A Dangerous Fiction (18 page)

“Then answer the question.”

He finished his drink. “Valerie said the affair began when she painted Hugo's portrait and ended the night he died. He was with her that night. She called the ambulance; she went to the hospital with him. And then she stayed a little too long. She said you saw her leaving.”

“I did, but she wasn't . . . she said a neighbor cut herself.”

He gazed at me pityingly. Hot blood flooded my face. Of all Hugo had to answer for, this may have been the worst: that this Nothing Man should pity me.

“She made it up,” I said. “She's looking for attention. Great men attract leeches. She wouldn't be the first. How many women claimed they slept with Jack Kennedy?”

“Most of them did.”

“I bet you never even bothered to check. You just took it as gospel, whatever lies those women fed you. And you call yourself a biographer!”

“Knock it off, Jo,” Teddy growled. Finally I'd hit him where it hurt. “I spent two weeks in Paris. I went to the hospital. I talked to the triage nurse, the doctor who treated Hugo, and the paramedics who picked him up at the Hôtel de Crillon on the Place de la Concorde. He was there with her that night; that much is certainly true. As for the rest of her story . . . she knew a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did
you
tell her about your pregnancy?”

I gasped. Mingus came over and studied my face. I buried my face in his ruff. No one knew about my pregnancy, only Hugo and me. I didn't tell Val, and there was only one conceivable way Hugo would have confided that particular item.

Pillow talk.

I
didn't sleep that night. Two scenes played through my mind in an endless loop: Hugo and Isabel emerging from her house, and Val coming out of the hospital. In the darkened bedroom I did what I would not allow myself to do in front of Teddy: I wept with anger and shame. I wished Hugo alive so I could kill him. I devised mad plans to hurt the women who'd injured me. But my greatest contempt I saved for myself. How stupid I'd been, how willfully blind! Right under my nose, both women, and somehow I'd contrived not to see. If I'd read those two scenes in a book, I'd have drawn the obvious conclusions; yet in my own life I saw everything and understood nothing. I was all three monkeys rolled into one, a willful fool.

So much anger, and no outlet. The worst betrayal wasn't even the sex; it was Hugo telling Val about my pregnancy. Did he tell her how it ended, too? Did Teddy know? Every time I thought about that, I had to jump out of bed and stride around the apartment.

Morning came at last. At eight thirty, my eyes burning with tears and fatigue, I called the office. Lorna was there early, as usual. I told her I felt unwell and wouldn't be in.

“It's getting to you,” she said, with the grim satisfaction of a Cassandra. “I knew it would sooner or later. Why not take a few days?”

“I'll be in tomorrow. Just messenger over a manuscript, would you? Send me the one Chloe and Jean-Paul wanted me to read, that texting novel.”

After that I fed Mingus and took him out for a walk. It was my favorite time in the city. Gradually my aching head cleared in the clear, crisp air. We walked through the park for a long time, neither of us in any hurry to return to the apartment, and came by a circuitous route to the Central Park Carousel.

It was a beautiful old wooden carousel, with brightly caparisoned chargers rising and falling to the sound of a calliope. It was always the same, the carousel; it had stood there long before I was born and no doubt would remain after I died, the unchanging center of a city that was constantly morphing around it. Mingus stared in amazement, wagging his tail, while giddy children eddied about. The smell of roasted chestnuts reminded me that I hadn't eaten. I bought a bag for me and, for Mingus, a sausage from the next cart over. I sat on a bench to eat and watch the carousel turn.

Mingus had finished his sausage in one gulp and was now eyeing my bag of chestnuts. I took one out. The shell was as smooth as a riverbed stone, but brittle; when I squeezed it, the slit popped open to reveal the crenellated yellow flesh inside. I peeled off the shell and popped the chestnut into my mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the warm, buttery flavor. There is nothing better than roasted chestnuts on a brisk fall day.

As I ate, I felt stronger. The dark cloud had receded, if only for the moment. Raymond Carver was right, I thought. It
is
the small, good things that save us. Not lofty ideals, not hope or faith or religion, but concrete, tangible things: the aroma of fresh-baked bread, the taste of roasted chestnuts, the sound of a calliope. These things undermine our stubborn grief, bind us to life.

I heard a burst of high-pitched scolding, like a very indignant bird, and I turned to look. A little girl was berating two older, towheaded boys, twins by the looks of them, who were playing keep-away with a rag doll. As I watched, one of the boys overthrew his brother. The doll sailed directly toward us; I raised my arm to catch it, but Mingus intercepted with a leap.

“Whoa!” the boys cried in unison, and the girl wailed, “Oh no!”

