Left

by Mary Hogan

  I’D PUSHED FOR SIGHTSEEING. OF COURSE. MÁLAGA—THE birthplace of Picasso—is an artist’s dream. Color everywhere. The Persian blue Mediterranean Sea, butter yellow high-rises, marmalade rooftops, basil green mountains, air the color of honey. Paul would have been happy relaxing at the cottage, puzzling over words like “spork” in the New York Times crossword. Not me. I needed to see color the way other women needed to eat chocolate.

  “Orange.” It’s what John—Paul’s teenage son—had answered when I’d asked him what color he wanted to paint his bedroom.

  “Carrot, pumpkin, or cantaloupe?” My face was as inscrutable as Mona Lisa’s. Back then, John was in a Trainspotting phase. Peroxided hair, black turtlenecks, Lou Reed, heroin chic. He liked to test us. In those early days, I was a young stepmother learning on the fly.

  Stupidly, Paul and I bought a run-down duplex apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side when we were newlyweds. Marriage, I learned quickly, was hard enough without Sheetrock dust all over your clothes. Still, the moment I set foot in that space, I knew it was my home. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a bricked garden on the ground floor. And, its own special gift: a sunny nook for my easel. It was everything I ever wanted. Worth our sweat and tears.

  Every other weekend, Paul’s son lived with us. When it came time to paint his room, he smirked when he replied, “Carrot.”

  Paul weighed in from behind a newspaper. “N.O.”

  “It’s my room!” All teenage grimace and pimply flush, John stamped his foot like a child.

  “In my apartment,” said Paul.

  “Our apartment,” I gently reminded him. “And it’s John’s room. Why not let him pick the color? It’s only paint.”

  Paul shot me a dark look; I helped him lighten up.

  In the paint store, John chose a sickening nacho color. Paul opened his mouth to protest, but I silenced him with a tented brow. What did it matter? John was a good kid. A teenager, yes—moody, slouchy, occasionally reeking of hormonal funk—but tolerable. He chuckled when I said, “We should get two dogs named George and Ringo. You know, round out the band?” I loved him for not groaning. When John was with his dad, Paul, I’m sure he heard comments like that all the time.

  Seriously, I could have done worse. Paul could have had a daughter.

  “It’s not like he’s doing heroin,” I quietly told my brand-new husband.

  In the screech of a Primal Scream CD, the three of us painted the walls—and ceiling!—of John’s bedroom. Afterward, sitting on the floor eating pizza, Paul’s son looked around and said, “This is the ugliest room I’ve ever seen.”

  We all got a good laugh out of that.

  John is a coder now. He lives in Boston with a beautiful wife and amazing daughter. Like I said, it was only paint.

  “Fay is wise beyond my years.” It’s Paul’s favorite quip. Or was. Whenever he said it, he threw his head back and howled at his own cleverness. My husband’s laugh was an invitation to join his party. What I wouldn’t give to hear that sound one more time.

  “GRILLED SARDINES ON the beach in El Palo?” I suggested on our cottage patio, in Spain’s afternoon light.

  “Too many Speedos.”

  “A trek up Gibralfaro?”

  “So darn uphill.”

  “How about a stroll along Calle Larios in central Málaga?”

  “Watch every Latin lover ogle my wife?”

  “Paul.”

  “Spoon and fork!” he yelped, filling in the crossword. Then he set the puzzle aside and joined me in touring Málaga. Because he loved me.

  I loved that city. It felt like warm bread to me. Irresistible. The sort of city a person could devour when she felt cold or empty.

  Each day, Paul and I strolled the avenidas. Leisurely, like Spaniards. We left our New York pace at home. In the nave of La Manquita, we blessed ourselves with holy water and sat in dark pews to soak up the angelic rays slanting down from the heavenly stained glass windows. My husband lassoed me into the crook of his arm, pressed a kiss on my temple, and whispered, “Seeing you in this light is worth the trip.”

  I grinned, blissful. Wrapping my arm around Paul’s soft waist, I quietly leaned in to kiss the baby skin under his chin, the spot I owned. My body fit so snugly into his I almost heard a click as we interlocked. In Paul Agarra’s devouring hug, the world and its perils were safely caged away.

  Our life is a postcard, I thought, clueless. With a contented smile, I rested my cheek against my husband’s strong shoulder.

