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I glanced at the clock on the stove; it was well past time for him to leave for work. I sat back in my chair, ignoring him. The sooner he was out of here, the sooner I could clean up his mess and start my own day.
He didn’t leave right away. He’d walked out of the kitchen right after his temper tantrum, but went into his study instead of heading out the front door. He generally preferred that I stay out of his study. Even our maid, Marie-Cecile, was only allowed in twice a week to vacuum and dust, but she was never allowed to touch the desk proper. Those were his rules, and Marie-Cecile stuck by them faithfully, even while she muttered Haitian curses under her breath. It always gave me joy to see her in there, hexing him for his transgressions.
It struck me that I hadn’t noticed Marie-Cecile’s car in the drive. She came every day at 9:00 A.M. like clockwork, with Sundays off. With a house this size, you have to have someone to help with the work. Besides, all of our friends had someone come in. Personally, Marie-Cecile was the best of the lot, but perhaps I’m bragging.
Today was Thursday, and it was already 9:30 A.M. Normally, I’d be at the club; my Tuesday/Thursday golf group would be teeing off between seven and nine. I’d slept later than usual, and I wasn’t in the mood to play this morning. I’d join them for lunch instead.
I set about making the kitchen right, wondering where Marie-Cecile was. Not like her to be tardy, not to miss a day without letting me know in advance she wouldn’t be here. She’d only done that about three times in the three years she’d been cleaning for us. Very reliable, was Marie-Cecile. No matter. I was certainly capable of straightening up. The cup had been made of heavy fired clay, and though it had broken into about fourteen pieces, they weren’t shards and slivers, but well formed chunks which made it a cinch to gather. That done, I wandered back to our bedroom.
Sunlight spilled through the windowpane, enhancing the patina on the buttery walls. I’d designed this room myself. The decorator had commandeered the house, overloading the rooms with her personal touches, but I wanted one small place that I knew was mine, and mine alone. Guests didn’t get to venture into this part of the house anyway. It was my own little refuge, even more so now that he was sleeping in his study. Eight bedrooms, and he chooses a hobnailed leather sofa. To each his own.
The bed wasn’t made, which was odd. I knew I’d put it together before I made my way downstairs this morning. I always do. It’s the first thing that happens when I wake up. I slide out the right edge, pull the covers up and make the bed. Maybe he had come back into the room after I went downstairs, pulled the covers back to tick me off. Typical.
I made up the bed, humming to myself. That’s when I found the hair. It was his, there was no question about it. I must have had too much to drink last night. He’d slept in the bed with me, and I didn’t even remember. Perhaps that was the cause of his silence. Things hadn’t gone as well as he hoped?
It’s hard to explain, but he does come to me, in the night. I let him, mostly because it’s my duty to perform, but also in remembrance of a time when I welcomed him without thought, joyful that he’d chosen to be with me. It wasn’t that long ago, after all.
Bed made, I showered and dressed in khaki slacks and a long sleeved Polo shirt. I threw a button down over my shoulders in case it was still cool out. Layers for my comfort, layers for their perception of how I should look when I walked into the club. The official dress code was undiluted preppy.
He was gone when I passed the study on my way to the front foyer.
It was not meant to be my morning. My Jag wouldn’t start. And Marie-Cecile was nowhere to be found, so I didn’t have a ride. We lived on the golf course though, so I detoured through the fourteenth fairway and wandered up the cart path on the eighteenth. We’re not supposed to do that, but I timed it well—after the ladies group had finished and before the senior’s group made the first turn.
I arrived at the front doors a little breathless, more from the chill than the exercise. I’m in good shape. As his wife, I have to be. It’s expected. Not much of a challenge for me, I’m naturally tall and willowy, but I still work with a trainer three times a week. Like I said, it’s expected.
My friends and I have a standing luncheon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. After our round, we gather in the grillroom, settle our bets, eat some salad, and gossip. Some of the older ladies play bridge. I’ve always wanted to learn, I just haven’t gotten around to it. There is something so lonely about them, sitting in their Lilly Pulitzer capris, their visors still pulled low, shading their eyes from the glare of the multitudes of 60 watt bulbs. Sad.
My usual foursome was sitting along the back wall today. Bu
Tally and Kim rounded out the threesome, both looking a little peaked. Tally was short and brunette, a striking contrast to Bu
Tally sat with her back barely touching the chair, ramrod straight. Uncharacteristic for her, she usually slouched and sprawled like the rest of us. The chairs were suede lined and double width for our comfort, and they served their purpose well.
I approached the table, expecting Bu
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not naïve enough to think that a group of women friends aren’t going to talk to one another about the missing person. But there’s a big difference between talking about a friend who’s absent and publicly dissecting that friend’s life. We’re all somebody, the four of us. Which means that there are multitudes of fodder, plenty of grist for the communal mill. There are some things that are sacred, though, and an open discussion of my disastrous marriage is one of them. You just don’t do that.
I started toward the table again, ready to give Miss Bu
Shirley was one of those people. You know the ones I mean. Not to be mean, but they drift around the periphery of any tight knit group, waiting like a dog for the table scraps. Shirley wanted to be a part of our group, but that would never happen. She was just too a