Young Wives. Olivia Goldsmith
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problem,” he answered. “And you’ll be home tonight?”
“Absolutely,” she told him. “I might see Lisa for a drink before I leave, but I’ll call your machine if I do.”
Angela was early, so when the plane started to board she got one of the bulkhead seats near the window. At eleven A.M., the shuttle wasn’t packed, though the flights at seven, eight, and nine must have been jammed. When the doors closed the seat beside her was still empty. She crossed her legs.
She wasn’t one hundred percent sure why she was going to do this thing—a sort of cat burglary cum/slash-and-burn operation. She hadn’t told Lisa, nor Reid. She didn’t have to tell him. She was determined not to touch his stuff. Anything that was his or theirs was repugnant to her, but she wanted to remove any trace of her that had existed there, to be sure he knew she was gone forever.
Angie had always felt that a space took on the attributes of the person or people who lived there—even if they didn’t want it to. Her father’s new house seemed as desolate and lost as he did. It was the house of a family man who’d lost his family. Her mother’s place seemed worse in a way. But Angela remembered the apartment they had all lived in back when they’d been a family. It had been crowded with warmth—well-used pots in the kitchen, throw pillows on all the stuffed furniture, family pictures and drawings and report cards and mementos everywhere. It had been a comfortable place. She’d begun to make a place like that for Reid. But now she’d never finish the job.
This was going to be harder than she’d realized. The more Angie thought about it, the more she was convinced she needed help. The only person she knew of who could help her was Lisa. Angie lifted up the handset in the seat and slid through her credit card, then punched in the number. She hoped Lisa wasn’t out of the office. Lisa’s voice mail picked up. Shit. Well, she’d just leave a message and hope that Lisa wasn’t spending the day at a deposition or something.
Angie guessed it was better than having a secretary answer the phone, though if one had, she could go looking for Lisa. But the secretaries were all gossips. God knows what they were saying about her disappearance. They had always eyed Reid when he picked her up at work, and she’d bet that they were talking about this now, if they knew. Did they take Lisa’s voice mail messages or did Lisa do it herself? Angie decided to be very discreet.
“Lisa,” Angie said to the machine. “I don’t know when you’ll get this, but I have a favor to ask of you for today. I’ll call you in about an hour.” She hung up, pressed END to finish the call, then wondered if Lisa would recognize her voice because she hadn’t mentioned her name. She slid the phone back into its casing and slumped against the wall of the plane, staring out the window at the clouds.
All at once her energy had deserted her. This was going to be harder than she’d expected. Going back there, seeing their home, their hopes, their bed. Well, she’d have two strong Irish lads to help her, she’d do it as quickly as she could, and maybe, maybe Lisa would be able to show up. But it occurred to her that if she could just see Reid one more time, she might have closure. If she could speak to him and tell him how he’d ruined a part of her forever, she might feel better. She might get the weight of this shock off her back, even if it wasn’t dignified.
Somehow the idea of seeing Reid gave her a nervous energy despite her exhaustion. She pulled the phone out of the handset again, fumbled for her credit card, and called him. God, she hoped it wouldn’t list this number when her dad got the bill. He’d wig out. Definitely.
Reid’s secretary, an older woman named Shirley, answered. When Angie asked for him, Shirley asked who was calling, please. Angie noticed, for the first time, how high-pitched her voice was. For a moment she wondered if Shirley was the Soprano. But she’d seen Shirley. Shirley was really old. Angie had to mouth the words ‘his wife’ as coldly as she could just to get through it.
“Oh,” Shirley said, obviously startled, but she was wise enough not to say anything else.
Angie heard the tiny click as she was put on hold, but she was only on hold for a moment. Then Reid’s voice was in her ear.
“Angie? Is it really you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Oh God, Angela. I thought I’d never get to speak to you again. I thought that—where are you calling from?”
“I’m on a plane,” Angela said and, oddly, that made her feel a lot more confident. It sounded so glamorous, calling him from a plane in her busy life. For a moment she wished she could say she was on a plane on her way to Rio, or some place even more exotic.
“Angie,” he said. “Thank you for calling me.” He paused and she could actually hear him swallow. “I know what I did was inexcusable …”
What he did? How about what he was still doing? When Angie heard the past tense, she wondered about her calls to the Soprano. Was it possible that it was past tense? Angie, get a grip, she told herself. God, what was she thinking about? What did it matter? She looked across the aisle of the plane to see if anyone could overhear her. It was crazy to have this conversation in such a public place.
“Yes, it was,” she said. “It was inexcusable because it hurt me in a way nothing ever will again. I let myself be open to that and you never, ever should have taken advantage of my trust.”
“Angie,” he said again.
He said it in a way that nobody else did. His voice had the sound of his desire in it. He was the only one, the only man who had ever made her feel beautiful and loved. The idea that she would never feel that way again was unbearable, and Angela closed her eyes against it.
“Angie, listen. This may be the most important talk we’ll ever have. I see now how stupid I was, telling you what I did. How I did. But Angie, Ange …” He paused. “I did it to clean the slate. I did it to tell the truth and make things right between us for the rest of our lives. I promise, Angie.”
She was silent; her eyes were closed but a hot tear escaped from the corner of one of them.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she managed to say.
“Thank God. Listen, I love you. I’ll always love you. And nothing like this will ever happen again. I give you my word.” He paused. “Don’t punish me for telling the truth.”
She told herself she should ask him about the Soprano. That she should curse him and hang up. That she should …
“Ange, don’t move out. Move back in. Please,” he said.
“The flight is landing now,” she told him. “I have to hang up.”
“Landing where?” he asked and she heard the desperation in his voice. She had hurt him by walking out, by not speaking to him until now, and she was glad. “Where are you?”
“I’ll be in Boston,” she admitted. “But just for a few hours. I am going to stop by and pick up a few of my things.”
“Boston! Angie, I—”
“I hope you have no objection,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Then she hung up.
In the taxi on the way to Marblehead, Angela put on her makeup. Her face looked good. Her round blue eyes, with just a little mascara, perked right up. The sleeping she’d done had actually improved her face and her excitement had given her color—she didn’t need any blusher. She took out a dark lipstick, then decided on a pinker color.
Her hair was a total loss. She should have made an appointment with Shear Madness before she’d left New York. She fluffed her hair as best she could, hoping it would do.
She had called the movers from Logan, confirmed they were on their way, and had left another message on Lisa’s voice mail telling her that she was going to the apartment. In a way, she hoped that Lisa didn’t show, because she was hoping that Reid would.
Angie