haircuts and tweedy jackets, and women who looked like older versions of the solemn young students. But I didn’t see Lily, even when, after lunch, and a second Bloody Mary, I took a walk through Winslow’s campus.
It was a pretty college, its campus gently sloping away from Winslow center down toward a pond that was circled with a walking path. I sat for a while on a wooden bench in the botanic gardens, next to a conservatory with a high peaked roof. There was no one around, and I imagined that this might be the type of place where Lily would bring her lunch. To this very bench maybe. I stayed seated until clouds appeared in the sky and the sun disappeared and suddenly it was cold.
I’d forgotten to refeed the parking meter after lunch and I had a Town of Winslow parking violation under my wiper. Fifteen dollars. I slid it into my jacket pocket and lowered myself into the Porsche. I was tired all of a sudden, and took the Pike all the way back to Boston, arriving at home just as I received a text from Miranda that she had safely landed in Miami and the festivities had begun. I texted her back, then went to my computer to check my e-mails. It was a slow period for me, not that I needed the work. The stock market, after years of stagnation, was surging again. My portfolio was healthy, and work was just a matter of filling my time.
Another text from Miranda: don’t forget take the lamb out of the freezer.
I wrote back, thanking her for the reminder.
I had actually forgotten and walked down to the basement kitchen, taking the loin chops out of the freezer and putting them under running water. The text from Miranda was strange, as was the overly sentimental good-bye. Was she up to something sinister? Or was it possible that she had broken it off with Brad and was suddenly contrite? Even so, that didn’t take away from what she had already done to me.
I went into the adjoining wine cellar and picked an Old World Syrah that would go nicely with the lamb. I opened the bottle and decanted it. The chops were starting to soften so I left them in their plastic wrap in a bowl of cold water, and went upstairs to the living room. I hadn’t seen the paper yet that day, so I sat in the leather recliner and read the day’s news while sipping a gin and tonic. After a while, I put the paper down and just thought about Miranda and Brad and Lily and everything that had happened, or that was about to happen, since meeting Lily on the plane from London. I kept involuntarily flashing back to the dream I had awoken from that morning. That awful feeling that once you’ve murdered someone you can never go back and unmurder them. You will never again awake from a dream and be able to lie there, telling yourself that your life may be a catalog of sin, but that you are not a murderer. And I suddenly realized that my plan to kill Miranda and Brad had become a means to an end, had become a way to get closer to Lily, and that I didn’t necessarily need to commit murder to get there. I could simply tell Miranda I wanted a divorce, then e-mail Lily and ask her if she were free for dinner. No one but us would ever know about the plans we had made. Miranda could have Brad, and I’d have Lily, and the world would keep on spinning. I had always been good at compartmentalizing, and I would put all my rage and shame over what had happened with Miranda into a box and close it. I would hand my marriage to the lawyers; half of all my money was more than enough. A feeling of relief swept through me. It was like waking from a bad dream and realizing that it was just a dream, that it hadn’t actually happened.
The doorbell chimed, and I jumped a little in my chair.
Walking to the door I instinctively looked at my watch. It was just past six. Who would be stopping by? I told myself it was probably a deliveryman, and tried to remember if I was waiting for a package.
I put the chain across the door and swung it open five inches. It was Brad Daggett, a slightly embarrassed smile