“I’m married to a French girl,” he said lamely. “It was she who taught me to cook.”
“I’m beginning to feel like the other woman.”
“That’s not fair. To me or to you.”
He imagined his wedding band being fitted around his neck and tightened like a hangman’s noose. His situation seemed hopeless.
“I’m too tired and too hungry to worry about what’s fair. Tell me about this dish,” Margaret said.
“Saumon au vin blanc,” Driscoll said.
“I love the sound of that. Tell you what, there’s an all-night Food Emporium near my apartment with a great seafood selection. What say we raid the joint and head for my place, not yours?”
His imagined noose just got tighter.
“But it’s almost 2:00 A.M.,” he said.
“Whadya got against missing a little sleep?”
Driscoll hesitated, eyes fixed on Margaret.
“So what’ll it be?” She reached for her purse and nervously withdrew her compact. The sheen of her lipstick had faded. On the verge of trembling, she applied a fresh layer.
“Why the hell not? Let’s go.”
Chapter 36
Pineapple Street was lined with quaint brownstones, with impatiens and geraniums adorning stoops and windows. The street was silent except for the whine of a stray cat.
Inside 124 Pineapple, the pair climbed the oak staircase to Apartment 2A. It was Driscoll’s first visit to Margaret’s place.
A clap of Margaret’s hands turned on a ceiling-high row of track lighting that illuminated a fair-sized living room. Driscoll smiled, for he knew Margaret found solace in this living space, where a modular sofa encircled a traditional fireplace. In the center of the circle, a coffee table in glass and chrome stood on an earth-colored Oriental carpet. Driscoll eyed the high-tech entertainment center that supported a JVC stereo system, a Sony nineteen-inch color TV, and a stack of assorted CDs. Adorning the wall opposite the fireplace was an abstract painting in blue and green. Margaret had good taste. That was evident, and what was comforting was that the furnishings made Driscoll feel at ease.
The dining room was adjacent to the living room, and boasted an oval-shaped white pine table with four American Colonial chairs. In the center of the table, a crystal vase held a bouquet of blue irises. Again, a very comfortable room.
“Welcome to my place.”
“I like it. It suits you.”
“I think the living room could use some dressing up.”
“Looks fine to me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, that just saved me $1,400 for the Henredon wall unit I had my eye on.”
“You have quite the eye for interior design.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It’s funny you should say that. Before I decided on police work, I took a couple of courses at Parsons.”
“It shows.”
“Let me have your topcoat,” she said, helping Driscoll out of his Burberry. “Can I offer the chef a drink?”
“Scotch.”
Driscoll stepped into the kitchen while still carrying the shopping bag crammed with food. A Jenn-Air gas range, set in a tiled island, took up the center of the room. Against the wall stood a Viking refrigerator with full-length steel doors. A battery of copper pots Driscoll recognized as Bourgeat hung from an overhead rack. Depression-era glass filled the windows of oak cabinets.
“Very impressive,” he said, accepting a tumbler filled with whiskey.
“I had the place redone a couple of months ago. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do.”
When Driscoll entered the dining room, steaming dish in hand, Margaret had changed into a simple black dress, and her hair had been pulled back into a chignon. The table had been set for two, with Noritake china and Georg Jensen flatware. Two elongated candles were burning in Lalique holders.
“Now this is what I call two cops eating out,” said Driscoll.
“I forgot the wine.” Margaret hurried to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Mondavi Fume Blanc.
Driscoll uncorked it and poured a generous portion into her glass. They ate and drank.
“How ’bout some music?” Margaret asked hesitantly when they had finished.
“Can’t see the harm in that.”
Johnny Mathis’s “Chances Are” filled the room.
“Dance with me,” she heard herself say. Was it her talking, or the wine?
Driscoll looked at her, startled.
“What’s the matter? Something wrong with two cops dancing to a little mood music?” Margaret felt as though she were stuttering.
A soft breeze blew, extinguishing one of the candles as Mathis crooned.
Driscoll found himself in Margaret’s arms, swaying languorously to the vocalist’s lyrics, enjoying the intimate company of a woman, a vivacious, fun-loving woman. The scent of her perfume enveloped the pair as they danced. It was the scent of early spring, and Driscoll found it to be subtle and intoxicating. His heart was beating rhythmically. He felt electrified, thrilled to be alive. As he closed his eyes, he felt Margaret’s warm cheek brush against his. It was pure delight.
Another gust of wind extinguished the remaining candle. The starry night’s sky illuminated the room through an overhead skylight. Their two shadows melted into one.
“Maybe it’s time to clap your hands again,” said Driscoll.
“Let’s not.”
Their dancing continued. She felt warm in his arms.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she breathed. And then, pressing her lips against his, she lingered at the edge of his tongue.
He did not resist. Her tongue was inviting, her lips moist. He withdrew slowly. Her lips found his again. This time she was more daring, more exploratory.
“What say we sit this one out,” she murmured.
“It’s getting awfully late.”
“Please. Just sit with me.”
A lassitude enveloped him. It had been years since he’d been kissed so ardently. For years he had not felt the alchemy of intertwining tongues. When she offered him her lips for the third time, he surrendered.
A ringing in the darkness interrupted them. He froze.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“My cellular. It’s in my coat.”
“Don’t, John. Don’t.”
Driscoll rushed to the closet, grabbed his phone, and flipped it open.
“Yes, Lucinda…Have you called 911?…I’ll be right there!”
“What is it?” Margaret asked, alarmed.
“It’s my wife. She stopped breathing.”
Chapter 37
“She stopped breathing,” Driscoll sighed, “but the CPR unit brought her back. They got there just before I did. I could have lost her, Elizabeth. The call arrived when I was kissing my assistant. Imagine that. I’m kissing Margaret, feeling emotions I forgot I had, and the cellular starts ringing. It was three o’clock in the morning! I should have been home in bed, not out getting it on with another woman.”
“Is three o’clock after your curfew?”
Doctor Elizabeth Fahey was Driscoll’s psychotherapist. She had nursed Driscoll’s soul through his near collapse at the loss of his daughter and the onset of his wife’s coma.
“Curfew. What curfew? I’m not a teenager, for Christ’s sake!”
“Well, you’re the one out necking at three o’clock in the morning.”
“She stopped breathing. I’m out gallivanting, and she stops breathing.”
“Let’s not even think about the shape you’d be in if the two of you had had sex.”
Driscoll looked at her. “You’re really off to the races now.”
“Tell me you don’t see the message here.”
“So, this is all about guilt?”
“Irish Catholic guilt.”
Driscoll slouched back in his chair. “I know I’m gonna sound like a broken record, but I still don’t think you understand how much I miss my wife. She was my first love, remember, the first woman in my life. I adored her. Everything about her. I still carry her in my thoughts everywhere I go. Just the other day the phone rang. This woman with a French accent was looking for some guy named Claude. A wrong number. It sounded just like her. I hung up the phone and cried. Then I remembered she’s not dead. She’s just in the other room.”