his head with bemusement. What did I think? That Nina was in Los Angeles, and he’d gone looking for her. That he came back with a car full of his belongings that weren’t in Portland at all. And that would mean…what? That at least something of his history was a lie?
But I prefer his version of events, even if it all feels just a hair too convenient.
I put my hand over his, pressing it tighter against my cheek. “I don’t know very much about you, you know. We’re still strangers.”
“My Vanessa, we’re not strangers in the ways it counts.” He tips my chin up, so that he’s looking directly into my eyes. “I’m not hiding anything from you, my love. I’m an open book, I swear. If you are worried about something, just ask me. Don’t snoop around behind my back, OK?”
“I won’t,” I promise. I bury my face in his neck, because that seems like the safest place to be. He pulls my face up again and kisses me, and then picks me up in his arms and carries me up the stairs to the bedroom. And that’s it, the subject is closed. We’re both relieved to move on.
* * *
—
Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
We make martinis, we cook dinner, we chat about tomorrow’s plans for New Year’s Eve. It’s decided that we will leave the house, for a change, and go to a nice restaurant to celebrate. Things are shifting; we are settling into a new routine, ready to leave the cocoon and face the greater world. We smile, we laugh, we make love, and everything is fine.
I think.
* * *
—
New Year’s Eve. I have dragged another dress out of retirement, a wool Alexander Wang with leather detail. Tights, knee-high boots. Nothing too ostentatious: This is Tahoe after all. Most of the people at the restaurant will probably be in jeans.
Michael has unearthed a suit from one of the duffel bags that he brought back from Oregon—a very modern Tom Ford, I’m surprised to note. It drapes easily across his shoulders and chest, perfectly tailored; he shoots his cuffs with a practiced flick of his wrists, as if he was born to wear formal clothes and not the lumberjack duds he’s been living in. I feel like I’m seeing a whole new side of him, a glimpse of the aristocratic life he was born into. Who knew that my academic husband followed men’s fashion trends? (I confess, I’m just a little pleased!)
It’s like we’re playing at dress up, donning the roles of husband and wife for our first public appearance. He zips up my dress. I fiddle with the knot in his tie. We laugh at how conventional we are being, how domestic. I’m high on champagne, and happy: This is the fullest that Stonehaven has felt since my mother died and my brother landed in a mental institution. This is what I’ve longed for, for years. It feels like home.
We have reservations at a lakefront restaurant in Tahoe City, where there will be live music and dancing. I settle into the passenger seat of his BMW. When I go to type the address into the navigation system I notice that the destination history has been completely erased. I sit back, say nothing. Michael turns on the radio and soft jazz swells from the surround-sound speakers. He reaches over and takes my hand, and I smile blankly out the windshield as we back out of the garage.
The destination history has been erased. The Los Angeles address is gone.
But it’s not gone, because I already memorized it. I already memorized it; and yesterday afternoon, while Michael was having his postcoital nap, I plugged the address into Google Maps. So I already know that it doesn’t belong to a BMW dealership at all. It belongs to a tiny, vine-covered bungalow in the hills of East Los Angeles.
* * *
—
Why am I so relieved to discover that the New Year’s party is at a family-style restaurant? We are seated at long communal tables, surrounded by friendly strangers on all sides; strangers whose wine-soaked curiosity about Michael and me prevents us from having any one-on-one conversation.