I held out my hand to Mingus, who relinquished the doll. The moment I felt its weight in my hand and looked down at its face, I knew I'd seen it before. I had, of course, many times; it was a Raggedy Andy doll, brother of the more famous Raggedy Ann. But I had seen it somewhere very particular. I closed my eyes, and this time the memory did not elude me. I saw a cardboard box full of odd bits of clothing. I was tidying up, making room for my things while removing the scattered residue of Hugo's former lady friends. A pair of pantyhose, daubed with nail polish where a run had started; a bright-red lipstick; a brush full of long blond hair. I averted my eyes as I tossed them into the box, just as I would avoid looking at a dead roach as I swept it up. Between the dryer and the wall I found a black satin bra, C-cup, a small Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and a Raggedy Andy doll.

Into the box they went. I shut the lid and carried the box out to the trash chute. It wasn't heavy. I asked no questions.

“Lady! Hey, lady! Can our sister have her doll back?”

The twins were standing in front of me, the little girl just behind them.

“Of course,” I said, reaching past them to hand it to her.

“That was an awesome catch,” a twin said. “Could we pet your dog?”

“Sure. Say hi, Mingus.”

All three showered him with pats and praise. Mingus accepted this as his due and unbent enough to relieve one of the boys of some excess facial ice cream. The dog swaggered all the way home. I trudged behind him, lost in thought.

•   •   •

In the lobby, I stopped to talk to the doorman. “Ray, how long have you been here?”

“Be twelve years next month, Mrs. Donovan.”

“Have any of the other doormen been here longer?”

He thought for a moment. “Only Morris, the weekend guy. He's been here since before the Flood. Can I help you with something?”

“I'm expecting a package from work. Bring it up when it gets here, would you?”

“Sure thing, ma'am.”

Upstairs, I did what I always do when I'm upset; I called Molly.

“You're home?” she said. Molly never bothered with hello.

“I needed a break.”

“What's the matter? You sound terrible.”

“Teddy Pendragon was here yesterday.”

“And?”

“I hate him.”

“What did he do now?”

“Nothing, if you leave out the bamboo shoots and water torture. I don't want to talk about him. Molly, tell me again about that mystery mistress of Hugo's.”

“Why?” she said.

“Because my life is full of holes, and I need to fill some in.”

In the silence I heard a car passing and pictured Molly on her porch, the afghan wrapped around her, watching the world go by, or what passed for the world in Westchester.

“I never met her,” she said. “No one did. He kept her very quiet.”

“Who was she?”

“No idea.”

“So what makes you think there was a mistress, much less a kid?”

“Hugo complained that he couldn't work with the child underfoot. That's why he went out to Sag Harbor to finish the book.”

“But when we came back from there, we came together, and no one was living in the apartment.”

I could almost hear her shrug. “Well, that's Hugo, isn't it? Out with the old, in with the new. What's it matter, anyhow? She was before your time.”

“
She
was,” I said, then stopped myself. Molly had enough trouble of her own; she didn't need mine.

“Jo, are you going to tell me, or do I have to schlep all the way into the city?”

She would, too. I knew that voice.

“Teddy claims Hugo had affairs while we were married.”

A moment passed. “So what if he did?”

“You're saying it's true?”

“If he was fucking around, I'm the last person he'd have told,” Molly said, which was no answer at all. “What's it matter now? Hugo was Hugo. You know he adored you.”

“I feel like a goddamn self-deluded fool.”

“Listen to me, kiddo. Wherever Hugo stuck his dick, you're the one he loved and needed. He worshipped the ground you walk on.”

“Only because he walked on it, too.”

She cackled. “I have an idea that'll cheer you up.”

“Does it involve a killing spree?”

“More like a drive upstate. It's that time of year. I'd like to see the leaves changing—” She stopped abruptly.

One last time?
Had we come to that? I couldn't think about it. We made plans for the upcoming Sunday to drive up the Taconic to Old Chatham and have lunch with Molly's friend Leigh Pfeffer. “It's Macoun season,” Molly said, and my spirits inched upward. Another small good thing: Macoun apples.

After we hung up, I gathered up all the photos of Hugo from the living room except the wedding photo with Molly on the steps of City Hall. I put them in a carton and stashed the carton in a closet in the study. Then I removed Val's portrait of Hugo from the study wall and tossed that into the box too, along with the Hopi bowl and the mortar and pestle Isabel had given him, a gift whose significance struck me only now.

Just as I finished, the doorbell rang. I opened, expecting Ray with my manuscript, but it was Jean-Paul. His face was glowing, as if he'd run up the stairs, and his curly black hair was tousled.

