Amanda Bright @ Home

by Danielle Crittenden

Susie laughed. “Yes, we’d both like decaffeinated, please.”

  Susie left to fetch more plates. Upon one point, at least, Amanda’s mind had been set at ease: Hochmayer’s ring finger was bare, although deeply imprinted with the mark of a wide band; it could not have been very long since he removed it.

  And yet Amanda could not help harboring misgivings. Much as she was taken by Hochmayer’s charm, marrying a man in his sixties—even a vigorous man—would demand sacrifices of Susie for which money would not compensate. Would he consent to more children? How long could Susie enjoy being his wife before she became his nurse?

  But Susie appeared so happy, so thrilled at her good fortune, as she bore the last of the dinner plates into the kitchen, that Amanda tried to put aside her doubts. What a relief Hochmayer was after the long “parade of horribles,” as Bob called Susie’s succession of suitors. Hochmayer was so sensitive, so thoughtful, so obviously proud of Susie. And really, what was the alternative? Every year Amanda had grown more worried on her friend’s behalf, fearful that by the time Susie actually met the right person, she would no longer be able to recognize that he was the right person. How could anyone sustain faith in love when every affair ended in a cold exchange of house keys, borrowed books, and spent passion? How much of herself would Susie still have to give after she had bestowed so much upon other people? The problem with Susie—Amanda thought, arranging four mugs on a tray—was that she used her beauty the way an increasingly desperate gambler plays his dwindling stack of chips. The longer Susie stayed at the table, the greater her need for a big payoff. Susie spoke confidently of still “being young,” but she only felt young because she was living exactly as she had lived in her twenties. Susie did not realize how old she would suddenly feel when she had children. That was the thing about children. They rise up next to you like new buildings: there they are, sparkling and gleaming in the sunlight—and there you are, your joints starting to settle at odd angles and fresh coats of paint failing to conceal the flaws on the surface …

  “What else?” Susie asked as Amanda counted out dishes for dessert.

  “Just pecan pie and ice cream—but the coffee’s not quite ready.” Amanda unboxed the pie and handed Susie a scoop.

  “Tell me more about Jim,” Amanda said, making a hash of the first slice and trying to neaten it on the plate. “How serious is he?”

  When the women emerged from the kitchen, Amanda’s manner toward Hochmayer had completely changed. All friendliness was gone. She set out the mugs and poured the coffee with the detachment of a waitress, and took longer than might have been expected to return with cream and sugar. The men were still deeply engrossed in conversation about the Senate hearings.

  “I believe Senator Benson, even though he’s a Republican, is friendly to our point of view,” Hochmayer was saying. “Frith, being the arrogant sonofabitch he is, hasn’t bothered to make any friends on Capitol Hill—and being the stingy sonofabitch he is, hasn’t bought himself any political influence, either.”

  Susie passed around the dessert and silently took her seat opposite Hochmayer. He appeared to sense the drop of temperature in the room and looked for a clue in the women’s faces. Failing to find one, he returned to his discussion with Bob.

  “The thing is, we’ve got to be able to count on you folks. You can’t let us down. Your boss has come a long way, but I get the impression he’s still a bit squeamish about the whole thing.”

  “He is,” Bob acknowledged. “I can’t blame him. I mean, Megabyte’s stock has plunged, and there could be huge political fallout. The Wall Street Journal is screaming that Megabyte will pull the whole economy down with it. So before Sussman goes for Frith’s jugular, he’s got to feel damn sure we have a good case.”

  “I understand, I understand. You don’t try to bag the snake before the bag’s in position. I just hope Sussman has the guts to go through with it. He’s not like you, Bob. You’ve got stuffing. I can see that. You’ve been gung-ho from the beginning. You’re an idealist like I am, and you don’t like to see bad guys like Frith getting away with what they shouldn’t be getting away with. That’s why you’re in Justice, and not piling up the hours at some corporate law firm. I just wish …”

  Hochmayer’s voice trailed off and he sipped his coffee.

  “Wish what?” asked Bob.

