“Well, that’s more than I can say.”
She turned back to the shelf. “Eeeny meeny miney mo.” She pointed at a bottle and added it to her cart.
At the express lane, she turned to him again. “If it were up to me,” she said, “I’d give you the night off.”
“It’s not up to you though, is it?” His professional demeanor was returning.
She shrugged. “Richard probably won’t be home tonight anyway. I won’t tell if you leave.”
He gave her a small smile. “Nice try there. But no.”
“I could drag you all over the place tonight. Back to the museum, eh? How did you like that?”
“The art was lovely, ma’am. I imagine the museum is closed tonight, though.”
“I could make you go to Samantha Smith’s gallery. Bet you haven’t seen that show.” She laughed bitterly.
“Actually, I did check that out. Your husband is a lucky man.”
Marie felt her face grow hot. “Maybe you could put that in your report when you’re through. That he’s a lucky man.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.” He nodded toward the register behind her. “Your turn, ma’am.”
Chapter 29
Marie settled in at the kitchen island with her salad and laptop. She typed in “noradsanta.org” to track the big man’s progress around the world. Someday, she’d be sitting with her own children, eating cookies and drinking milk, and watching the little animated sleigh and reindeers zip from country to country. Next stop, Rome!
She had to believe that was in the cards for her, with someone. She just had to.
After an hour of shoveling lettuce into her mouth and mindlessly watching Santa, she looked up at the clock. Six o’clock. Congress had to have let out for Christmas by now, not that Marie expected to see Richard until tomorrow morning. She pulled up the J Street Chronicle to see what fab dinner party Maya and Richard were going to that evening. Would it be black tie? At a fancy restaurant—she frowned at the remains of her own salad wilting in its plastic clamshell case—or a multi-million dollar townhouse in Georgetown? She was living vicariously through ... her husband. Good grief.
If he wants to send me to rehab, at least I should get some good parties in exchange. Richard, of course, did not work that way.
There were no photos of fab parties on Maya’s blog, however. Not yet anyway. Instead, there was a grainy photograph of Marie standing on a street corner in Foggy Bottom, her bookbag slung over her shoulder, looking tired and haggard. It had been taken one evening after she left class, not that the caption noted that.
No, the caption said something else altogether.
Marie Witherspoon, wife of Sen. Richard Macintyre of Pennsylvania, was admitted to a rehabilitation facility outside Pittsburgh today. A spokesperson for the senator said that Ms. Witherspoon would remain in the facility for an undetermined amount of time. “Doctors are still evaluating treatment options.”
Marie pinched her arm. No, still here. Not dreaming. Last she checked, she had not in fact been admitted to rehab today. She wondered where Maya had gotten that information. No reason for Richard to lie to her about that, not that Marie could see.
Then she glanced at the header on the post, and her heart stopped. December 25. This posting was dated for tomorrow. She gripped the cold granite edge of the countertop to steady her. She was swaying on the stool. Maya had post-dated the article. Probably because she planned on doing normal holiday activities tomorrow and figured no one was reading the J Street Chronicle on Christmas Eve.
Marie stared at the words on the computer screen until they began to waver. She looked at the two bouquets sitting in vases on the island. She wasn’t going to her parents’ home tomorrow morning. Nor was she going to the Macintyres’ home in the afternoon. She was headed to rehab.
Merry-fucking-Christmas.
Well, that explained the lack of a Christmas tree. Hell, Richard probably wasn’t even planning to go with her. He’d drug her and hand her over to T. Rex with driving directions. And to think she’d been concerned about him missing Christmas with his wife and kids. When they were in the store, chatting, he’d known.
So this was it.
She jumped off the stool and dug through her purse for her new phone. The Batphone, Nishi called it. She hit Nishi’s name–the only name—in the contacts list. Please answer. Please. Tears were welling. Please. Her call rolled over to voice mail. She left a tearful, hiccuping message that was surely unintelligible on the other end and ran to Richard’s bedroom. She shouldn’t have been, but still she was stunned to see a small suitcase on the luggage stand in his closet—packed with some of her clothes. Jeans, sneakers, tee shirts, underwear. Underwear! Who had packed this and when? Her mother? T. Rex?