  Love as it should be.

  Not once, not ever, did I regret my choice. Not after our first anniversary or our last one: our twenty-second. In the early days of our marriage, I raised my right hand in the air and vowed, “I, Fay Agarra, do solemnly swear to allow my husband to be exactly who he is.” Paul promised, too. Our word to each other. We’d never expect the other to be older or younger. Paul wasn’t my dad; I wasn’t his midlife crisis. In the shower, Paul sang obscure blues songs about somebody doing somebody wrong. I danced the Macarena in our living room. I added blond streaks to the front of my brown hair; Paul let his temples go peppery gray. I tolerated his Tom Selleck mustache (for a while); he patiently waited for me to blow-dry my “Rachel.”

  After two miscarriages, my husband consoled an inconsolable me. He softly said, “Okay, love,” when I refused to try again. After my mother, my brother, my dad, I couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.

  Men my age seemed like boys, heads bent over their cell phones as if the present moment was never riveting enough. Eyes roaming the other tables in a restaurant; brows cocked when a woman asked a waiter, “Do fries come with that?”

  Paul is different. He’s a grown man. Words of commitment never get trapped behind overly bleached teeth.

  I love you. You’re mine. We’re us.

  Yeah, it shouldn’t have worked. Yet it did. Until it didn’t.

  Chapter Five

  I AWOKE TO THE SMELL OF WARM BOLLOS AND HOT CORTADOS. Spain’s version of coffee and rolls. Paul was just back from the village. Propping myself up in bed, I announced, “I must see the Alcazaba in the Alhambra.”

  “Where Colonel Mustard waits for Miss Scarlet with a candlestick?”

  “Ha-ha.” In my pajama tee, I slapped my bare feet over to the kitchen table and pulled my coffee out of the bag. The simplicity of our cottage soothed me. The white walls were textured, the dark beams were rough. A thin cotton bedspread—a mind-blowing electric blue—showed every wrinkle in the sheets.

  It was perfect. But I wanted above and beyond. Of course. Had I not always reached for more, more, more, never satisfied with the status quo, what happened would not have happened. I could have lived on in blissful ignorance. For a while, at least.

  “Seriously, Paul,” I said, “this is a must-see situation.”

  “Please tell me it’s not another uphill trek.”

  “Not exactly.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. I said, “It’s in Granada.”

  “What? Have you forgotten that we leave tomorrow?”

  After a swig of creamed espresso, I said, “I have it all figured out. We’ll take a commuter flight tomorrow morning, see the Alcazaba and the Alhambra, take a thousand photos, then fly back to the Málaga airport in plenty of time to catch our flight home.”

  “Fay.”

  “It’s the Alcazaba in the Alhambra. When else are we going to see a medieval Islamic palace?”

  Paul bit into a roll. “Didn’t we see the Alibaba here?”

  “Yes, there’s an Alcazaba in Málaga. Which is how I remembered the other one. The famous one. I need to go. It’s for work.”

  He groaned. When I played the work card, it was hard to say no. Finally, I was making money. Thank you, Etsy! My small business, Made on the Shade, had taken off. I had a backlog of orders. I’d swapped my easel and fantasy of a star-studded gallery opening for a flat drafting table, blank canvas lampshades, and a (modest) living. My bulletin board at home was littered with inspirational p
hotos.

  Crime scene photos were Paul’s art. He’d seen every unimaginable way a person can deface a human body. In his courtroom, from his perch on the bench, he’d studied the vacant gazes of murderers, rapists, pedophiles, robbers who terrorized their victims with shaking gun barrels pressed to their temples. He’d searched for humanity.

  “I’m ashamed. I have a mother. I can’t imagine anyone being evil enough to do this to her. The night I killed your son, I was blinded by a rage I couldn’t control. I will use my time in prison to search my soul for the answer you need most: Why? That’s my promise to you.”

  That’s what a grieving mother needed to hear. At the very least.

  “On the night it happened,” a typical allocution began. As if a bolt of lightning did the killing. As if the defendant wasn’t even in the room or on the block. “I was high on meth (ox, vico, black tar, China white) and don’t remember anything.”

  Authentic remorse was as rare as a surgeon apologizing for a nicked aorta. “Closure.” A ridiculous word some journalist made up. When Paul came home to me, he fell into my arms to forget. He loved the color I brought into our lives; I loved the stability. And him. Paul Agarra was the sort of man who surprised his wife with a cottage vacation in Spain when life pressed too heavily down on her head.