  “Well, I shouldn’t say. Let me put it this way: we could use more of that sort of idealism outside the government. The private sector—well, it doesn’t always have to be about just making money.”

  With this, Hochmayer flashed one of his winning smiles at Amanda. Amanda did not react. Bob gave her a questioning look, but she stood up and began collecting the mugs.

  “I realize that, Jim, but I have to say it’s pretty exciting right now at Justice,” Bob replied, his eyes still on Amanda.

  “Sure is. And there’s nothing like being a young man with his first big game walking square into his crosshairs. I know exactly how you feel, Bob. Same as when I bagged my first big deal.”

  Hochmayer finished off his coffee, patted his thighs, and stood up.

  “Let’s not keep these nice folks up all night, Susie. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Bob showed them to the door. Amanda followed a few feet behind. Hochmayer made one last attempt to engage Amanda—“Honestly, best time I’ve had in a while … such fine people …” —but she just nodded and pressed her lips into something like a smile. Susie kissed her cheek and whispered, “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Hochmayer shook Bob’s hand and, after thanking them graciously again for their hospitality, accompanied Susie down the front walk toward an idling black sedan.

  “What was that all about?” Bob asked the moment after Amanda closed the door. She was leaning her body against it, as if afraid Hochmayer and Susie might barge back in.

  “He’s married.”

  “Separated, you mean.”

  “No—I mean married.”

  “Really married?”

  “Yes. Susie told me. When we were in the kitchen.”

  “Gee,” said Bob, as he absorbed the news himself. “I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. I told you I thought he was married.”

  Amanda wandered into the living room and dropped down on the sofa. “I didn’t know. I can’t believe Susie didn’t warn me.”

  “Warn you?” Bob seemed amused. “Since when does Susie ever warn anyone about anything? And what was she going to say? Hey, Amanda, just wanted you to meet the man I’m having an affair with.”

  “You’re right.” Amanda dully surveyed the shards of their evening, Hochmayer’s coffee cup, the scrunched-up napkins, the stubby candles.

  “I just don’t think Susie should have brought him here, that’s all. No wonder they insisted on coming to our house—they didn’t want to be seen together in public.”

  “I’m not sorry she did though.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Bob was perched on the arm of a chair opposite her, his face cast half in shadow by a lamp. “Think about it—to have an opportunity to spend an evening with Jim Hochmayer? How many people get to do that? It’s almost like having Mike Frith to dinner. I learned a hell of a lot from him—and it was great to be able to talk strategy—”

  “For God’s sake,” Amanda interrupted. “Couldn’t you for once look at a situation outside of its relationship to the Megabyte case? Susie, whatever you think of her, is still my friend. Now she’s gone and got herself involved with a married billionaire—”

  “Yeah. And … ?”

  “And … well, for starters she’s going to get hurt.”

  “Oh please. Susie knows what she’s doing.”

  “No, I don’t think she does, actually—not this time. I think she’s really in love with him. I think she truly believes he’s going to get a divorce and marry her.”

  “Then she’s in for a rude shock.”

  “Why are you so sure? Maybe he will leave his wife. Susie’s much younger. She’s pretty, smart—a celebrity
.”

  “A billionaire like Jim doesn’t just ‘get divorced.’ Look, maybe his marriage is miserable. For all we know he’s had affairs for years. Maybe his wife knows about them. Maybe she’s even comfortable with the arrangement. It happens, you know—especially in those circles.”

  Amanda weighed this unsavory possibility. She was struck by the equally unsavory way Bob described it—so lightly, as if it were nothing more than a weather report from a distant city. Foul weather in Seattle. Yet the foul weather had blown right through their front door. What was he suggesting? That it was a woman’s job to put up with whatever arrangement suited the man? Susie, the wife, they were all the same? Amanda studied his face intently. She had not asked Bob about the phone call from Grace Bertelli. She had left the message on the counter, and it was gone when she had come down the next morning. Amanda did not dare raise her name again, but the pressure inside her to know, right now, as he so casually discoursed upon the etiquette of adultery—

  “Perhaps that does happen in ‘those circles.’ I wouldn’t know. Anyway, since when did ‘all the rich people are doing it’ become your idea of a good defense?”

