Everywhere That Mary Went. Lisa Scottoline
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on. It won’t kill you.”
“Tell me one thing. What kind of car do you drive?”
“Talk about a non sequitur!” he says, with a deep laugh. It’s a merry sound, happy and relieved, and shows his teeth to advantage. They’re white and even, I bet they grew in that way. “Okay, I confess. I drive a Miata.”
“What color?”
“White.”
“Do you have a car phone?”
“You want to see my W-2? I can afford dinner, you know.”
“That’s not why I’m asking, and we’ll split dinner.”
“So why are you asking? And no, we won’t.”
“Just tell me, okay? Please.”
“Of course I don’t have a car phone. The Miata is as pretentious as I get.”
So I agree, reluctantly.
Dinner turns out to be no fun at all in the beginning, when I’m busy worrying about whether Ned rents the car he follows me around in. Then he orders me a Tanqueray-and-tonic, and it eases my anxiety on impact. I begin to enjoy the restaurant, an elegant one overlooking Rittenhouse Square, and Ned’s conversation, which comes more easily than it used to. In fact, he’s changed a lot, as far as I can tell. He seems freer, more lively. We trade firm gossip, and he confides that he’s always been intrigued by Judy. An enigma, he calls her. I find this funny, since she’s no fan of his either. By the refill of my drink, I confess that Judy calls him Cool.
“Why does she call me that? I’m not cool at all.”
“You are cool, Cool.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
He laughs. “This is mature.”
“Admit it! Look at you, you’re a preppie hunk. You’re like a J. Crew catalog, only alive.” I realize I’m flirting, even as I speak. It not only scares the shit out of me, it makes me feel profoundly guilty. I celebrated my first motion with Mike, and here I am, celebrating my second with Ned. And I’m still Mike’s wife, inside. I clam up.
Ned doesn’t notice my silence and launches into his life story. He tells me about his wealthy Main Line family and his father, who’s the managing partner of the Masterson firm. When he’s finished his Dover sole, he changes the subject, as if he suddenly became aware that he’d been soliloquizing. “Only two months to go until P-day. June 1st, the partnership election.”
I move a radish around on my plate.
“I didn’t think June would be a good month for you. Isn’t that when your husband—”
“Yes.” The anniversary of Mike’s death is June 28, but I didn’t think Ned knew that. “How did you—”
“I remember. I went to the funeral.”
“You did?” I’m not sure I want to talk about this.
“I didn’t think you’d mind. I wanted to go. Mike seemed like a very nice guy. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t think you ever met him.”
“Sure I did. You introduced us when he came by school to meet you for lunch. He rode his bike over. He rode a bike, right?”
I nod yes. I line up my forks, squaring the tines off at the top.
“I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned—”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Well. Let’s see, at least one good thing will happen in June.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re making partner.”
“Please. You make it sound like a done deal.”
“It is. You’re a shoo-in. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”
Then I remember what Berkowitz said about Ned’s coming in to see him. “I heard they were only making two partners in litigation, not three. Did you hear that?”
“I try not to believe every rumor I hear, there are so many flying around. First I heard they were making three, then I heard it was down to two. This morning I heard that the Washington office was going to push through one of the lateral hires. It’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head.
“A lateral? In Washington? Shit.”
“I’m sure they’ll make three from Philly, Mary. The department’s had a great year.”
“Yeah. I guess.” I note that he doesn’t mention his meeting with Berkowitz on this very subject. I regard this as a material omission, and it makes me doubt him all the way through the dessert, shaved chocolate somethings.
Later, Ned insists on walking me home, since it’s only a few blocks from his house. We walk in silence on this muggy night, so humid that the air forms halos around the mercury vapor lights. Rittenhouse Square is almost deserted. The runners have run home, the walkers have walked. Only the homeless remain, sleeping on the park benches as we go by. I look around for the dark car, but it’s nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, before we’ve reached my doorstep, Ned kisses me. I’m totally unprepared for it, and his hesitant peck lands on my right eyebrow. I feel mortified. I worry about whether my neighbors saw. I worry about whether Alice saw. I even worry about whether Mike saw. I hurry inside, muttering a hasty good-bye to Ned, who looks concerned and sorry as I close the door.
I gather my mail from the floor and am about to stick it under my arm when I remember that, as of this morning, the United States mail is no longer my friend. I set down my briefcase and look through the letters, holding my breath. Bills: Philadelphia Electric, Greater Media Cable, Allstate, Vanity Fair. Two more catalogs, sent to DiNunziatoi and O’Nunzion respectively, and then a small white envelope, with no return address. My name is on the front, spelled correctly in block letters, and so is my home address. The stamp is an unfurled American flag.
Just like the note at work. I swallow hard.
I run my finger across the front. Laser-printed, not typed.
I tear open the envelope. Inside is a small white piece of paper:
I’M THE PERFECT ANSWER TO ALL YOUR REAL ESTATE NEEDS!
And here’s the perfect recipe:
Artichoke Dip
18 oz. can artichoke hearts
1 cup mayo
1 cup parmesan cheese
garlic powder optional
Mash artichokes, mix everything together.
Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Serve with pita bread!
Call SHERRY SIMMONS at JEFMAR REALTY!
Christ. Artichoke dip.
I crush the paper and trudge up the carpeted stairs. I’m getting so paranoid I’m losing it. What’s the matter with me? Mike hasn’t been gone for a year and I’m kissing another man. What’s the matter with Ned? Is he trying to start up a romance, when one of us is about to be fired and the other canonized? I unlock my door with a sigh and flick on the light switch. I toss my briefcase onto the couch and plop down next to it, opening up the first bill.
Philadelphia Electric. You need a Ph.D. to break the code on your rate charges. I’m trying to decipher the tiny numbers when the phone on the end table rings. I pick it up without thinking. “Hello?”
There’s no response. No static.
I’m not paranoid. It’s real. “Leave me alone, you fucking asshole!”
But the only reply is a click.