prevailed, because it doesn’t always. But the experience shook me.”
The waiter had approached, clearly waiting for a break in the conversation to slip the black sleeve containing the bill in front of Rory, who’d smiled that warm, charming smile that cracked my heart in half, wanting more than anything for him to feel for me what he once felt for Maggie Moretti.
* * *
“Mrs. Cook, would you be willing to chair the silent auction again this year?” Anita Reynolds, the director of Center Street Literacy, looks down the long table at me.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s meet on Friday and figure out who we can start approaching for donations. I’ve got a quick trip to Detroit, but I’ll be back by then. Two o’clock?” She nods and I enter the appointment in the shared Google calendar, knowing it will pop up on Danielle’s iPad right behind me and Rory’s computer at home. These are the details I have to remember—scheduling appointments, ordering flowers, making plans for a future I won’t be living. Details that will cover my tracks and keep everyone believing I’m a devoted wife, committed to the many important causes championed by the Cook Family Foundation.
Thirty-one hours.
* * *
When I return home, I head upstairs to change my clothes and see that Danielle has repacked my bag while I was at the gym. Gone are the trendy clothes that I prefer, replaced with the more conservative suits and three-inch heels Rory likes me to wear.
I lock the bedroom door and step into my closet, reaching into a tall pair of boots and pulling out the nylon backpack I paid cash for at a sporting goods store last week. Flattening it, I slip it beneath the zippered lining of my suitcase. One piece at a time, I remove the clothes I plan to take with me from their hiding places and pack them. A form-fitted down jacket, several long-sleeved T-shirts, and an NYU baseball cap I bought the other day to hide my face from hotel lobby security cameras. I pull my favorite pair of jeans from their place on the shelf and slide everything beneath what Danielle packed for the event. Just enough to get me through the next day or two. Not enough for anyone to notice items missing from my drawers or closet. I zip the bag closed and place it by the door and sit down on the bed, relishing the solitude of a locked room.
It still amazes me how I ended up here. So far from home, from the person I once thought I’d become. I have a summa cum laude from Vassar with a degree in art history. I landed a coveted job at Christie’s.
But those years had been hard and lonely. I’d been numb, struggling to stay afloat since my mother and Violet had died, and falling in love with Rory felt like waking up. He understood what I’d lost, because he carried his own grief. He was someone who understood the way memories could creep up on you and squeeze until you had no breath. No words. When the only thing you could do was wait for the pain to subside, like a tide, allowing you to move again.
* * *
Outside my locked bedroom door, I hear people in the hallway, their voices a low murmur I can’t make out. I tense, waiting to see if they’ll try to enter, bracing myself for another lecture about locked doors. They can’t do their jobs, Claire, if you insist on locking yourself in every room. Downstairs, the front door closes and Rory’s voice floats up to me. I smooth my hair and count to ten, trying to wipe the anxiety and nerves from my face. I have one night left, and I have to play the part perfectly.
“Claire!” he calls from the hallway. “Are you home?”
I take a deep breath and open the bedroom door. “Yes,” I call.
Twenty-eight hours.
* * *
“How is Joshua doing this semester?” Rory asks our chef, Norma, as she pours our wine at dinner.
Norma smiles and sets the bottle on the table next to Rory. “Very well, though I don’t hear from him as much as I’d like to.”
Rory laughs and takes a small sip, nodding his approval. “That’s how it’s supposed to be, I’m afraid. Tell him I’m hoping for another semester on the dean’s list.”