  “I’m not defending it. I’m saying we don’t know all the facts.” Bob rose and stretched. “In any event, it’s none of our business. Susie is a big girl and can take care of herself.”

  He began switching off lights.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” she said quietly.

  For a long time Amanda stared at the black shapes of the living room. She felt that she could not make sense of anything. Bob’s words had been reasonable enough. Susie was a big girl, the affair was none of their business, and who knew what Hochmayer was up to? Maybe his wife was a shrew. Maybe he had good reasons for tiring of her, for seeking happiness elsewhere.

  And how could Amanda of all people condemn him for it? Hadn’t she had … thoughts … herself? Nothing had happened—nothing would have happened—right? Right? Well, what would she have done if the evening with Alan had not turned out so badly? Would she have … ?

  The thought sickened her. Her feelings for Alan, for all their explosive intensity, had spent themselves quickly; all that was left behind were the empty casings—embarrassment, shame even, and surprise at her own audacity. (Recklessness, her conscience asserted, but for now she would stick with audacity.) The whole episode had been just another dodge, just another way of looking to someone else to make the decisions she needed to make on her own. Or so she had been telling herself. But Hochmayer and Susie … that was different, surely. Everything about it felt wrong. What if Hochmayer and his wife had been reasonably happy until Susie had come along? What if the wife’s crime was simply doing what it was Hochmayer claimed to honor: spending her life taking care of him, raising his children, losing her gloss?

  Amanda shuddered. She felt behind the sofa for an old afghan that had slipped off. There it was. Despite the night’s heat, she pulled the dirty cloth up around her throat. It prickled with dust and old cookie crumbs, but she clung to it, her gaze resting upon a wedding photo she had set upon the mantel the day she had reorganized the house. The room was too dark for Amanda to make out anything except the white gleam of her dress, but she could see every detail in her mind’s eye, not just as it was in the photo, but as it had been on the steps at New York City Hall. Bob draped his arm around her shoulders confidently, as if getting married were the most natural occurrence in the world. Amanda was smiling with forced cheer, depending upon his light grasp to hold her upright. She had loved Bob for his confidence and he had loved her despite her lack of it. Indeed, she had been so self-conscious about getting married that they had not even had a formal wedding—they invited just their parents and a few good friends to a civil ceremony and a wedding feast afterward at a Chinese restaurant on the Lower East Side.

  Of course Bob was confident—his parents had just celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. At the time Amanda had insisted that she would have been just as happy living together. She told Bob that she did not need a “piece of paper” to prove their love. Now, as her gaze drew back from the portrait, she realized that the “piece of paper” was much less flimsy than it had seemed. Everything in their life rested upon it. Their contract existed regardless of Bob’s love for her, or her love for Bob. It turned feelings into words, and promises into facts. It ratified, in the dry language of the law, the emotions in their eyes and hearts that humid June afternoon so many years ago—before Ben and Sophie, before this house, before they knew each other’s minds as intimately and instinctively as Amanda knew this dark room. Yet all that would come later had been implicit then; it was wrapped up in their vows like the DNA of an embryonic cell, already dividing and developing into what would become this life. These lives. Their life, together.

  Somewhere, Amanda imagined, a Mrs. Hochmayer was drawing the curtains in her bedroom, turning down the sheets on her side of the bed, glancing over at the empty spot that was not truly empty because for so long it had belonged to her husband. On his nightstand would be the stack of books he planned to read; in his closet, a row of suits still bearing the shape of his elbows. And on his dressing table would be the collection of personal artifacts—cuff links, collar stays, loose change—so familiar that you cease to see them, yet so essential to the harmony of the room that were they to vanish it would have the shock of a robbery.

  Did Mrs. Hochmayer know that some thousand miles away another woman was wrapping herself around her husband’s naked body? That this woman had set her own, unfamiliar artifacts—face cream, earrings, cosmetics case—alongside his on the marble ledge of a hotel bathroom?

