If he disliked high-profile events such as the premiere road-racing grand prix he’d organized on the French Riviera, he must be uncomfortable a lot of the time.

  “Emma?”

  Emma started, glancing around when Amanda said her name. She hadn’t really been aware of her intention to Google Montand’s name.

  “Yeah?” she asked Amanda, shutting her computer lid guiltily, which was stupid. It was only natural that she was curious about him, after all. It wasn’t every day she was set on fire by a gorgeous, aloof, cynical billionaire who kissed her like he thought she was his last meal on earth, and then rejected her like he’d realized she was poison.

  “You’re not going to believe who’s here,” Amanda said in a hushed tone, looking stunned.

  Emma’s heart lurched. Surely it wasn’t—

  “Toby Martin,” Amanda whispered, glancing pointedly over her shoulder.

  Emma’s hopes plummeted back to earth with a crash. Did she honestly think Michael Montand would show up at her front door?

  God, you’re stupid sometimes.

  Toby Martin was the name of their apartment maintenance man. He was the only maintenance man for more than two hundred apartments spread out over Evanston, Skokie, and northern Chicago. Their cheap-wad landlord refused to hire an adequate number of employees to service his units.

  “He’s here to do our repairs,” Amanda hissed disbelievingly. “All of them.”

  “Well miracles do happen,” Emma said after a stunned moment.

  * * *

  Colin had left at least a dozen messages on her phone since Thursday night along with another half-dozen texts.

  I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be, but please let me explain.

  I know what it looked like, but it wasn’t that . . . or it was, but not as bad as whatever you’re probably thinking. Please just call me so we can meet and I can explain in person. Emma? PLEASE?

  Look, I know things are over between us. But would you at least call and let me know you’re okay? I’m getting worried.

  Emma knew she couldn’t keep putting him off. She had to get this over with. Besides, she felt a little guilty after hearing the desperate quality of his tone and messages. He imagined her betrayed, furious, and depressed. She was set off balance and angry, but it was strange to realize what had happened with Colin and Amanda was only a small part of her odd state. Colin had been part of the fabric of her life for years now, as much a part of her existence as Amanda. The fact that Colin and Amanda were interested in each other sexually and romantically definitely changed things, adding to that sense of shifting ground and a precarious future.

  Their relationship needed to officially end. Colin needed to see she wasn’t suicidal or something. She wasn’t feeling sexually rejected by him, that much was certain. She’d been turned to quivering mush the other night in the backseat of a car by a gorgeous billionaire whom she couldn’t stop thinking about despite all the drama surrounding her.

  Not that she planned to confess that part to anyone. She was having trouble enough coming to terms with it herself.

  What if you really are upset and don’t realize it, and are acting out in a self-defeating way with Montand because you’re feeling rejected by Colin?

  One look at Colin’s face when he answered his apartment door on Saturday evening, and she knew that wasn’t the situation at all. She was ready to end it with him.

  More than ready.

  When he saw the carton she brought with all of the things he’d left at her place over the years, he looked sad and resigned. Even if it hadn’t been for her unexpected experience with Montand, Emma knew she would have eventually realized this breakup was long overdue. Amanda and Colin making out had just hastened the inevitable.

  Now all she had to do was deal with the poison fallout in regard to Amanda.

  On Sunday, Emma decided impulsively to go shopping in downtown Chicago. When Emma returned home at around four thirty, she saw Colin and Amanda standing next to Colin’s dark green sedan in the parking lot. They both stepped apart guiltily when they noticed her car. Feeling uncomfortable, Emma gathered her bags and headed toward her apartment.

  She entered the still, empty apartment, closed the door, and pressed her back against it, her bags still clutched in her hands. What was she feeling? She tried to be honest with herself. Was it jealousy for seeing Amanda and Colin together?

  No. That wasn’t it. What she experienced was a gaping sense of uncertainty about her future. What she experienced, she realized with a sudden sense of clarity, was the precise reason she’d clung onto Colin for so long, even when she knew they weren’t right for each other.

  The recognition fortified her. At least she’d put a name to what she’d been afraid of. She marched down the hallway, suddenly eager to look at her new purchases again.

