been drinking? he wondered. The call was entirely out of character. Dabney had never, ever, not once in twenty-four years of marriage, done anything like that.
We’re not close anymore. We don’t have sex anymore. I want to know if you love me. If you desire me.
Normally, after the Econ 10 exam, Box took Miranda to lunch; it was the only time during the semester that he did so. He liked to keep their relationship professional; this was really the best way, especially since they spent so much time together. It was always Miranda who tried to forge something like a friendship. She occasionally coaxed Box out to see a movie, which he agreed to only when the solitude was getting to him. They dined together with colleagues, but never alone, except for this one lunch. Box didn’t want people to talk, although he assumed people talked anyway. Miranda was a very beautiful woman, smart as a wizard, and she’d worked for him for four years, demonstrating her loyalty, patience, and steadfastness. Box could recognize all her enticing qualities without feeling anything romantic. His only mistress was his work, his reputation, his career. But it was helpful to have boundaries.
The phone call from Dabney was bothering him so much that he decided it was best, all the way around, if he passed on lunch with Miranda.
“I’m afraid the chap in row thirty-five was correct,” Box said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I have to forego our usual lunch, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”
“No apology necessary,” Miranda said, though her rich, plummy voice was clipped. He had hurt her feelings, he supposed. It seemed that where the women in his life were concerned, he could do nothing right.
Dabney
T hursday morning, there was an e-mail in her in-box from Clendenin Hughes. Subject line: ?
Dabney clicked on it, thinking, ?!???!!
It said: Meet me tonight at 9:00, Quaker Cemetery.
“Oh my God!” Dabney said, then she clapped her hand over her mouth. Again, the Lord’s name in vain! All the virtue she felt after lighting the candles on Monday evaporated.
“What?” Nina said. She squinted at Dabney and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is it Clen?”
Dabney nodded. It was a relief to have someone to tell. Keeping it bottled up inside wasn’t healthy. “He wants me to meet him at the Quaker Cemetery tonight,” she said.
“That’s spooky,” Nina said. “Will you go?”
“No,” Dabney said. “No way.”
On Thursday nights Dabney always stayed home for Sandwich and a Movie, and this Thursday, she decided, would be no different. She picked up a Cubano from Foood For Here & There, arranged it on a plate with some potato chips, fixed herself a glass of ice water with lemon, and switched on the TV in the den. She noticed that Love Story was playing on TMC, starting five minutes hence. Love Story was Dabney’s favorite movie of all time; that had been true even before she went to Harvard. One year, Dabney had dressed up as Jennifer Cavalleri for Halloween, which basically meant she wore what she usually wore—a red turtleneck, headband, and pearls—and carried a copy of Love Story, the novel, as a clue to her identity.
Dabney could have recited the script line-for-line: there was Jenny calling Oliver “Preppie,” there were Oliver and Jenny in Widener Library, there they were driving up to Ipswich to meet the coldhearted father, there were the hockey games and the scene where Jenny is beautifully tanned on the sailboat. Jenny wants to go to Paris, but there will be no Paris. The reason she can’t get pregnant is that she’s sick, she has leukemia, she is going to die.
Dabney sneaked into the kitchen during a commercial to put her plate into the dishwasher and get a bar of dark chocolate. She glanced at the clock. It was 8:45.
Dabney returned to the den to watch the end of the movie, but she couldn’t get comfortable. She had been taking antibiotics for three days, but she still felt lousy. And she was
We’re not close anymore. We don’t have sex anymore. I want to know if you love me. If you desire me.
Normally, after the Econ 10 exam, Box took Miranda to lunch; it was the only time during the semester that he did so. He liked to keep their relationship professional; this was really the best way, especially since they spent so much time together. It was always Miranda who tried to forge something like a friendship. She occasionally coaxed Box out to see a movie, which he agreed to only when the solitude was getting to him. They dined together with colleagues, but never alone, except for this one lunch. Box didn’t want people to talk, although he assumed people talked anyway. Miranda was a very beautiful woman, smart as a wizard, and she’d worked for him for four years, demonstrating her loyalty, patience, and steadfastness. Box could recognize all her enticing qualities without feeling anything romantic. His only mistress was his work, his reputation, his career. But it was helpful to have boundaries.
The phone call from Dabney was bothering him so much that he decided it was best, all the way around, if he passed on lunch with Miranda.
“I’m afraid the chap in row thirty-five was correct,” Box said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I have to forego our usual lunch, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”
“No apology necessary,” Miranda said, though her rich, plummy voice was clipped. He had hurt her feelings, he supposed. It seemed that where the women in his life were concerned, he could do nothing right.
Dabney
T hursday morning, there was an e-mail in her in-box from Clendenin Hughes. Subject line: ?
Dabney clicked on it, thinking, ?!???!!
It said: Meet me tonight at 9:00, Quaker Cemetery.
“Oh my God!” Dabney said, then she clapped her hand over her mouth. Again, the Lord’s name in vain! All the virtue she felt after lighting the candles on Monday evaporated.
“What?” Nina said. She squinted at Dabney and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is it Clen?”
Dabney nodded. It was a relief to have someone to tell. Keeping it bottled up inside wasn’t healthy. “He wants me to meet him at the Quaker Cemetery tonight,” she said.
“That’s spooky,” Nina said. “Will you go?”
“No,” Dabney said. “No way.”
On Thursday nights Dabney always stayed home for Sandwich and a Movie, and this Thursday, she decided, would be no different. She picked up a Cubano from Foood For Here & There, arranged it on a plate with some potato chips, fixed herself a glass of ice water with lemon, and switched on the TV in the den. She noticed that Love Story was playing on TMC, starting five minutes hence. Love Story was Dabney’s favorite movie of all time; that had been true even before she went to Harvard. One year, Dabney had dressed up as Jennifer Cavalleri for Halloween, which basically meant she wore what she usually wore—a red turtleneck, headband, and pearls—and carried a copy of Love Story, the novel, as a clue to her identity.
Dabney could have recited the script line-for-line: there was Jenny calling Oliver “Preppie,” there were Oliver and Jenny in Widener Library, there they were driving up to Ipswich to meet the coldhearted father, there were the hockey games and the scene where Jenny is beautifully tanned on the sailboat. Jenny wants to go to Paris, but there will be no Paris. The reason she can’t get pregnant is that she’s sick, she has leukemia, she is going to die.
Dabney sneaked into the kitchen during a commercial to put her plate into the dishwasher and get a bar of dark chocolate. She glanced at the clock. It was 8:45.
Dabney returned to the den to watch the end of the movie, but she couldn’t get comfortable. She had been taking antibiotics for three days, but she still felt lousy. And she was
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