  Amanda could picture it no more; the image left her gasping. She stood and walked slowly upstairs.

  Other thoughts were flying at her now—distressing thoughts. It happens, you know. Was it happening to her?

  Through the half-closed door of their bedroom, Amanda could see the long figure of Bob asleep; his shoes and socks lay scattered on the floor, illuminated by a quadrangle of light from the hallway.

  Desperately Amanda wanted to wake him. But as she paused at the door, gathering up the words she would use to confront him, her nerve fell away. What could she say? What cause for doubt did she have except a phone message? Amanda found herself simply, almost childishly, grateful for the sight of him, there, in their bed. She changed quickly and joined him, burying her face into his back. He half roused at her touch, rolled over, and pulled her toward him. Gradually, the rhythm of her breath joined his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A BEEP ON Amanda’s line signaled that a second call was trying to get through.

  “Hang on a sec,” she said to Liz. “Hello?”

  “Is this Mrs. Clarke?” It was a male voice Amanda didn’t recognize.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Grover Mudd, of the Washington Post.”

  “Thanks but we already subscribe.”

  “It’s not a sales call! I’m a reporter—I write ‘The Ear’ column,” he said, before Amanda could click off.

  “Could you hold on a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  Amanda returned to Liz. “It’s a reporter. I don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Call me back—it sounds interesting.”

  Amanda hesitated before picking up the other line. “The Ear”—that was the daily gossip column. Why on earth was Mudd calling her?

  “Mrs. Clarke?”

  “Amanda—Amanda Bright.”

  “Hi. I’m friends with Susie Morris. She suggested I call you.”

  “Susie? Why?”

  “I just bumped into her at the studio. I was doing the noon-hour show,” he explained, with a touch of self-importance. “She told me she had dinner at your house last night …”

  “She did?”

  “Don’t worry, I know all about her and Jim Hochmayer. She told me herself. That’s not why I’m calling.”

  Amanda was staggered by Susie’s indiscretion. She knew her friend
was a blurter, but to blurt about Hochmayer to a gossip columnist!

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “I’m doing an item on her new show. It’s starting to generate buzz. Susie tells me you’ve known her longer than anyone else in Washington.”

  “That’s true,” Amanda allowed. “I don’t mind talking about that—if Susie said it was okay.”

  “She did.”

  Amanda, who had spoken to the press on several occasions when she worked at the NEA, tried to recall the little “rules” she had observed when dealing with reporters. Chief among them was, “Don’t say anything interesting.” It was hard to apply this rule to the topic of Susie. That’s okay, Amanda told herself. Just be positive—blandly positive.

  Mudd fired off a few questions about Susie’s career: Had Susie always aspired to work in television? Did Amanda think her friend found it difficult, as a beautiful woman, to be taken seriously as a journalist? Amanda answered cautiously, saying her friend had always been ambitious and agreeing, yes, she imagined it was tough sometimes for Susie to be taken seriously in Washington but Susie wouldn’t have come so far if she didn’t have talent … the new show was a perfect vehicle for Susie … certain to be a great success … blah blah blah …

  “What I find funny about it, between you and me,” Mudd confided, “is how she could date Hochmayer and work for Mike Frith’s cable station.”

  “Look, I don’t want to comment on anything to do with her personal life—”

  “Yes, but don’t you think it’s awkward?”

  Mudd’s presumption discomfited Amanda. She could see the story line he was taking—“Sleeping with the Enemy”—and Amanda grew worried on Susie’s behalf. Perhaps she could deflect it—without entering into the Hochmayer business?

  “I know that Susie agrees with Mike Frith. She strongly opposes the Megabyte case.”

  “So how is it possible that she gets along with Hochmayer?”

  “Look, I really don’t want to talk about her relationship with him—”

  “No, no, no, of course,” Mudd reassured her. “I’m just thinking aloud, as her friend. We go back a long way, too, you know. It’s a kind of strange dynamic, don’t you think?”