  Chapter Eight

  The following Tuesday when she went to work, the skies were gray and brooding. Maureen Sanderson, the nurse on the day shift, greeted her wearily when she entered the suite.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

  “Cristina had a bad night,” Maureen explained in a hushed tone, glancing toward the bedroom. “I thought she was gone at least half a dozen times. But she seems to
be holding on for some reason. Her stepson is out of town. I know they have a rocky relationship, but maybe she’s waiting to see him once more?”

  “Montand is away?” Emma asked. No one had mentioned it during her shift yesterday, but she really hadn’t conversed a lot with anyone but Cristina, and that only briefly.

  Maureen nodded. “When she was doing so poorly earlier, I asked the maid to make sure he was aware that Cristina’s time was probably soon, just in case he wanted to say good-bye. Alice told me he’d gone to France.”

  “When?” Emma asked, regretting her sharpness when she saw Maureen’s bemused glance.

  Maureen gathered her things. “I don’t know. On Saturday, I think.”

  Emma nodded, striving to push down the hollow feeling that seemed to be expanding in her belly and pressing up on her chest cavity. What should it matter to her if he was gone? He was confusing and rude and it was better to be rid of him altogether.

  It matters, a stubborn voice in her head said. She tried to ignore that, too.

  She hastened to the bedroom, where she sunk into the upholstered chair next to Cristina’s bed. She saw what Maureen meant. Cristina’s color was terrible and she looked so tiny and shrunken lying there on the grand, luxurious bed.

  “Cristina?” Emma called, seeing her patient’s eyelids flicker. “It’s me, Emma.”

  Cristina rolled her head on the pillow and regarded her with rheumy, crusted eyes.

  “There you are,” she mouthed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My confessor.”

  Emma smiled and stood. “Hold on to your confessions for a minute. I’m going to get a cloth for your eyes.”

  A moment later she washed Cristina’s eyes with a warm cloth. Afterward, she gently applied one of Cristina’s expensive creams to the dry skin of her face, rubbing gently. “Would you like a sip of water?” she asked when she was done. Cristina nodded. After she’d drank a few laborious sips, Emma set aside the cup and straw. “There, that’s much better,” Emma said. She pulled the chair closer and sat. She realized what she said was true. Cristina’s gaze seemed sharper as she looked at Emma, a hint of her strong personality in evidence once again.

  Maybe it’s not the end for you yet, Cristina.

  “What’s this about me being your confessor?” Emma asked, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact.

  “I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

  “I was just here yesterday. Do you think I should work 24-7?” she asked, touched despite her jocular tone. She knew Cristina was not the sentimental, touchy-feely type.

  “No, you deserve the time off, but that doesn’t mean I like it,” Cristina gasped.

  “Watch out, Cristina, or I’ll think you actually like me.”

  Cristina scowled at her. “Look at you,” she rasped after a moment, and Emma realized she was actually studying her appearance closely for the first time since last week.

  Emma glanced down at herself dubiously. “What?”

  “You’re all dressed up. Or at least for you, you are. What’s the occasion? Did you do your hair and put on a halfway-decent blouse because you thought you were coming to my funeral today?”

  “I did no such thing,” Emma said levelly, refusing to show her embarrassment over the fact that she’d spent some time on her hair the past two mornings and relished wearing her new clothes.

  And he’s not even here. He’s halfway across the world.

  She squirmed a little uncomfortably when Cristina’s gaze narrowed on her.

  “I know that look. You dressed up for a man. Well?”

  “Well what?” Emma said, standing and straightening up the nightstand to hide her discomposure.

  “Who’s the man? It can’t be that boyfriend you talk about. The impression I got of him is that he wouldn’t inspire a blush, let alone that glow I see on your face right now.”

  “I must have rubbed your eyes too hard,” Emma muttered.

  “Have you met my stepson, by chance?” Emma’s heart jumped when she took in Cristina’s sharp stare. She felt so transparent. “Because . . . that might be a very good idea . . .” Cristina faded off musingly.

  “Why? Does he need a nurse?” Emma hedged, rolling her eyes in a show of amused exasperation. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the best of actresses. “You said you had something you wanted to say to me?” she asked, sinking into her chair again.

  Something flickered across Cristina’s pinched features. She stared at the curtained windows.

  “Is my stepson here?” Cristina whispered.

  “No. From what I understand, he’s in France. Cristina, do you need to speak to him?”

