Promise of Safekeeping : A Novel (9781101553954) (33 page)

“I’ve been working toward getting this promotion since I was first out of college.”

“Why do you want it so bad?”

She hesitated. “So many reasons. I want it because I
can
want it. I hate the feeling of my time belonging to someone else.”

“Like a boss.”

“If I get this promotion, I make my own decisions from now on. I’ll be the only person in charge of me.”

“And you’ll be in charge of all the people who will work for you.”

“That too,” she said. “Plus, my family will be absolutely thrilled. My dad’s planning a run for the Senate one of these days. Maybe.”

He paused, thinking. Over the last twenty-four hours, she’d told him more about her family: her ambitious father, her retreating mother, her brother whom she loved like a best friend. He wondered if she felt any need to compensate in her family for Jonah—who probably wasn’t considered presentable in public among the Hudson Valley elite. But he wasn’t going to make that guess aloud.

“Those aren’t
reasons
for wanting the promotion,” he said.
“They’re excuses. The only reason for wanting one is that you enjoy the work and love what you do.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to know,” she said.

He went to her, put his hands on either side of her neck. He looked into her face. When she’d first come into his shop, he’d thought she was hard and calculating. Now there was not even the slightest shadow of that hardness there anymore. The last vestige of it had melted away in the night. “Stay here a little while longer. You shouldn’t make snap decisions. You should think things through.”

“They’re voting tomorrow, and I have to be there. Besides, the reason I came to Richmond was to see Arlen. And he doesn’t want me here.”

“I want you here.”

“Will . . . ”

“I do. I want you here. You know it—even if I don’t say it aloud.”

“My life’s in Albany.”

“Your
job
is in Albany.”

“And my family.”

“They can visit,” he said.

“This is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy.” He took her wrists, gathering her hands between them. “Don’t go back. If you go back, what’s there waiting for you? A life where you have to walk around pretending to be perfect all the time? That’s not a life at all.”

“It’s my life,” she said, and he saw a flash of anger in her eyes.

“It’s a fake life.”

“And you know that from personal experience.”

He dropped her hands. The barb had struck.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No. You’re right. It is a fake life. The first floor of it, anyway.”

She reached for him, then let her hand fall, empty. “I don’t want to spend my last hour here fighting with you.”

“Why were you upstairs? What were you doing up there?”

He thought he saw her blush. “I guess I wanted to get to know you a little better. Some part of you that no one else sees. While I can.”

“This doesn’t have to be over. Albany isn’t that far.”

“You told me it was Oz,” she said.

He winced, remembering his own words. How hard he’d tried to make her seem so much different from him during those first days. He knew that it couldn’t work between them; they would struggle. They would be separated not only by miles, but by the strata of society, and by the bulwarks of
things
that were useless except that Will clung to them for dear life. Perhaps they might try for a while to be with each other, but inevitably, as with all the women Will had ever thought he might connect with, it would come to an end. Her sense of duty was a double-edged sword: it had brought her to him, and soon it would take her away.

“You have to promise me something,” she said. “You have to get help. You can’t keep living like this.”

“What’s the difference to you?”

“I care,” she said.

“You won’t have to see it. You’re leaving.”

“So let me leave knowing that you’re going to take good care of yourself. I know how this must feel . . . ”

“No, you don’t. You have no idea how it feels. You have
no
idea.”

“What I mean is, I think I understand.”

“Why? Because you have your own baggage? Because you’re hoarding all these invisible things like I’m hoarding bread boxes and skateboards?”

She straightened. “I’m not hoarding anything.”

“Everybody’s got a safety blanket. It’s just that mine collects dust.”

She filled her lungs; he saw the rise of her breasts under his shirt, and even now—while he was furious—he wanted her. He’d come on too strong. Maybe if he’d played it more nonchalantly. Let her go as if it was no big deal, then called to say,
I happen to be in Albany this weekend and I wondered what you were doing . . . 
But he’d never been cool or sly.

“I should go,” she said.

“Wait.” He moved quick, touched her. He was glad when she didn’t tug away. “You don’t want to go.”

“No?”

He bent down, kissed her. “One more hour.” He pushed his fingers into the short hair at the nape of her neck. He saw her eyes go hazy with want—the same that he felt. He looked into them as deeply as he could, as deeply as she would let him. “Read me, Lauren. What am I not saying out loud?”

“Will?”

He held her shoulders. “Read me.”

“No.”

“Do you want me to say it, then? Do I have to tell you?”

“Don’t do this. Please? Let’s not—”

“If you won’t just read it, then I’ll say it: I’m falling in love with you. And you’re falling for me too.”

She closed her eyes, and he kissed her. She lifted his shirt over his head; he hooked the elastic of her shorts with his thumb. They were both sore and exhausted, but Will went as slowly as he could. He thought if he could draw the minutes out, if he could make her crazy with wanting and keep her in that place, he might make her see—might make her at least want to
try
. He brought her to his bedroom, to kiss every part of her body, to smother her with patience, stoking the flames until she came apart under his hands.

