lost her.
They ate in silence. As he became ever more aware of people staring at Philippa, Dana felt cold, ill, used. Their final hour
would be hell. He almost wished Ross would appear, with or without a shotgun. They’d all have a good laugh once Ross discovered
that his wife was virtuous and his sister-in-law was a conniving harlot; with any luck, Philippa would go to the airport with
Emily, sparing him a farewell under fluorescent lights. For now he could only stare at her lovely mouth, so recently his,
and wonder what had gone awry.
Philippa wrapped long, cool fingers around her wineglass. “Have you seen Emily recently?”
“Emily?” He tried to think. She rarely came to the office. Shedidn’t play bridge or tennis with Ardith like the other architects’ wives. She never went out to dinner with Ross’s clients
because she had to get up early for work the next day. “I haven’t seen her since July Fourth. We were all watching fireworks
from the boat.”
“How’d she look?”
Super! Unbelievable! “Pretty good,” Dana said, vividly recalling the toreador pants and the black halter top that had left
most of Emily’s back exposed. Men kept draping their arms around her, asking if she would like to borrow their jackets. “Like
a pastel version of you.”
Philippa was not sure that was a compliment. “Was she with anyone?”
“Ross, of course.”
As a busboy cleared their dishes, Philippa contemplatively sipped her wine. “I should have spent more time with her this trip.
We never see each other enough now.”
“Didn’t you have breakfast with her Friday morning? At her old job?”
“It was rather hasty, if you recall. I was in a rush to get to your boat.”
She sounded almost angry at him. Dana felt dizzy, as if he were being flushed to the bottom of a huge, swirling cesspool.
With difficulty, he fought to recover his balance. “Let’s go visit her, then,” he said. “Where’s that damn waiter?”
Right on cue, Eddy appeared at the table with two large bowls. “Black currants. Very rare.”
“We’re not hungry,” Dana growled. Odd, his tongue was hobbling over simple words. No, the tongue was okay; the jaws were not
moving. “We’d like to pay our compliments to the chef and leave.”
“Hold on. He’ll be here in a minute to say hello.”
“He?” Philippa echoed. “I thought the chef was a she.”
Byron, in full regalia, emerged from the kitchen. His immaculate white apron and tall hat beautified his tan. Dozens of friends
began to applaud as he strutted to the bar and turned down the music. When he approached the famous actress’stable, a hush came over the dining room. “Philippa Banks,” he began, ignoring her dinner companion completely, “I have a confession
to make. I have been in love with you my entire adult life.”
With a wistful little grunt, Dana Forbes fell forward into the black currants.
Gas lamps flickered softly over Beacon Hill, inspiring the fireflies in the ivy. Nothing moved now but the clouds over the
moon. As she left the cab, shutting the door quietly, Emily glanced up and saw a pale glow behind her living room window:
Ross was home. A few hours ago, that light would have frightened her. Now she felt no more dread; tonight she had been traumatized
by other, perhaps larger, catastrophes. She stood a long time on her stoop, digging in her purse for keys. Ross had probably
heard the cab; ungallant of him not to come down and unlock the door. Ungallant of him to disappear for three days, in fact.
He sure picked a great time to come home. Emily found the keys, the lock, and went inside.
A slight fear returned as she noticed his suitcase in the foyer. Such dim light, such ominous stillness, were not her usual
greeting. She peered into the living room, the den, the kitchen, unwilling to call his name; to bleat into this silence. Then
she heard the clink of ice on crystal: He was in the atrium.
Ross lay on the
They ate in silence. As he became ever more aware of people staring at Philippa, Dana felt cold, ill, used. Their final hour
would be hell. He almost wished Ross would appear, with or without a shotgun. They’d all have a good laugh once Ross discovered
that his wife was virtuous and his sister-in-law was a conniving harlot; with any luck, Philippa would go to the airport with
Emily, sparing him a farewell under fluorescent lights. For now he could only stare at her lovely mouth, so recently his,
and wonder what had gone awry.
Philippa wrapped long, cool fingers around her wineglass. “Have you seen Emily recently?”
“Emily?” He tried to think. She rarely came to the office. Shedidn’t play bridge or tennis with Ardith like the other architects’ wives. She never went out to dinner with Ross’s clients
because she had to get up early for work the next day. “I haven’t seen her since July Fourth. We were all watching fireworks
from the boat.”
“How’d she look?”
Super! Unbelievable! “Pretty good,” Dana said, vividly recalling the toreador pants and the black halter top that had left
most of Emily’s back exposed. Men kept draping their arms around her, asking if she would like to borrow their jackets. “Like
a pastel version of you.”
Philippa was not sure that was a compliment. “Was she with anyone?”
“Ross, of course.”
As a busboy cleared their dishes, Philippa contemplatively sipped her wine. “I should have spent more time with her this trip.
We never see each other enough now.”
“Didn’t you have breakfast with her Friday morning? At her old job?”
“It was rather hasty, if you recall. I was in a rush to get to your boat.”
She sounded almost angry at him. Dana felt dizzy, as if he were being flushed to the bottom of a huge, swirling cesspool.
With difficulty, he fought to recover his balance. “Let’s go visit her, then,” he said. “Where’s that damn waiter?”
Right on cue, Eddy appeared at the table with two large bowls. “Black currants. Very rare.”
“We’re not hungry,” Dana growled. Odd, his tongue was hobbling over simple words. No, the tongue was okay; the jaws were not
moving. “We’d like to pay our compliments to the chef and leave.”
“Hold on. He’ll be here in a minute to say hello.”
“He?” Philippa echoed. “I thought the chef was a she.”
Byron, in full regalia, emerged from the kitchen. His immaculate white apron and tall hat beautified his tan. Dozens of friends
began to applaud as he strutted to the bar and turned down the music. When he approached the famous actress’stable, a hush came over the dining room. “Philippa Banks,” he began, ignoring her dinner companion completely, “I have a confession
to make. I have been in love with you my entire adult life.”
With a wistful little grunt, Dana Forbes fell forward into the black currants.
Gas lamps flickered softly over Beacon Hill, inspiring the fireflies in the ivy. Nothing moved now but the clouds over the
moon. As she left the cab, shutting the door quietly, Emily glanced up and saw a pale glow behind her living room window:
Ross was home. A few hours ago, that light would have frightened her. Now she felt no more dread; tonight she had been traumatized
by other, perhaps larger, catastrophes. She stood a long time on her stoop, digging in her purse for keys. Ross had probably
heard the cab; ungallant of him not to come down and unlock the door. Ungallant of him to disappear for three days, in fact.
He sure picked a great time to come home. Emily found the keys, the lock, and went inside.
A slight fear returned as she noticed his suitcase in the foyer. Such dim light, such ominous stillness, were not her usual
greeting. She peered into the living room, the den, the kitchen, unwilling to call his name; to bleat into this silence. Then
she heard the clink of ice on crystal: He was in the atrium.
Ross lay on the
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