Friendship Bread (5 page)

Livvy’s mouth drops. “Tom, the Pilot is my car.” She had it before she even met him.

“It’s
our
car, Livvy, and what do you expect me to do? Take the bus all the way to Dixon? We can’t afford another car and I can’t go around in some beater.”

Livvy feels her throat tighten. There’s no point in arguing. Tom’s a pharmaceutical rep and needs to always look his best, not just what he wears, but also what he drives.

“Besides, the
Gazette
is practically within walking distance.” He adds this last part flippantly.

“Tom, it’s not within walking distance. You’re just going to have to give me a ride in the mornings and pick me up on your way home.”

“Liv, I’m driving all over the place for my sales calls. You can’t count on me to take you to work.” Tom takes his beer and goes to the living room. Livvy trails after him and tries not to lose it when he picks up the remote and settles himself onto the couch with a sigh.

Get up!
She wants to yell.
Hold me! Tell me it’s going to be all right!

Tom notices her standing there and gives her a pained look. “It’s been a bad day, Livvy. I just need to detox. Can you make dinner tonight? You’re a doll.” He turns back to the TV and flips to the Golf Channel.

She hears him cajoling some golfer to make the shot. Livvy turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen, wishing desperately that she had someone to call, someone to talk to. She doesn’t want Edie to know about their financial troubles, and all of her other friends just wouldn’t understand. She could call her parents in Florida but she knows her father will be disappointed and probably think them completely irresponsible, which wouldn’t be far from the truth. The only person who would understand is Julia. She’d be critical at first, but then she’d help Livvy figure out what to do. Julia has always pulled through for her.

But Julia won’t take her calls.

“Please sign here.” The UPS deliveryman points to the dotted line, and Hannah scrawls her name with the electronic pen. He hands her the long, slim package, glancing briefly at the sender’s address: “Delivery from Hans …” He stumbles, unable to pronounce the last name.

“… Weishaar.” Hannah accepts the package, pleased to see that the wrapping, the corners, everything looks good. Intact.

The deliveryman smiles sheepishly, but it’s a great smile. He’s tall, with sandy-blond hair and classic good looks, the kind of guy most girls fall head over heels in love with. Her parents used to have heart attacks over guys like this, worried that Hannah would want to date one of them, but they were being ridiculous. Hannah goes for the moody, brooding type, not the ones who look like they’d be happy sitting on the beach with a cheap bottle of beer and a surfboard nearby.

“I’m usually really good with names,” he continues apologetically,
and Hannah wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to apologize, that she didn’t get it right the first time, either.

Instead, she simply says, “It’s a German name. German names are tricky.”

“You’re new to Avalon?”

She nods. “Just moved here from New York three months ago.”

His smile broadens. “Then welcome to Avalon”—he checks his handheld computer—“Hannah. Is that you? Hannah de Brisay?” He glances back down uncertainly.

Hannah is used to this, to the double check that often happens when you are Asian with a Caucasian last name. She explains, “It’s my married name.” She resists the impulse to add any other commentary but her mind does it for her, flashing automatically to the headlines of her tumultuous relationship with Philippe.

“It’s French. My last name is French.” Is she so desperate for conversation that she’s chatting up the UPS man? “My husband is French,” she adds lamely.
Stop talking, Hannah!

“Oh.” The smile doesn’t leave his face but she sees him straighten up, his body language the equivalent to a tip of the hat. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Have a nice day, ma’am.”

Ma’am
. The word makes her cringe. She’s twenty-eight years old, but because she’s married, she’s
ma’am
.

She doesn’t watch him walk away, but smiles politely and closes the door. The house is suddenly silent again, the white wainscoting standing at attention as she walks down the hallway toward the music room.

The music room is a sunroom that doesn’t get much sun because of the looming oak tree out back, but it’s better this way. The small
room has expansive glass windowpanes that overlook the modest backyard, and it’s Hannah’s favorite view. Her cello rests against the stand and framed photographs of concerts and glowing reviews are hung symmetrically on the walls.

In fact, everything is symmetrical in their house. Philippe has a need for things to be placed exactly so, even the mail when it’s placed on the console in the hallway. Utensils lie patiently in the drawer, spoons spooning, fork tines shined, knives with their edges pointed down, perfectly fanned and separated. The canned goods in the pantry with their labels facing out, the stockpiles of boxed risotto in various flavors stacked alphabetically. One thing Philippe can’t buy enough of is nesting mixing bowls, of which they have almost ten sets. He loves how they are made to fit together, one inside the other.

“It’s like us,” he used to say. She knows that he has always been attracted to what he refers to as “her natural precision”—her body, her talent, even the way she walks. “You glide,” he would say, his accent thick with desire as he tugged at her clothes, impatiently fingering the buttons on her blouse. Nothing gets Philippe more excited than perfection, or at least the illusion of it.

And now … what? Hannah stares at herself in the antique silver leaf mirror on the wall, one of her favorite finds from a second-hand store in Brooklyn. Philippe never let her put it up in their apartments in New York and Chicago, but was more than pleased to let her hang it in their house in Avalon. At first she had felt a surge of hope that their four-year marriage wasn’t over, that Philippe wanted to include the parts of Hannah that weren’t just about music and beauty. But as soon as Christmas had passed, he was gone again.

