opened the inner door and we walked together to the elevator. “They haven’t quite mastered the buzzer-door relationship,” she said as we stepped into a lift the size of an old-fashioned phone booth. “They really do need to learn how to let guests in. I know of at least one potential visitor who simply left in frustration. God knows if she ever summoned up the fortitude to try again.”
She laughed. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Louise Hunter. I’m a pianist and I have a studio here.”
She had no memory of meeting me. I extended my hand. “Joanne Shreve,” I said.
The light faded from Louise’s face. “You’re Zack Shreve’s wife,” she said. “I’ve probably met you a dozen times. I apologize for not remembering.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “A.S. Byatt calls it nominal amnesia – it’s common enough at our age.”
Louise’s smile was wry. “Thanks, but I imagine my nominal amnesia was fuelled by Grey Goose vodka.”
When we stepped off the elevator, Louise gestured towards an apartment with an open door. “That’s their place,” she said. “It was nice to meet you, Joanne. Sobriety has its advantages. Who knows? I might even remember who you are next time.”
The door to the Brokaws’ was open wide. I called inside, but there was no response. A chair and a boot rack had been placed against the wall by the door. I took off my boots and stepped over the threshold and called again. The condo had an open-plan living-dining-kitchen area. Three chairs had been drawn around a low table that held everything needed for tea. As in a fairy-tale, all was in readiness but no one was there. I turned to leave but then I heard voices in the hall.
The combination of relief and anger in Myra Brokaw’s voice was familiar. I’d heard it in my own voice when one of my children had wandered off and my mind had been a blur of terrifying possibilities until I’d found them. “Theo, you can’t just leave like that, without telling me,” she said. “If you get lost, and I have to call the police, they’ll take you from me.”
Theo’s tone was querulous. “I just went out to get a … a … a thing I needed. I would have come back.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice lacked its previous assurance. “I do always come back, don’t I?”
“Yes, Theo. You always come back,” Myra said. “Sit down and let me take off your boots. Our guest will be here any minute.”
I was trapped, but anything was better than letting them know I’d heard their conversation. I walked to the window and looked down at the mall. The solitary skater was still making his joyless rounds, but there was plenty of activity: shoppers, their heads bent against the snow, darted into stores. A man, big as a sumo wrestler, had set up a charitable donation box and was loudly ringing a bell.
“You’re here,” Myra said.
“The door was open,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to come inside to wait.”
“Of course,” she said. “Theo and I just had to step out for a minute. Let me take your coat.” She laughed. “Actually, I might have to ask you to help me off with mine.” She held out her arm awkwardly. “Last night, coming back from the party, I slipped and sprained my wrist.”
I helped Myra and Theo off with their jackets, removed my own, and hung the jackets on a clothes tree just inside the door.
“I apologize, Joanne,” she said. “To say the least, this is an unconventional welcome.”
“One of your neighbours let me in downstairs. I shouldn’t have walked in, but I must admit I enjoyed looking out your window. You have a great view.”
“Theo agrees with you,” she said, and I could hear the assurance flowing back into her voice. “When I tell him we have front-row seats for the Human Comedy, he always concurs, don’t you, love?”
His back ramrod-straight, his strong sculpted features still without an ounce of extra flesh, Theo was, as he had apparently
She laughed. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Louise Hunter. I’m a pianist and I have a studio here.”
She had no memory of meeting me. I extended my hand. “Joanne Shreve,” I said.
The light faded from Louise’s face. “You’re Zack Shreve’s wife,” she said. “I’ve probably met you a dozen times. I apologize for not remembering.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “A.S. Byatt calls it nominal amnesia – it’s common enough at our age.”
Louise’s smile was wry. “Thanks, but I imagine my nominal amnesia was fuelled by Grey Goose vodka.”
When we stepped off the elevator, Louise gestured towards an apartment with an open door. “That’s their place,” she said. “It was nice to meet you, Joanne. Sobriety has its advantages. Who knows? I might even remember who you are next time.”
The door to the Brokaws’ was open wide. I called inside, but there was no response. A chair and a boot rack had been placed against the wall by the door. I took off my boots and stepped over the threshold and called again. The condo had an open-plan living-dining-kitchen area. Three chairs had been drawn around a low table that held everything needed for tea. As in a fairy-tale, all was in readiness but no one was there. I turned to leave but then I heard voices in the hall.
The combination of relief and anger in Myra Brokaw’s voice was familiar. I’d heard it in my own voice when one of my children had wandered off and my mind had been a blur of terrifying possibilities until I’d found them. “Theo, you can’t just leave like that, without telling me,” she said. “If you get lost, and I have to call the police, they’ll take you from me.”
Theo’s tone was querulous. “I just went out to get a … a … a thing I needed. I would have come back.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice lacked its previous assurance. “I do always come back, don’t I?”
“Yes, Theo. You always come back,” Myra said. “Sit down and let me take off your boots. Our guest will be here any minute.”
I was trapped, but anything was better than letting them know I’d heard their conversation. I walked to the window and looked down at the mall. The solitary skater was still making his joyless rounds, but there was plenty of activity: shoppers, their heads bent against the snow, darted into stores. A man, big as a sumo wrestler, had set up a charitable donation box and was loudly ringing a bell.
“You’re here,” Myra said.
“The door was open,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to come inside to wait.”
“Of course,” she said. “Theo and I just had to step out for a minute. Let me take your coat.” She laughed. “Actually, I might have to ask you to help me off with mine.” She held out her arm awkwardly. “Last night, coming back from the party, I slipped and sprained my wrist.”
I helped Myra and Theo off with their jackets, removed my own, and hung the jackets on a clothes tree just inside the door.
“I apologize, Joanne,” she said. “To say the least, this is an unconventional welcome.”
“One of your neighbours let me in downstairs. I shouldn’t have walked in, but I must admit I enjoyed looking out your window. You have a great view.”
“Theo agrees with you,” she said, and I could hear the assurance flowing back into her voice. “When I tell him we have front-row seats for the Human Comedy, he always concurs, don’t you, love?”
His back ramrod-straight, his strong sculpted features still without an ounce of extra flesh, Theo was, as he had apparently
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