She had to leave.
She stood stock still in the closet. Think, Marie, think. You need to leave. So you need to pack a bag. A different bag. You’ll need to get past T. Rex. She leaned against the doorjamb and took a deep breath. You need to find the rohypnol pills. They have to be around here somewhere, if he plans to use them on me tomorrow. She felt up his suit jackets, checking the pockets. Nothing. She ran out to the bed, unmade, and yanked open the nightstand drawers. She pulled out each drawer and upended it, dumping the contents onto the carpet. She tossed aside loose change, parking garage receipts, guitar picks, ATM slips, photos of Maya.
Wait. She turned those back over. Nude photos of Maya. She slipped those into the back pocket of her jeans. They might come in handy. But no pill bottle. She didn’t even really know what she was looking for. She had no idea what color or size or shape rohypnol pills were.
She rubbed her temples, trying to think like Richard. Where would he be? What would he be doing? In the kitchen, pouring me something to drink. The kitchen was too obvious a hiding place, but ...
She ran down the hall and then down the grand curving staircase to the first floor. Richard’s study. She yanked open more drawers, in his desk, his filing cabinet, the cupboards beneath the bookcases. Nothing! She wailed in frustration.
She scanned the room. It had to be in the house somewhere. And she was running out of time. Then her eyes stopped on the small wooden box tucked away on a bookshelf, the kind of box you’d dump a handful of change into. The box was exotic and expensive-looking, with an intricately designed inlay on the top. She’d always suspected it to be a gift from Maya.
She lifted the lid gingerly, like it was about to explode. Inside lay a smattering of coins. And a clear plastic sandwich bag of pills. She unzipped the bag and pulled one out. It was white and round, with no identifying marks on it. But this had to be it.
She ran back out to the kitchen and uncorked the bottle of champagne. Shame to waste a perfectly good bottle like this, but hell she didn’t even know whether it was any good or not. She poured some into a lovely crystal flute—these were new, she noted—and dropped the pill in. While it dissolved, she pulled one of the cupcake boxes from the grocery bag and wrote “Merry Christmas from the Macintyres!” on the lid. Then she carried the box and the glass out to T. Rex’s SUV.
A tiny part of her was horrified at what she was about to do. Then she pictured herself squashing that tiny part like a bug.
T. Rex looked up, warily, as she approached his car. He rolled down the window.
“Merry Christmas,” she said as she reached through the window and laid the box of cupcakes on the passenger seat. “If I can’t give you the night off, at least I can give you dessert.”
“Uh, thanks.”
It was an awkward moment in a “friendship” full of awkward moments, she thought.
“And this.” She held out the champagne. “Richard will probably want that glass back, though.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
Marie turned to leave.
“Merry Christmas, Ms. Witherspoon.”
She glanced back at him but he was already sipping from the glass.
Merry Christmas to me, too.
Upstairs in the guest room, Marie threw clothes willy-nilly into every bag and suitcase she owned. She would have to leave most of her wardrobe behind, but so be it. She lugged them downstairs to the garage and stashed them in the trunk. Then she returned to the guest room for her bookbag. She had no idea when—or if—she’d ever resume work on her degree. It had been aborted twice already now. Maybe that just wasn’t meant to be. She stopped at the island and closed her laptop. She unzipped the bookbag to slide it in.
She was closing the zipper when she noticed something sticking out of the top of one of her textbooks. A grey envelope. She tugged it loose. Nice paper, stationery. She turned it over. Her heart stopped for the second time that evening. Her name was spelled out in Luc’s spidery handwriting.
Marie.
She could hear him say it, in that sexy French accent of his.
How did this get in here? There was no way he had been in Richard’s house. She tore it open to find a letter, handwritten.