She tugs at her straight shoulder-length hair.
Boring
, her reflection seems to tell her. Other musicians tell her they’re envious of its dark sleekness, of how smooth and perfectly straight her hair seems to be, of how elegant it looks when pulled back in a tight chignon while she’s performing. How easy it must be to have such obedient hair! They chalk it up to her Chinese genes, but Hannah knows better. Her hair actually has a natural wave to it, one with no rhyme or reason that looks terrible if left alone. She used to go to a salon in New Jersey
and then found another in Chicago’s Chinatown where she pays to have her hair straightened on the sly. Even Philippe doesn’t know. She always meant to tell him but now it’s too late—it’ll just give him another reason not to love her anymore.

The phone rings. Hannah anxiously waits for the third ring before answering, another Philippe decree.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Hannah.”

At the sound of his voice, she feels her heart clench. She grips the phone tightly with both hands. “Philippe, where are you? Are you at the apartment?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His French accent makes everything sound intelligent and romantic, regardless of what he’s saying. “I’m just calling to tell you that I am sending a truck over for my things. They’ll have a key. You don’t have to be there, in fact it’ll probably be better if you’re not.” He goes on, talking about some list they’ll have indicating exactly what to pack and take, but Hannah’s mind is swimming in shock.

“Philippe, just come home and we can talk,” she begs.

There’s a labored sigh on the other end, as if he’s speaking to a child, as if the whole conversation is too tiresome for words. “There is nothing to talk about, Hannah.”

Nothing to talk about? They’ve been together for seven years, married for four, and there’s nothing to talk about? They used to spend hours in bed doing nothing but talking. Well, making love and talking, and they haven’t done that in a long time, either. Still, Hannah doesn’t know how—or when—everything started to fall apart. Why can’t he tell her and give her a chance to make things better? She knows Philippe, knows that he doesn’t do well on his own. Unlike most men, he likes being a couple. He likes the coziness, the intimacy. He loves being in love, but how can he be in love if he’s not with her?

Because he’s in love with someone else, dummy!

This realization hits her square between the eyes.
Of course
. Even when they first met in New York he was seeing someone else, a concert pianist whom he dumped to be with Hannah. Hannah had felt
bad, but not
that
bad—after all, how could you control matters of the heart? Plus he told her that things were miserable and about to end anyway. And she believed him, ignoring the pianist’s pained look when they bumped into her at a mutual friend’s birthday party on Park Avenue.

“Is there someone else?” The question sticks in Hannah’s throat.

There is an interminable pause.

Then he says, “Hannah …” and nothing more.

In that single word, her own name, she hears his defensiveness, his irritation, his relieved unspoken confession. But it’s also clear that he’s not going to tell her anything more, and he’s sure as hell not going to apologize.

She buries her face in her hands. How can she have been so clueless? She thinks of her friends who play with Philippe, advising her to keep an eye on him. She had laughed, and then she had panicked, unsure of what to do. So she did nothing.

“Look,” Philippe continues, “just go get a cup of coffee or something. They’ll be quick, in and out. They know what to get, they have a list, they’ll pack everything up. After that’s all done we’ll talk, figure out what to do next.”

Next? Is there a next? There is only one “next” that she knows of.

Oh God
. She’s shaking as Philippe calls her name, impatient. “Hannah, are you listening? The moving company is on the other line and I need to confirm this.” He says something about the day after tomorrow.

Hannah is numb. The phone drops out of her hand and the plastic cracks when it hits the hardwood floor. She walks back to the music room, where she finally opens up the package that’s been delivered. Tucked amid all the foam packaging is her bow case.

She opens the case and pulls out her bow, rehaired and ready to go. She turns the tension screw slightly, pulling the hairs taut. She picks up a small cake of rosin lying nearby and runs it across the full length of her bow in short circular motions, feeling her breath return to her, the familiarity of this simple act restoring her.

The day after tomorrow
. Not if she can help it.

She settles into the chair, then draws her legs apart as she slips the cello between her knees. She takes a deep breath then slowly draws the bow over the strings. Instantly the room is filled with a deep, rich resonance that sends shivers up her spine. She closes her eyes. The music lifts her, carrying her out of her own body until she expands like smoke from a chimney, pouring into an open sky. Her thoughts are moved to silence as she feels herself dissipating into everything and nothing.

Hannah has never quite understood this, but she accepts it graciously and thankfully, even beckoning it. She doesn’t have to ask it to take away the pain because the pain is no longer there. It’s only the music that remains. The music, and nothing else.

The day after tomorrow comes. At daybreak, Hannah wakes up feeling achy and terrible. Then she remembers that the movers will be here at 10:00
A.M
. She only has a few hours left.

She works steadily, building up a decent sweat, her dark hair pulled away from her face with a bandanna. Her mind is admittedly blank, unable to process anything more than it already has, but fortunately her body is trained to work even when her mind cannot.

At 9:45
A.M
., Hannah pulls the bandanna from her head and takes a deep breath. She grabs her purse and slings it across her body, then walks outside, closing the front door behind her. She takes out her new key and inserts it into the new lock she had installed yesterday. Then she gingerly steps over Philippe’s things, packed neatly in boxes, and makes her way down the walkway.