Bright, Precious Days

36

RUSSELL WAS SNORING BESIDE HER when the bedside phone woke her up Sunday morning just after eight. For some reason, she was afraid it was Luke, until she saw Casey’s name on caller ID.

“I’ve left you like a million messages and texts.”

“Casey?”

“Tom’s run off with some bimbo.”

“What?”

“Can you meet me at Balthazar in thirty minutes?”

“I’ll try. Make it forty-five. Let’s say nine.”

Russell and the kids were still asleep when she left; she taped a note to the medicine cabinet, saying she’d be home before eleven.

—

Her friend was waiting for her at one of the banquettes along the back wall, overdressed in a formfitting black leather jacket with epaulets over a shiny silver shirt. It looked like last night’s outfit.

“I can’t believe it,” Corrine said as she sat down.

“You can’t believe it?”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody. Miss Nobody from Nowhere.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

“He called her his girlfriend. To my face.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I know.”

“Are you…You must be devastated.”

“I’m furious, is what I am.”

“What happened? How did you find out?”

“I caught him in the act.”

“In flagrante delicto?”

“Not quite. I ran into him in the hallway of the Lowell last night, coming out of a room. Rumpled hair and clothes, shit-eating postcoital grin. And this little redhead hottie in a terry-cloth bathrobe with her boobs hanging out, sending him off with a kiss.”

“What were you doing in the Lowell?”

“The point is, I caught him coming out of the room, and he was so busted, he didn’t even try to make it sound plausible. He just sputtered something about having a meeting in the hotel.”

“So what did you do?” Corrine couldn’t help imagining this scene from Tom’s point of view, imagining herself as Tom — caught in the act.

“I turned on my heels and stormed off.”

“Didn’t he try to stop you?”

“Of course he did.”

“So he’s sorry.”

“Not nearly as sorry as he will be.”

“I know, it’s devastating, Casey. But given what’s at stake…you don’t want to act rashly.”

“What am I supposed to do? Forgive him?”

“Not now, okay, not tomorrow, but don’t you think that someday you’ll want to? Given the alternative? Granted, it’s a terrible betrayal — but in the context of all those years together? And let’s face it, it’s not as if you haven’t strayed.” Suddenly pondering the prospect of getting caught herself, Corrine was wondering if Tom was relieved, if part of her would feel relieved.

“You sound like you’re on his side.”

“Not at all. I just want you to think hard before you decide to leave your marriage. People make mistakes. Marriages have different chapters, and some of them are dark. I don’t mean to excuse what he did, but maybe, just for a while, after all these years you started to take each other for granted and he felt neglected and he felt his own mortality and at a low moment someone came along who made him feel young and special and invincible again. I’m just saying.”

“He won’t feel invincible after my lawyers carve him a new one.”

“I still don’t understand what you were doing in the Lowell. It’s such a weird coincidence. Were you following him?”

“I had no idea.”

“You just happened to be at the Lowell?”

“I was meeting someone,” she snapped.

“At what point did he call her his girlfriend?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it sounds like he was flustered and then you stormed off before he could explain.”

“I’m sorry, I’m traumatized and it’s all a bit of a blur.”

“So what happened after that? Did he come home last night?”

Casey shook her head.

“He was probably just too ashamed to face you. But I’m sure he’ll come back.”

She snorted derisively. “Good luck to him.”

“Give it time.”

Even as she was sympathizing with her friend, she couldn’t help being deeply conscious of the fact that Casey had been blissfully unfaithful to Tom over the years, so the moral high ground was real estate to which she couldn’t plausibly aspire. Or rather, she might, but that co-op board was never going to let her in the building.

Corrine couldn’t help extrapolating about her own life; what if, while she’d been obsessed with Luke, Russell had been carving out a life of his own? Was it possible that his malaise reflected some romantic impasse? That he was tortured by having to decide between two lives or depressed — as she’d once been, after Luke left New York — by a hopeless love affair, a passion he’d renounced but couldn’t forget? She’d been so absorbed by her own secret life, she hadn’t stopped to consider the possibility that he might have one, as well.