  “If I want repeat orders,” I’d said that morning in Málaga, “I need to expand my line. You know that. I’m thinking Nasrid borders.”

  Paul rolled his neck in a complete circle. “Will we have to rent a car?”

  “Already booked it.”

  Chapter Six

  THE FIRE HYDRANT SAT IN THE SHADE OF A GINKGO TREE around the corner from 1118 Hudson Crescent. I looped Lola’s long leash around it, leaving enough slack for her to sniff every millimeter of the hydrant without reaching the tree bed. Then I tickled the tussock of hair atop her head and said, “I won’t be long.” She didn’t whine or tug at the leash. She was happy to be left alone. At last, she had the chance to give a New York City fire hydrant the olfactory exploration it deserved. Pee mails from every dog in the neighborhood.

  With a sucked-in stomach, I straightened my shirt. I was ready. My Spanx jeans held everything in place. A Brooks Brothers tailored blouse—arctic white, professionally pressed, cuffs rolled to mid-forearms—was suitably patrician. As were my new periwinkle mesh sneakers from J.Crew. Most importantly, my hair looked perfect. Thanks to Anita. The day before, she had dropped by the apartment. When she saw me, she shook her head and announced, “Fay, you look like a Yeti.” Admittedly, it was true. Once my life began to slip, my look did, too.

  Opening her leather bag, Anita plunged her hand into its depths. She fished around until her fingers landed on the familiar rectangle of her phone. Her thumb was already in position when she retrieved her cell. I watched her expertly scroll down her contacts list and tap a name. “Can you squeeze a friend in for an emergency intervention?”

  I grinned. Sometimes I wanted to fling my arms around Anita Pritchard and hold on forever.

  With my fresh cut and color, and classic outfit, I made my way to your granite steps. It was time to take our relationship to the next level. I mussed my shiny brown hair. Looking too coiffed would look desperate. I wanted a breezy appearance. As if I’d taken a morning sail in the Hamptons before dashing for the Jitney.

  “Good morning.” Your doorman was different from the man I’d seen before. Younger. More darkly handsome. With a serene expression, I said, “I’m considering apartments in this neighborhood. Thought I’d check you out.” Then I tacked on a lie: “I’m moving to the city from Silicon Valley.”

  Chad—the name I gave him for his broody soap opera looks—turned and walked to a podium in your breathtaking lobby. It sat in the spill of light from a modern chandelier: a glowing mass of crystal gum balls. I followed Chad inside. “Nice,” I said, nonchalantly.

  “Here.” He held out a business card. “This broker handles our sales.”

  My cheeks flushed with pleasure. He assumed I was a buyer, not a renter. As I’d hoped, my outfit spoke of summers on Shelter Island, winters in St. Barts. Delicately, I plucked the card from Chad’s tan hands and pretended to read it without my glasses.

  “I’ll give them a buzz,” I said. “I’m Fay, by the way. Fay Agarra.” I injected a touch of emphasis into my married name. As if he should know it. It landed perfectly. Chad’s abundant eyebrows lifted. His dark eyes momentarily flashed white. He said, “I’m Juan Carlos.”

  My heart trilled. Better than Chad. Not Juan. Not Carlos. Juan Carlos. How incredibly inclusive.

  “Mind if I look around the lobby, Juan Carlos?” I asked, sweetly. Fleetingly, I wondered if I would call him J.C. after I moved in.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Thank yo—pardon?”

  “Our real estate agent will show you around. With an appointment.”

  To tour the lobby? It took a moment to regain my equilibrium. I brushed my hair back to reveal the diamond studs Paul had given me on our fifteenth anniversary. “I went rogue,” he’d said, handing me the velvet box. “Officially, it should be rubies.” Oh, how we’d laughed back then.

  Juan Carlos didn’t move. Neither did I. Though I did tilt my head slightly to make sure my earrings caught the chandelier’s light.

  Just then, an elderly resident entered your vestibule. A Pomeranian panted at her heels. He had the face of a vampire bat. Juan Carlos hurried to hold open your door.

  “Some idiot leashed their dog to the hydrant outside,” the woman snarled. “The abandoned dog is just sitting there looking forlorn.”