  Cristina’s mouth pinched together in the silence that followed.

  “No. Not yet,” Emma thought she heard the older woman say.

  * * *

  Emma’s shift seemed to drag by. Cristina slept through most of it. The silent mansion itself seemed to mock Emma, as if it knew about her stupid hopes in arriving there the past two days, had full knowledge of her naïve wish to run into Montand again. What did she imagine would happen? That he would seek her out, mad to be with her? That when she explained that she didn’t mind his using her to assuage his lust, because she needed him to do the same for her, that he’d immediately give her what she needed? It would be a lie anyway, because she did mind. Or at least at times she found the idea of him making love to her with no other impulse but lust unbearable.

  Her body was less worried about it.

  She was thankful when the annoyingly slow hands of the gold and glass clock on Cristina’s nightstand read ten thirty. Not too long now—

  Her skin prickled when she heard a slight rustling sound out in the living room. She sat up straighter.

  Someone is out there.

  She hurried out of the bedroom, entering the living area in time to see Mrs. Shaw’s stiff-backed form walking away quickly.

  “Mrs. Shaw?” she called, shocked by her unusual presence so late and the fact that she was leaving without speaking. In the distance, Emma heard the muted sound of steps on the stairs. The housekeeper was gone. Had she been spying? Why?

  Something caught her gaze on the coffee table in front of the couch. A dark blue, flat leather jewelry box sat there. It definitely hadn’t been there before. Emma saw a white linen card lying beneath it. She hastened over to the table and picked up the card, reading the typewritten message.

  Emma,

  You are made of much finer stuff than me.

  I’m sorry.

  Her face slack with shock, she flipped open the lid on the box. Nestled in velvet was a delicate gold chain with an exquisitely filigreed and etched charm attached. She’d never seen anything like it. She fingered the object in awe. It was a butterfly; or was it a spritelike fairy creature? The necklace was strikingly lovely and unique.

  She jumped when the phones in the suite rang. A tingling sensation rippled through her limbs, her fingers still touching the precious gold charm. Worried about waking Cristina, she sprung up to answer in order to halt the noise.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously, her heart starting to pound in her ears in the silence that followed her greeting.

  “Emma.”

  It wasn’t a question. He’d known it was her, just as she’d known it was him somehow when she’d started at the sudden, sharp ring as she stared at the unique necklace.

  “Yes?” she replied through a tight throat.

  “It’s Montand.”

  “I know,” she breathed out quietly.

  Again, that silence that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

  “How are you?” he asked, and she knew by the tone of his voice he was asking about what she’d impulsively confessed to him the other night about Colin, but also his reluctant, yet powerful seduction . . . his subsequent rejection. All of it.

 
“I’m fine,” she assured.

  “And Cristina?”

  “Not well,” she whispered very softly. “She asked about you earlier.”

  A short pause.

  “What did she say?”

  “Not much. She just asked if you were here. I think . . .”

  “What?”

  “I think she wants to say something to you. Before she goes.”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said.

  Emma nodded as if he could see her.

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow. After your shift,” he said.

  She gulped thickly. For some reason, she could almost picture him perfectly in her imagination, standing in the shadows and looking out an open glass door that looked out onto a grayish-pink dawn, his phone pressed to his ear, the familiar somber, intent expression on his face. The coolness of the chain looped around her fingers penetrated her awareness.

  “Thank you,” she blurted out. “For the necklace. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “I disagree. You deserved an apology,” he said stiffly. Neither of them spoke for a breathless few seconds. “Meet me in the garage tomorrow night. Do you remember the code?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  “Good night,” she whispered. She returned the receiver to the cradle very carefully, like she thought the instrument was as fragile as the moment had been.

  * * *

  Cristina had not rallied the next night, by any means, but she had plateaued. She was certainly no worse. Emma’s shift was relatively uneventful. She saw no sign of Montand, and she was too self-conscious to ask Maureen or Cristina herself if they had news of him. She wasn’t entirely sure he’d even returned.

  By the time she left work that night, the formerly cloudy, humid day had cleared. A near-full moon and a star-strewn sky bathed the back drive in soft luminescence. She entered the code to the garage and took that increasingly familiar, heart-knocking trip across the mudroom. The garage was silent when she entered, the lights turned down too low for Montand to be working on his cars or engines.