On Second Thought
Page 68

Naked, and no longer homo erectus, either, I was pleased to note. Also, his nose was bleeding. “Where is she, Eric?”
“Who is that?” the woman shrieked, trying to cower behind Eric, who was trying to cower behind her.
“Where is she?” I demanded. “What have you done with her? Did you kill her?”
“Of course not! I don’t know where she is!”
“Oh, my God,” the woman whimpered. She scrambled out of the shower and started pulling on her clothes.
“If Ainsley doesn’t turn up,” I said, “I’m calling the police on you. And I’ll be watching you, Eric.” I turned to the naked woman. “My husband is dead, and it’s Eric’s fault,” I told her. “Or maybe that’s the grief talking, but you should be very careful around this one.” I gave her a mournful look, then looked back at Eric. “Shame on you, by the way.”
“Kate, are you... Is this a...” He straightened up. “You’d better leave, or I’m calling the police.”
“Or maybe I’ll call the police, Eric, and tell them my sister is missing. Gotta run. Things to do. Have a great night!”
I bolted. Ainsley was waiting at the top of the stairs, and we ran out, across the front lawn to her car, the bag of loot glowing in the darkness. Got in, and Ainsley floored it, laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes. We fled silently thanks to the Prius’s electric motor. A few streets away, Ainsley pulled over, both of us laughing so hard we were holding our stomachs.
Then Ainsley’s ringtone went off, a series of little chimes. She looked at the phone. “Why, it’s Eric,” she said, tapping it. “Hello?” Her voice was very calm. “Oh, hey, Eric. You sound stuffed up.” She hit Mute so he couldn’t hear us laughing, then returned to the call. “Kate? She’s out with a friend. Fund-raiser or something. Really? Huh. Are you sure it was my sister? No, I’m here with Ollie, reading. Listen, you sound ungrounded. Take some cleansing breaths and commune with the grizzly bears.”
I wheezed, tears streaming down my face. God, this felt good.
There was a pause as he spoke. “Oh, so you’re not in Alaska. Huh. Guess you haven’t quite cut free from the corpse of your old life. Easy to blog about it, harder to do it, isn’t it? Oh, and don’t you dare write about my sister. First, you have no proof. Second, she’s Nathan’s widow and still grieving. And third, I’ll make sure she sues you for libel if you do. Namaste, asshole.”
She hit End, and we both sat there for a few minutes, occasionally snorting, until the laughter ran out, and we were both quiet.
A few raindrops hit the roof, then more, then a steady hiss, the beads running down the windshield, our view blurring. Thunder rumbled in the west, and a flash of lightning lit up the belly of the clouds.
“I guess it’s really over,” Ainsley said, her voice quiet. “The Eric I knew is gone. I’m sitting here, jealous of you, because at least Nathan gets to stay Nathan in your memory, whereas I have to deal with the new and unimproved Eric.”
“I’m sorry, Ains.”
She nodded. Wiped her eyes.
“You know, Nathan’s given me a few surprises since he died,” I added.
She glanced at me. “Really?”
“He stayed in touch with his ex-wife. I found emails.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Afraid not. It seems like they weren’t really...done.”
“An affair?”
“No. But I think he still...loved her.”
Said out loud in the intimacy of the car, the words seemed to lurk there in front of us.
“You have to wonder if you ever know anyone at all,” Ainsley said.
“Ain’t it the truth?”
The rain kicked up, drumming on the car roof, and still we sat there, closer now than we’d ever been in our lives.
“You know what?” I said. “There’s a Pepperidge Farm coconut cake at home.”
“Say no more,” Ainsley said, and home we went.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ainsley
Though I showed up on time eight days in a row, I failed to dazzle Jonathan.
Not that I was trying.
Fine, I was totally trying. Why, though, I didn’t know, because A) I was still furious with Eric, who finally did go to Alaska, according to Judy’s Facebook post, and B) dazzling Captain Flatline was impossible.
Not only did I get into work on time, I also refrained from shopping online. I realized my bar wasn’t terribly high, but I’d been hoping it would make a difference to Jonathan. If it did, he hid it well.
On another front, I unfriended and unfollowed Eric on all his social media platforms. When he texted me a question about his bad reaction to latex (he had no bad reaction to latex, for the record; he’d had a mosquito bite), I blocked his phone number.
Eric had broken up with me. He’d brought another woman back to our house. He was in Alaska now.
We were done.
His mother and I hadn’t talked in two weeks. Of course, the Fishers had to side with their son. I understood that. I’d never spend Hanukkah with them again, or go see Phantom with Judy, or watch a Sunday afternoon football game on the couch with Aaron, cheering vaguely when he did as Eric smiled and read.
Those days seemed like a dream now.
On Friday afternoon at 4:45, my email chimed.
Please be ready to leave for the tool museum in ten minutes. Thank you.
Jonathan Kent, Publisher
Hudson Lifestyle
Tool museum? Was that a metaphor? I checked my calendar. AITM. A quick Google search reminded me what the initials stood for. Antique Ice Tool Museum.
Super exciting.
I texted Kate to let her know I had a work thing. She was making dinner for some of the people from her grief group, which was nice. I’d been planning to lay low anyway and read. I asked her to feed Ollie, since I might be late; previous work excursions had shown that Jonathan was the type of person who read every plaque in every museum. And since the museum would be taking out a full-page ad to coincide with the story, we’d have to schmooze the director, which was something I could do in half an hour, and something that Jonathan could do only by memorizing every fact about the place.
Antique ice tool museum. Who thought of these things?
“We can take my car,” Jonathan said as we went to the parking lot.
“Sure.” I got in; his car was ridiculously clean and neat. Two booster seats were in the back. “How are your daughters?” I asked.
“They’re fine.”
“And your dad?”
“Also fine.”
That was it. Was this the guy who’d forced me to dance with him? “I am also fine, Jonathan.”
“Yes.”
I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. The rest of the ride passed in silence.
The Antique Ice Tool Museum was about an hour north of Cambry-on-Hudson, and surprisingly charming—an old stone barn overlooking the river, filled with fearsome-looking saws and old photos and ads. As predicted, Jonathan studied every word of every bit of print in every place while I chatted up the director, a sixtyish man (my specialty) whose name was Chip.
“Do people call you Ice Chip?” I asked, and he laughed, making Jonathan startle a little. “Chip off the old ice block?”
“They will now,” he said, proud of his new nickname.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but I’d think the Hudson wouldn’t freeze this far downstream with the tidal patterns being what they are.”