  Accidentally, I guffawed. After years as Lola’s mom, I knew every one of her facial expressions: jaded, arrogant, indifferent, hungry, expectant, and her specialty—the heavy-lidded bleary stare of a teenager who sneaks hits of weed in the bathroom. Never would she lower herself to look forlorn.

  Quickly, I covered my guffaw with a gasp. “A fire hydrant? In the glaring sun?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “It’s in the shade. Still.”

  “Still,” I repeated, shaking my head in commiseration. “I’m going to call the ASPCA this minute. I, too, am a dog lover. Juan Carlos, I’ll be over there. On that antique bench.”

  Without waiting for a response, I strode into the belly of your massive lobby with the bearing of Queen Elizabeth. The first one. Curling my lips over my teeth, I bit down on a squeal of delight.

  “Aarah, aarah.”

  The batty dog filled the air with his shrill yips. He didn’t have the lung power to summon a proper bark. His frothy caramel-colored coat looked like a vat of cotton candy. His tail curled over his back. At least I thought he was male. Who could tell with all that fluff?

  “Aarah, aarah, aarah.”

  “Benny, hush,” said the old woman.

  Male. Good thing. Lola was often a bitch around girls.

  “Ma’am—” Juan Carlos made an effort to oust me, but I cut him off.

  “One minute. Two tops.” Now that I was inside you, there would be no easily getting me out. I sat on the polished butler’s bench in your alcove. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and silently prayed no one would notice it was three generations old. With my back Pilates straight, I pretended to Google the ASPCA.

  “You’re a dear.” The old woman and her mutt climbed your three stairs—marble! polished brass railings!—leading to a far wing of your massive lobby. I longed to follow her and feel your cool embrace as you swallowed me up. Instead, I smiled like a cult member. I gave the elderly resident sufficient time to memorize my face in case she was on the co-op board. By the time they interviewed me, she would have forgotten about the dog at the hydrant. If not, I’d tell her Lola was a service dog. Her temporary attachment to the fire hydrant was training, I’d say. I’d been timing it on my phone. If necessary, I’d buy Lola a yellow vest online. She hates yellow. And vests. Still.

  “I’m on hold,” I called over to Juan Carlos, waggling my phone in the air. He nodded and returned t
o his post. In the glow of the interior stained glass windows—lit from behind—I sat back against the spindles of your antique bench. The textured glass scene: a winding, flower-edged path, a thatched-roof cottage, and a blue sky cast a rainbow pattern on my white blouse. I released a soft sigh as I looked around your spotless lobby. No doubt about it. Here, shielded from the untidy world, a middle-aged woman with a broken heart could start over.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WASN’T POSSIBLE. GRANADA WAS MORE GORGEOUS than Málaga. Madison Avenue meets the village square. Sunlight sparked off storefront windows. Limestone facades were scrubbed to the color of bread flesh. Above the street, in terraced apartments, hanging begonias spilled over black wrought-iron railings. Pink, peach, red. Leaves as green as zucchini skin. Gauzy white curtains billowed in the breeze.

  “So, where’s this place?”

  Paul looked uneasy. The highway from the airport was smooth and wide. “Like driving on velvet,” he said. But central Granada was a maze of narrow cobblestoned streets. Motorcycles leaned on the edges of their tires as they knitted in and out of traffic. Pedestrians disobeyed crosswalk lines. Paul’s eyes darted around like a pinball. He held the steering wheel in a death grip.

  “Follow the signs up the hill,” I said.

  In our rental car, Paul nervously lurched up a steep hill, through a high-end neighborhood, around a traffic loop. Jade spindles of skinny cypress trees jabbed the air. White stucco estates sat squat beneath their red-tile roofs. The sky was ridiculously blue. I took pictures out the window and stared at everything long enough to burn it into my brain. When I got home, I would mix Perylene maroon with Naples yellow and add a dot of titanium. Maybe the softest dab of cadmium orange? I would work until I got that Spanish roof color just right.

  “Park there,” I said, pointing. The lot was at the top of the hill, but at the bottom of a mountain.

  “We can’t drive up?”

  “The Alhambra was built in the ninth century, Paul. Like, a thousand years before cars.”

  With a sigh, he parked. Together, we got out of the car and looked up. At the same time I said, “Wow,” Paul said, “Whew.” He seemed relieved to have made it.