Quick peck on the cheek, he thought. Thank you for dinner.
Elizabeth leaned against the closed front door, blocking his way. She gazed up at him through her cinnamon bangs, a siren’s look; it must have worked with other men.
She said, “At my party on the Fourth…when you were in the living room with the Beeches…? What was going on? Was there a fight? I didn’t even realize you knew the Beeches.”
“I don’t,” he said. Then he self-edited. “Well, I don’t know the professor. Dabney and I dated in high school.”
“Did you?” Elizabeth said. “That’s interesting.”
“I don’t know how interesting it is,” Clen said quickly. The last thing he needed was Elizabeth believing that anything between him and Dabney was “interesting.” “It was aeons ago. Ancient history.”
“I saw her a few days ago at our Chamber board meeting,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think she looks well. Her skin is quite sallow, and she’s so thin. It looks like a case of hep C to me, though I’m no doctor.”
Dabney had told Clen that she’d almost fainted. She had said that the room was a hundred degrees and she’d been so anxious about the meeting that she’d skipped lunch. But, with Elizabeth’s words, Clen realized that Dabney did look sallow-her skin had a lemony tinge-and she was quite thin. The other day, he had been able to count the individual knobs of her spine. He doubted that she had anything close to as serious as hepatitis C, but he would gently suggest that she go see a doctor.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for dinner.” He bent in for Elizabeth’s cheek, but she reached up with both hands and met him full on the lips.
Clen pulled back. Elizabeth’s expression was one of instant mortification, reminiscent of that other, long-ago night on the South China Sea. Oh shit, he thought. Had he led her to believe this was what he wanted? Had she assumed he would be receptive now that Mingus was dead?
“Elizabeth,” he said.
She opened the door. “Thank you for coming,” she said, recovering. Ever the proper hostess. “It was a lovely evening.”
“Lovely,” he said, and he all but ran across the moonlit grass.
Dabney
Miranda Gilbert and her fiancé, Dr. Christian Bartelby, were due to visit for the weekend, as they had the past three summers. But a few days before their arrival, Miranda called to say that Christian couldn’t make it. He had to work at the hospital.
“And I’m sure you don’t want just me by myself,” Miranda said.
“Of course we do,” Dabney said. She said this just to be polite. In reality, having Miranda cancel would be for the best. Dabney needed to tell Box about Clendenin and she could hardly do so while they had a house guest.
“Wonderful!” Miranda said. “I was facing the rather dreary prospect of going to the cinema alone, or spending too much money on Newbury Street. I’ll keep my flight, then.”
When Dabney hung up, she was filled with surprising relief. She was off the hook.
She didn’t want to tell Box about Clendenin. It would be too awful.
The lives we lead.
Miranda arrived on Friday afternoon, only a few minutes before Box flew in from Washington, so they all piled into Dabney’s Impala and headed to the house together. Dabney hadn’t informed Box that Dr. Bartelby was a no-show, and she could tell that he was thrown off by Miranda’s appearing alone. Miranda picked up on this, and the whole way home she thanked Dabney profusely for allowing her to come anyway. Boston was a cauldron this time of year, she said, as Box well knew.
Box said, “Mmmmm, yes.”
Once at the house, Miranda gushed to Dabney about how lovely the guest room was. Finer than the Four Seasons, she said. Miranda was a tall woman with strawberry-blond hair and porcelain skin and green eyes, her nose perhaps a bit sharp for true beauty. She wore a pale pink cotton sundress and a pair of flat sandals with complicated straps. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, and her personality was warmer and far looser than Dabney remembered from previous summers. She seemed almost silly-but was that possible? Then Dabney realized that not only was Miranda’s sundress pink, her aura was as well. She emitted a color like that of New Dawn climbing roses on their finest day.
Miranda was pink.
Box?
Miranda Gilbert and Box, a perfect match? Dabney had always been a tiny bit jealous of Miranda, but she had never thought…there had never been any indication during Miranda’s previous visits…but of course Dr. Christian Bartelby had always been with her before…he had caused interference…Dabney hadn’t seen it.
Okay, Dabney thought. Wow.
“I’ll let you settle in,” Dabney said. “Can I bring you a drink? A glass of Shiraz? A gin and tonic?”
“Oh, a gin and tonic would be lovely!” Miranda said. She flopped back onto the bed. “I have to say, Dabney, this is a slice of heaven. I look forward to this weekend every year. But Christian…well, he’s quite wrapped up with his patients. He just wasn’t able to get the time off.”
Dabney nodded. “I’ll be right back with your cocktail.”
Dinner was rib-eye steaks and marinated farm vegetables on the grill, a large green salad, some good rolls, and a lot of Shiraz. Dabney set the table outside and encouraged Box and Miranda to sit and talk while Dabney got everything ready.
“Do you need any help?” Miranda asked.
“I’m a bit of a control freak,” Dabney said.
Box let a beat of silence pass. “Confirmed,” he said.
Laughter.
Dabney lingered in the kitchen. She kept peering out the kitchen window. Pink? Miranda pink, Box emitting nothing, nada. If he had an aura, it was the color of air. Because Dabney was there, causing interference.
She excused herself right after the last bite of sabayon with fresh, wild strawberries. She had not hurried per se-how could she hurry through homemade sabayon and tiny, delectable wild strawberries? However, as soon as she was finished, Dabney stood and cleared, saying to Miranda, who was about to protest, “You stay and enjoy. I am a control freak.”
Dabney then carried the dessert dishes to the kitchen and popped out to the patio one more time to replenish their Shiraz. Box and Miranda were deep in conversation about Milton Friedman, a particularly favorite topic, as the famous economist was the subject of Miranda’s thesis. Dabney didn’t think either of them had noticed her. Their glasses might have been magically filled by fairies.
This was a good thing, she thought. This was, very possibly, the solution to all her problems.
And yet, of course, it was perturbing. Was Dabney really just going to pass off her husband of twenty-four years? Miranda was emitting a glow like a peony in full bloom-pinker than pink: she was in love with Box, besotted, and Dabney felt that he deserved this. Dabney had adored Box and respected him and even desired him, but had she ever been besotted?
Dabney watched them from the kitchen window as she rinsed dishes and felt a pang-not of jealousy over Box, per se, though it was a feeling that could not be ignored. She had been having a lot of these lately-urges, she supposed. Lovesick.
She texted Clen. Now?
By the time she had the dishes in the rack, there was a response. Yes, please get here five minutes ago.
Dabney exhaled. Could she leave the house undetected? She thought she could. She would say she was going up to bed. Box and Miranda might stay awake for another hour or two talking about Friedman, then Tobin, then Larry Summers. Once they got to talking about Larry Summers, there would be no stopping them. Dabney would go see Clen for five minutes and scoot right home.