“I’ll take him for everything he’s worth,” Casey said.

“Do you have a prenup?”

She shook her head, smiling savagely. “That’s the beauty part.”

“That’s…wow.” For people in their circle, of their means, it seemed to Corrine, there had always been a codicil to marriage vows.

“We were young and in love.”

“Well, try to remember those days before you make any big decisions.”

“I guess the timing isn’t great for Russell,” Casey said. “I know Tom was going to invest in his company.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“I’m sorry, I just assumed you knew. I’ve actually been going through a whole moral dilemma about that anyway. Ever since Washington told me about Russell losing Jack Carson, I was in this really weird position where I didn’t feel like I could tell Tom, but at the same time it did seem relevant to McCane, Slade’s fiscal health. Oh shit,” she said, seeing Corrine’s face. “You didn’t know about that, either?”

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know, but Washington told me about ten days ago. I don’t think he realized Tom and Russell were going into business together. Which put me in this totally awkward position. Anyway, I gather Carson wrote Russell a letter. Basically, thanks but sayonara. You honestly didn’t know?”

—

That night, they lingered at the dinner table, Russell nursing a last glass of Pinot Noir that he hadn’t even bothered to comment upon. Corrine waited until the kids had retreated to their rooms to do homework before relating the saga of Tom and Casey.

“I still can’t believe it,” she concluded.

“You said this girl was a redhead?”

“Why, do you know her?”

He seemed to pause before he shook his head.

“I mean, it certainly wasn’t a perfect marriage, but after all these years I’d just assumed they’d always be together.”

“The phrase perfect marriage ought to be abolished,” he said. “It’s a pernicious oxymoron.”

“Do you really believe that?” she said. “People used to say that about us. We were that couple once.”

“Please don’t make me feel bad about stating the obvious.”

“But we do have a good marriage?”

“Let’s not play this game.”

“Humor me, Russell. I’m worried about you. And about us.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“But why aren’t we fine right now? It doesn’t feel fine. What’s wrong? You’ve been virtually catatonic the past two months.”

Corrine reminded herself to tread lightly, conscious of her own role in the estrangement. At the same time, she was weary of their lack of intimacy. Part of her just wanted a decision to be made for her.

“It’s not you.”

“Well, then, tell me what it is. I’m your wife. Not telling me what’s wrong is a form of dishonesty. If you’re in trouble, I need to know. Is there someone else?”

He looked up, startled. “Of course not,” he said.

So that was off the table. “Is it about Jack?”

“Jack?”

“Why didn’t you tell me he left you? How could you not tell me something that important? And how could you not tell me about soliciting an investment from Tom?”

He looked at her helplessly, pleadingly. Before he turned away, she saw that his eyes were welling with tears.

She leaned into him, kissed his neck and hugged him close, feeling his resistance fade as he exhaled and wrapped his arms around hers. At some point she realized he was crying, his torso convulsing rhythmically against her shoulder. She held him tighter, until the sobbing subsided.

Afterward, he showed her Jack’s letter.

“I can’t believe he’d do this to you after all you did for him.”

“The news hasn’t broken yet, but it will any day.”

She stroked the hair away from his damp forehead. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“And then I’m well and truly fucked.”

“Writers change publishers all the time.”

“Jack isn’t just another writer. He’s a game changer. And I’m not just any editor — I’m the guy who published the infamous bogus memoir a few months back.”

“I’ve hated the bastard ever since he killed Ferdie. Face it, Russell, the guy’s a train wreck. You have other books, other writers.”

“Not as many as I used to. And submissions have been way down this spring. I can’t even get agents to send me books.”

“We’ll be all right,” she said. As worried as she was about Russell, and about his business, in a possibly perverse way she was grateful for this crisis, for the opportunity to weather it with him. If she’d been waiting for a sign, this might well be it.