My dearest Marie. Who was the genius who decided that there should be 24 tedious hours in every day? And 365 tedious days in every year? And every tedious year of the rest of my life ... without you. I can’t believe that must be so and yet your friend Nishi tells me I must leave you alone. I have caused trouble for you, my love. I apologize. From the sorry depths of my heart, I apologize. I never meant to cause all these difficulties. I should never have painted you. I should have known better. Yet, I don’t entirely regret doing so and for that, I am also sorry. Your husband is the vilest sort of man. I apologize for saying that, as well. But I am angry and sad. Hurt. My heart is not merely broken, but crushed. I hope he tires of you so that you may come back to me. I belong to you, Marie. Please never forget that. I love you deeply -- forever your Luc.
He was beautiful even in writing. He had poured his heart out to her. Her eyes misted over. But she still had no idea when he’d written it or how he had gotten it inside her bag. She turned it over, looking for a date, but there was nothing. It was a mystery.
Yet, I don’t entirely regret doing so.
I don’t regret it either.
Even though it had royally screwed over both their lives, she couldn’t say she wished it never happened. Those weekends with him had been the best moments of her life. The absolute best moments and she wouldn’t trade them for anything, nor would she ever forget them. And the paintings? They should have been kept private, just for the two of them, but modeling for Luc had changed her. And for the better. It had forced her to open up, to trust someone, to let someone see her.
That’s what she wanted from here on out. For other people to see her—unafraid, open, loved.
She slipped the letter into the bookbag again and left Richard’s house for the last time. She backed her car slowly down the driveway, holding her breath as she turned around and came abreast of the SUV. But T. Rex remained slumped over the steering wheel, out cold. At least he was in his car and not lying on a street corner.
She pulled out of the neighborhood and headed west. It would be west all the way to the Pacific Ocean. She had no airline ticket so she planned to drive for awhile, until Ohio or Indiana maybe. Then she’d catch a flight from there.
But she had one stop to make first. She would drive to Luc’s house in Middleburg and leave him an apology of her own. She wasn’t sure what to write yet, but she had a few miles to compose her words. Luc wouldn’t be there anyway. He would be at Sam’s house for Christmas Eve. For Christmas Day, too, in all likelihood. Sam was a good friend to Luc. She took care of him. She’d probably warned him about Marie. Too bad he hadn’t listened. It would have saved him a ton of grief.
Traffic got lighter the further west she drove. No shopping malls out this far, few strip malls, even. She still checked the rearview mirror every few minutes, convinced she’d see T. Rex’s SUV or the flashing lights of a police car behind her. It wasn’t until she was off the highway and on the twisting country road that lead to Luc’s house that she began to relax. Just a tiny bit. There were a lot of miles between her and San Francisco and a lot could go wrong, but she was out of Richard’s house. Unescorted. That was progress.
She turned into Luc’s driveway and parked in front of the house. The windows were dark, as expected. Not even the front light was on. She composed her own apology letter beneath the dull wash of the car’s interior lighting. It was nowhere near as nicely written as his had been, but it would have to do. It was dangerous to linger here long—Richard surely knew where Luc lived.
A light snow had begun to fall. The sky was moonless. Luc’s property looked different in the dark, and in the winter. The last time she’d been here had been Thanksgiving, and the bright autumn leaves had been hanging tenaciously to branches that were now bare. She stepped out of the car, looked at the dark house, then followed the old red brick path around to the back one last time. She would tuck the letter into the door of the studio.
A light glowed behind the studio’s windows. A faint light, but light all the same. She peered through a window, but all she could see were vague shadows of furniture, Luc’s easel, boxes stacked about.
On a whim, she tried the door. The knob turned easily in her hand and she hesitated. As someone whose own life had been infringed upon so many times, trespassing wasn’t something she took lightly. But he wasn’t home, she reasoned, and she would stay just a minute. Just long enough to leave the note and look around one final time.
