We'll Meet Again

7

Molly found it difficult to believe that she finally was home, harder still to realize she’d been away over five and a half years. When she’d first gotten there, Molly had waited until Philip’s car disappeared down the road before she opened her purse and took out the key that would unlock her house.

The front door was handsome dark mahogany with a stained-glass side panel. Once inside she’d dropped her bag, closed the door, and in a reflex gesture, pushed her heel down on the floor bolt. Then she’d walked slowly through every room of the house, running her hand along the back of the couch in the living room, touching her grandmother’s ornate silver tea service in the dining room while willing herself not to think of the prison dining room, the coarse plates, the meals that had been like ashes in her mouth. Everything seemed familiar; yet she couldn’t help feeling herself to be an intruder.

She’d lingered at the door of the study, looking inside, still surprised that it was not exactly as Gary had known it, with its mahogany paneling and oversized furniture and the artifacts he’d so painstakingly acquired. The chintz sofa and love seat seemed out of place, intrusive, too feminine.

Then Molly did what she’d dreamt of doing for five and a half years. She went upstairs to the master bedroom, undressed, reached into her closet for the fleecy robe she loved, went into the bathroom, and turned on the taps in the Jacuzzi.

She’d lingered in the steaming, scented water while it foamed and swirled around her, washing over her skin until it felt clean again. She’d sighed in relief as tension began to seep from her bones and muscles. Then she’d taken a towel from the heated towel rack and wrapped herself in it, reveling in its warmth.

After that she’d drawn the drapes and gone to bed. Lying there, she had closed her eyes, listening to the insistent rapping of the sleet against the windows; gradually she had fallen asleep, remembering all the nights when she’d promised herself that this moment would come, when once more she’d be in the privacy of her own room, under the down comforter, her head sinking into the softness of the pillow.

It had been late afternoon when she awoke, and immediately she’d put on her robe and slippers and gone down to the kitchen. Tea and toast now, she’d thought. That will tide me over until dinner.

Steaming tea cup in hand, she’d made the promised call to her parents: “I’m fine,” she’d said firmly. “Yes, it’s good to be home. No, I honestly need to be alone for a while. Not too long, but for a while.”

Then she listened to the messages on the answering machine. Jenna Whitehall, her best friend, the only person other than her parents and Philip whom she’d allowed to visit her in prison, had left a message. She said she wanted to stop by for a minute that evening, just to welcome Molly home. She asked that Molly give her a quick call if that was okay.

No, Molly thought. Not tonight. I don’t want to see anyone, not even Jenna.

She watched the six o’clock news on NAF, hoping to see Fran Simmons.

When the program ended, she had called the studio and reached Fran, asking that she make her a subject for a special investigation.

Then she had called Philip. His obvious disapproval was exactly what she knew to expect from him, and she tried not to let it bother her.

After talking to him, she had gone upstairs, dressed in a sweater and slacks, and slipped her feet back into her old slippers. For a few minutes she sat at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was too long; it needed shaping. Should she lighten it a little? she wondered. It used to be fair; it had darkened over the last years. Gary used to joke that her hair was so golden blond that half the women in town were sure she was helping it along.

She’d pushed back the vanity bench and crossed to her walk-in closet. For the next hour she’d systematically examined everything in it, switching to one side the clothes she knew she would never wear again. Some outfits brought an unconscious smile, like the pale gold gown and jacket she’d worn to the New Year’s Eve party at the country club that last year, and the black velvet suit Gary had seen in the window of Bergdorf’s and had insisted she try on.

When she knew she was going to be released from prison, she’d sent Mrs. Barry a shopping list of groceries. At eight o’clock, Molly went back downstairs and began to prepare the supper she had planned and had been looking forward to for weeks now: a green salad with a balsamic-vinegar dressing; crisp Italian bread, heated in the oven; a light tomato sauce that she made from scratch, served over linguine cooked al dente; a glass of Chianti Riservo.

When it was prepared, she sat in the breakfast nook, a cozy spot that overlooked the backyard. She ate slowly, savoring the spicy pasta and crunchy bread and tangy salad, enjoying the velvety warmth of the wine, looking out into the dark yard, enjoying the anticipation of spring, only weeks away.

The flowers will be late, she thought, but soon things would be blooming again. That was another of the promises she had made to herself-to dig in the garden again, to feel the earth, warm and moist, to watch for the tulips as they sprang up with their potpourri of color, to once again plant impatiens along the borders of the flagstone walk.

She ate slowly, reveling in the silence, so different from the constant, mind-numbing noise at the prison. After tidying the kitchen, she went into the study. There she sat in the darkness, her hands wrapped around her knees. As she sat, she listened for the sound that had suggested to her there was someone else in the house that night Gary had died, the sound, familiar yet unfamiliar, that had been slipping in and out of her fragmented nightmares for nearly six long years. There was nothing but the wind outside and, nearby, the ticking of a clock.