“What are you doing here?” I asked ungraciously. “I told Lorna to messenger the manuscript.”

“I thought I'd bring it myself.”

I couldn't help remembering Molly's version of the way I met Hugo, and the coincidence made me uneasy. I pointed to the foyer table, and Jean-Paul set down two packages. Then he shut the door, which I'd left open. “The other one's from the doorman; someone left it for you. Lorna said you're not feeling well. You do look flushed.” He pressed the palm of his hand to my forehead, a surprising, sweet gesture. I imagined his mother doing the same to him as a child.

“I'm OK.”

“What do you need? I could walk Mingus for you.” He bent to pet the dog with a fluid grace as poignant as youth.

“We already took a nice long walk in the park.”

Jean-Paul straightened, frowning. “Central Park? By yourself?”

“With Mingus, my SWAT-team protection dog. Don't you start, too.”

“Everyone's worried about you, Jo.
I'm
worried about you.”

He was too close. I took a step back, which he interpreted as permission to enter. As he walked past me into the living room, I caught a scent of Ivory soap and musk. I sat in a corner of the couch and curled my legs beneath me. Jean-Paul sat beside me. We talked about the office and the morning's calls, which included a nibble from one of the small regional presses currently considering Edwina Lavelle's first novel. We rarely submit to those houses, because the advances they pay are minuscule, and there's never any money for co-op advertising or promotion. But Edwina was one of the writers who'd been victimized by Sam Spade's hoax, so money wasn't the object. Jean-Paul had found several small publishers with lines in Caribbean or immigrant literature, and it was one of those who'd called this morning.

This was very good news, because no one ever called to say no. “No” comes in an e-mail or a note; “yes” comes by phone. “They'll plead poverty, of course,” I said.

“Don't you think they'll offer more because you're her agent? They wouldn't want to look minor-league in front of you.”

“Oh, much more,” I said, laughing. “What's three times nothing?”

He looked shocked. “Really?”

“They're used to dealing directly with authors, and most writers are so eager to get published, they'll work for paper clips. But we'll do better than paper clips for Edwina.”

“So we hold out for stick-its and staples?”

“Maybe even a stapler.” We smiled at each other. There was a silence that went on a beat too long. “Well,” I said, standing, “you'd better get back. One of us has to work today.” He rose too, but instead of moving toward the door, he came and put his arms around me.

The hug was comforting at first, then discomfiting. His arms were strong. It had been a long time since any man held me, apart from Max, who didn't count in that way.

Then I felt his lips on my neck, and I pulled back. But Jean-Paul held on, standing so close I could feel the heat of his body. “Jo, there's something I need to tell you.”

“No, you don't.” I pushed him away.

“I do, though. Chloe says I'm nuts, but she doesn't feel what I feel.”

“I think maybe she does. You should pay more attention.”

He shrugged that off so dismissively that I felt a pang of vicarious heartbreak for Chloe. I was glad she hadn't seen it; but she'd probably seen and heard worse. “I'm crazy about you, Jo. I'm totally in love with you. I want to—”

“Stop!”

“Don't fire me,” he said quickly.

“I'm not going to fire you, you idiot. Look, Jean-Paul, it's been a tough time for all of us, and emotions naturally run high. I know you care about me. So does everyone in the office. You guys are like my family.”

I'd thrown him a lifesaver, but he swam the other way. “That's not what I meant. There's nothing brotherly about the way I feel. I can't believe I'm saying this. What kind of moron hits on his boss? But I can't help it.”

“You'll have to. We can't have that sort of relationship. For one thing, you're my employee.”

“If that's all you've got, I'll quit. Don't you like me a little, Jo?”

“I like you a lot. You're a great guy. But I'm not in the market, and even if I were, you're too young for me.”

“Hugo Donovan was twice your age.”

“That's different.”

“No, it's not. You know age doesn't matter.” His dark eyes bored into mine. I felt the heat coming off his body and felt the urge to run my fingers through those beautiful black curls, knowing full well where that would lead. I imagined Jean-Paul in my bed, the bed I'd shared with Hugo. It seemed a very pleasurable means of getting my own back.

Something must have shown. Jean-Paul, sensing weakness, reached out and pulled me to him. The strength of his embrace unleashed a terrible hunger inside me. Three years of abstinence, three years of dammed-up yearning, three years of not being touched . . . three years of starvation, and suddenly a feast lay before me. It would be so easy. All I had to do was acquiesce, and he would do the rest.
Go for it, girl,
I heard Rowena whisper.
If it's a mistake, it's a divine mistake.