The memories hit her as soon as she stepped into the dim, quiet studio. They slammed into her like an unexpected wave, the force of them taking her breath away. She stood there, letting them pummel her. She had learned so much in this room. Not just about art, but about men ... about herself. About love. She blinked back hot tears and looked around. The light was coming from a floor lamp, partially hidden behind a stack of boxes. Luc probably forgot to turn it off when he left for Sam’s.
Boxes were everywhere, she noticed. He’d been packing. The old battered work table that normally was topped with cans of brushes and half-squeezed tubes of paint, empty coffee mugs and paint rags was completely bare. The studio had never looked so neat ... or so empty.
There was a sharp pain in her chest, like someone had reached in and squeezed her heart. Luc was leaving, too. Suddenly she hated Richard with renewed fervor. Luc had left Charlottesville after Grace. And now he was leaving here ... after her.
She jumped when she heard a low snuffling, like the sound of someone waking up briefly before falling back into sleep. She peered harder into the gloom of the empty studio. There, tucked behind the easel, was Luc sitting at the tiny metal bistro table. His shoulders were hunched over, his head resting on his forearms on the table.
“Luc?” she whispered as she tiptoed closer.
Two bottles of French wine sat on the table, but no glasses. She picked them up. Empty. His breathing was heavy and labored.
“Luc,” she said again, this time a little louder. But he slept on. He was sleeping off a drunk, she realized.
She pulled the letter from her purse and dug out a pen, then sat down at the table, across from him. On the back of the letter, she sketched his sleeping form, tentatively at first, then with more confidence. His bedhead of hair, the shadows on his muscled forearms, the tension in his shoulders. She caught it all on paper.
She folded the letter in half again and placed it right in front of him. It would be the first thing he saw when he woke up.
She was halfway to the door when Luc’s breathing stuttered again, and he lifted his head. He looked across the studio at Marie, rubbed his eyes, then put his head back down.
“Luc,” she said quietly.
He looked up again. “Marie.” He rubbed his eyes again and shook his head. “Oh la la. I’ve never been this drunk before. Not to the point of hallucinations.”
He tried to stand, but immediately fell back into the chair. She ran to him.
“Don’t stand. You’re—”
“Shit-faced. Isn’t that what you Americans
call it?” He covered his head with his palms. “Why did I do this?”
She wrapped her arms around him from behind, laid her cheek against his warm back. She breathed him in, and her body started humming. This was all it took. Just a second’s touch and she was caught up in him. Her head may have been trying to forget everything they had shared in this room, but her body was stubbornly remembering.
He touched the sheet of paper. “What’s this?” He spun it around and regarded it for a long moment. “You’ve been practicing. Bon.” He unfolded the paper and read.
Beneath her cheek, the rise and fall of his chest slowed. He was holding his breath.
“How did you get the letter into Richard’s house?”
“Hmm?”
“I found your letter today. But how did you get inside the house?”
“I didn’t. I went to your apartment when I got back from New York and found movers taking away your things. I put it in your bag.”
“Wait. It’s been in there since November?”
“Yes. I waited and waited for you to call.”
“I haven’t opened that bag in weeks.” She pressed her forehead into the back of his neck, inhaling, taking the warm masculine scent of his skin deep into her lungs. God, she had missed him. “I missed my finals.”
She felt him inhale sharply.
“I’m sorry, Marie. I am so sorry about all of this. I never never intended—”
“It was my fault, too. You didn’t fully appreciate my situation. But I did. Or I should have. And I dragged you into it anyway.”
“I don’t recall much dragging, ma chérie. I think I dove in headfirst.”
He tried to spin around to face her, but stopped. His face contorted in pain.
“Don’t move. Let me.”
She carried the other chair over to his side and sat down, her knees cradled inside his. She pulled his hands into hers. His eyes were shadowed and rimmed in red. He was only a day or two away from a full-blown beard.
Drawing Lessons Page 25