home page, I find a contact form, requesting a few personal details as well as information about the case. I type in a brief summary of the situation, bite my lip, and then hit send. It’s not as if I’ve actually hired them. I’m simply making inquiries.
I return to the living area and clear the coffee table. The sun has set, and the city is beginning to sparkle. My mind circles back to another theory of Gabby’s, about the way back into my usual groove with Hugh. Dr. Erling seemed to be encouraging that as well.
After setting the wineglasses in the dishwasher, I swing open the door to the pantry cupboard and scan its contents. Hugh is due home at seven—I told him there was no rush since Gabby was stopping by—and it would be really nice, I realize, to have dinner waiting, a homemade dish since we’ve been subsisting on takeout. The larder’s close to bare, but I spot two cans of green olives and a box of penne.
What I’ll make, I decide, is a simple meal my mother discovered on a trip with my dad to France a couple of years before she died. Pasta with a sauce made of mashed olives, extra virgin olive oil, a dash of cream, and grated parmesan. I check the fridge and see we have a small carton of cream that, miraculously, has not yet expired. And there’s even a baguette in the freezer.
The plan energizes me, makes me feel a little giddy. I run the olives through the blender and set a large pot of water to boil on the stove top. I pull cloth napkins from the drawer along with matching place mats. And, yup, candles.
I switch on the pin lights in the ceiling above the dining area. As I set the first place mat, my gaze registers on the center of the table and I jerk in surprise. The orange roses that Sasha brought are no longer sitting in their vase here.
Hugh was working at the table much of yesterday, and perhaps he moved the vase out of his way. We ate takeout on the couch last night, which means I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed they’d been displaced.
I swirl around, letting my gaze sweep across the great room, from the kitchen island, to the small chest near one of the armchairs, to a console table against the wall.
But the flowers aren’t anywhere. I’ve clearly done something with them—and don’t remember it at all.
14
With my breath caught in my throat, I tear down the hallway to the back of the apartment, checking the den, the bedroom, my work alcove, even the bathroom. No sign of the roses anywhere.
Returning to the living area, I search once more with just my eyes. It’s as if they were never here, that I’ve simply conjured them up in my imagination. I circle to the far side of the island and pop the lid off the trash bin. And there they are, shoved deep inside, their thorny stems snapped in half so they’ll fit in the bin.
My heart’s hammering. I must have tossed them out last night, after dinner, because there are a few pieces of uneaten spring rolls scattered beneath. Pivoting, I fling open the door to the pantry closet, and sure enough, there’s the vase. Washed. Sitting in its usual spot.
I plop onto one of the barstools, pressing a hand to my forehead. Think, I command myself. Maybe I threw the flowers away with my brain on autopilot, planning for the next day, thinking ahead to the podcast on Tuesday. But I don’t have even the faintest memory of removing them from the vase, or trying to avoid the thorns, or rinsing out the vase afterward.
I snatch a fresh pad of paper from a drawer and scribble down every activity I can recall from last night and today: Chinese takeout with Hugh after my meeting with Roger; a bath, bed, breakfast this morning; working at Le Pain; the appointment with Dr. Erling; Gabby. What am I missing?
I breathe in for a count of four, hold it, release. And then repeat. The breathing technique ends up helping a tiny bit. So does resuming my focus on dinner. I turn the boiling water down to a simmer, scrape the olive paste from the blender into a ceramic bowl, heat a half cup of cream, then pop the baguette into the oven to warm. Creating this respectable meal from the little I had on hand is