Afterward, Lauren stood up from the bed, bent down, and kissed him. She stooped to gather her clothes, then looked at him for a long moment, standing naked in the doorway. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“All right,” he said.

He was still in bed, staring at the ceiling, when he heard the front door close.

Lauren had done a lot of leaving, mostly because she’d done a lot of traveling. She’d left Houston. She’d left Chicago. She’d left Martha’s Vineyard. Denver. Fairbanks, Alaska. She’d left Phoenix, and she’d left Edward there.

But when she left Will’s house, she’d felt as if she were fighting against a current. She’d left enough places to know that drawing out a departure and wishing things were different could extend the moment’s sweetness, but it could draw out bitterness too. If she’d lingered, Will would have tried to convince her. Deep down, she wanted to be convinced.

But because she wouldn’t make promises that she perhaps couldn’t keep, she’d slipped out, saying good-bye only in the quiet of her heart. She’d gone to his living room, to stand before his display of antique keys. Before, the keys had spoken to her as tools that opened doors, that exposed secrets. But in the moments before she walked out the door, they struck her not for the mysteries of
what they might open, but for the dead ends of the things they locked away.

Now, as she turned into Maisie’s neighborhood, one additional key hung from her key ring; it opened nothing anymore. She touched it where it hung beside the steering wheel of her car. Years down the line, when she thought of Will, she would not permit herself to think,
What if I’d gone another way?
But at least she would have something to remember him by.

She wiggled her car into a parking spot a few blocks away from the house. The sun beat down brutally hot in the early evening, the air so heavy and burning that it was difficult to breathe it into her lungs. The tasks before her helped to focus her mind: she would pack, shower, maybe take a quick power nap, load up her car, and then she would head out to celebrate Maisie’s birthday—though she wouldn’t stay long. If she left Richmond at eight, she could make it back to Albany with enough time to grab a little sleep before tomorrow’s vote.

Walking down the street with her purse on her shoulder and her underwear tucked in a pocket, she marveled to think that she’d meant to spend only two days in the city. That had been a lifetime ago.

She was nearly on Maisie’s block when her phone rang in her purse. Her first thought was that Will was calling her. Her second was that, if he was planning to yell at her for leaving the way she did, he probably would have done it by now. She dug out her phone, and when she held it up to glance at the number, what she saw made her stop. She heard someone behind her swear—a young couple had to split apart to go around her. The stoplight changed. She took a breath, moved out of the center of the sidewalk, and answered. “Edward.”

“I’m glad I got you. Sorry if it’s early. Or late. I have no idea what time it is where you are.”

“It’s late afternoon.”

“Where are you?”

She bristled at the notion that he thought he had any right to know where she was. But she told him: “Richmond.”

“What are you doing there? I heard you were up for some big promotion . . . ”

“I’m on vacation,” she said. Then she was quiet. She walked forward slowly, listening, waiting for him to lead.

“You? Vacation?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I’m staying with a friend from college.”

“A woman?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

There was silence. Only a week ago, she’d been in the habit of glancing at her phone, waiting for his call. Now she hated to hear from him at all.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“No, I mean . . . how are you
really
?”

She thought over the last week. “
Really
, I’m fine.”

“I miss you,” he said, and the softness of his voice was pitch- perfect, just the right amounts of gentleness and longing.

Lauren bit the inside of her lip. Edward had always been a fantastic orator; being a trial lawyer required a certain amount of showmanship and flair. And yet, Lauren believed him—just like she always did. Probably, he did miss her in his way.

“What are you calling about?” she asked. “Is there something you want?”

“I’m leaving my wife.”

Now she did scoff. “Uh-huh.”

“No. I really am. Margaret is just so . . . I love her. But I just
don’t feel that—you know—that thing anymore. I’m not
in love
with her. And I’m leaving her.”

“Do you still live with her?”

“I told her that I’m leaving.”

“But you’re still living there.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch.”

Lauren was nearly at Maisie’s house, with its front door set back a short way from the sidewalk and its green awnings to shield the sun. Her body was sore. The night had passed and she hadn’t closed her eyes except to squeeze them shut when the pleasure was too much to stand. And though she wondered if she might never see Will again, the whole afternoon suddenly seemed to fill her up with a sense of freedom and optimism and promise. She switched her phone to the other ear and got out her key.

“Edward, I wish you good things. I really do. But please don’t call me again.”

“But I’m leaving her
for you
.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re only telling yourself that you’re leaving her because you’re bored. Say good-bye to me now.”

“I won’t stand for this. I’m not giving up this easily.”

“I am,” she said. And then, because she knew there would be no polite way to get off the phone with him, because he was tenacious and pushy and didn’t like to lose, she hung up. Not her most graceful moment, but effective. She stopped before Maisie’s door, and she’d just taken in a deep, triumphant breath when her phone rang again.