Someone Else's Husband(19)

“Nothing wrong with a good fruit bowl,” I offered, smiling at Richard.

“Buying art, that’s what Richard loves now,” Brooks said. “You should see his apartment. It’s like an annex of the Met. That’s what happens when you make it big after you marry someone filthy rich—to be clear.”

Richard shook his head, seeming irritated, but didn’t look back at Brooks. Scotty clapped his hands together, cutting the tension. “So, what are your paintings like, Frankie?”

“Oh, I…” Naked women. I only paint suggestive pictures of naked women.

I hoped Brooks hadn’t looked too closely at my work. Men sometimes got uncomfortable around my paintings—too confrontational, a gallerist had once said to me. They presented the naked female form in a way that was alluring but also painfully fractured.

My paintings were technically a modern form of Cubism. At least that’s what I’d been told. I didn’t set out to paint in any particular way. I don’t remember setting out at all—I started painting when I was a little girl and never stopped. The work had always sprung from some instinctual place that had naturally evolved as I matured and developed my technique.

“Do you have any photos?” Van asked.

“I don’t have service right now.” This was true, but I also had plenty of photos saved on my phone. “Maybe if we have Wi-Fi once we get to camp…”

“Hey, Bakari!” Brooks called up to the front. “What is the situation with phone service here? There are some things at work I need to take care of. I read there’s Wi-Fi on the mountain, right?”

“Ha” was Bakari’s only reply.

“Is that a ‘ha, no’?” Scotty asked. “I told Hilary I’d check in every day.”

I was suddenly self-conscious that I had no one to check in with. Noah was my emergency contact. But his husband, Max, would probably be delighted that I wasn’t checking in.

“We will have Wi-Fi only at base camp. A few places on the mountain there is sometimes a phone signal. But only here and there. It is difficult to predict. You will know when you see the porters using their phones. There is never any signal for the first three days.”

Silence descended in the car. Three days. That was a long time to be off the grid even for me, and my grid was small.

“That’s not going to work for me at the moment,” Brooks muttered.

“Come on, it’s not like Grace Chemical can fire you,” Richard offered.

Brooks shot Richard a look.

“Says who?” Scotty asked. “Boards do all sorts of crazy shit. Even if the family doesn’t want it. Actually, especially then. We just had a case—”

“Scotty!” Brooks snapped, which seemed to startle everyone. “How is that helpful?”

Everyone stayed quiet for a moment.

“I think we should all take it easy on Brooks,” Van offered gently. “He’s got some sharks circling the boardroom.”

“So, Frankie—those paintings of yours…” Scotty jumped in. “Maybe you can just describe them for us.”

Describe them. I felt disproportionately annoyed. People trying to get me to explain my work in some logical way always broke my heart a little bit.

Richard cut in before I could respond. “Maybe she doesn’t feel like reducing her life’s work to sound bites just so you idiots can feel cultured.”

In that moment I knew two things. Richard was a more complicated person than his friends made him seem. And I was already in trouble.



* * *



*

“I’m sorry,” Richard says finally. “I’ve been talking your ear off.” And crying. At one point, I saw a tear make it out of his eye before he wiped it away. It made my own chest feel tight.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “Really. What are friends for?”

Richard turns to look at me, narrows his eyes. “Friends.” It’s not a question, exactly.

“Anyway, you distracted me from my own shit, which is good.”

“What shit?” Richard asks.

“No, no, it’s fine. We don’t need to—”

“Come on, Frankie,” Richard says quietly.

And really, why did I bring it up if I didn’t, on some level, want Richard to know? I didn’t mention the unknown caller to Noah because I didn’t want him to feel bad. Even after all these years, I knew he still felt guilty about what happened that night. It was his parents’ house. And he’d been off having fun somewhere at the party without me. Not that his being there would have changed anything.

“Just some guy from a really long time ago,” I say finally. “He’s resurfaced. He called me last night. At least I think he did. It’s got me a little…unsettled.”

“Someone you dated?”

“Sort of.”

Does this feel better, saying some of it out loud? I’m not sure. Just thinking about the situation still makes me feel ashamed. I know that’s ridiculous. It wasn’t my fault. Of course I know that. Or my brain knows that. My body seems to be holding on to a different set of conclusions.

I remind myself it’s just been the one call from the 508 area code. The real problem is what I discovered when I did a little internet digging this morning. Senator Adam Foley is running for another office, this time governor of Massachusetts, which many people predict is just the next step in the long road to the White House. It makes sense that he’s showing up now, to make sure the me-shaped pothole is paved over, smoothed into oblivion.