I stand, straighten myself out, check my reflection in a photograph of Cassie and Henry and my mom from five years ago. I look pale but together.
No more putting this off.
Downstairs, Kaitlyn’s sitting on the living room couch, watching the gas fireplace. There’s only a small lamp on, and the way the shadows work, the weight she’s lost, the difference in her hair color and cut—if I saw her on the street, I might not be sure it was her. I’d probably dismiss an across-the-street sighting, like I have the many times I’ve thought I’ve seen Tom, as a mind trick, my brain swapping out unfamiliar features with the known.
I walk into the room.
“Did you run away with Tom?”
Her head snaps around. She looks like a panicked animal caught on the road. “What? No. Tom is . . . Isn’t Tom dead?”
“Yes, but then again, so are you.”
“But Tom would never . . .”
“Tom would never what? Run away? Sleep with my friend? Betray his family?”
Kaitlyn flinches at each question.
“Tom would never run away. He loved you. He loved your kids.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Of course I love my kids; it’s not like that.”
“So what is it like, Kaitlyn? Please enlighten me.”
She drops her head into her hands. The bones in her neck are sticking out of the unfamiliar argyle sweater she’s wearing. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I’ve had a whole year to figure it out and I just don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know it isn’t.” She sits back up. The end of her nose is red. I feel violent, the need to reach out and smack someone, her.
See what you’ve done to me, Tom? You’ve turned me into a parody, a woman who might actually slap another woman just for the dramatic impact of it.
“So what, then?”
“Will you sit down, and I’ll try to explain what I can? Please?”
I sit on the couch across from her and grab the blanket off the back. It’s cashmere, soft and cozy. I need to be wrapped in the gentlest thing I can right now; another echo because this is exactly how I felt in that hotel room in New York. A coincidence or just one of life’s little harmonies? Who cares, who cares?
“So what happened?” I say.
“Which part?”
“The Tom part.”
“How do you know about the Tom part?”
“Coincidentally, I just found out.”
“How?”
I measure my words. “Joshua told me.”
“He knows?”
“He found some e-mails between you and Tom. Or Franny did.”
“Franny did?”
All the color has bleached from Kaitlyn’s face, and, like Henry at the funeral home, she looks like she might faint. I want to feel sympathy for her, but I’m having a hard time mustering the energy.
“I read that they . . . Are they engaged?”
“You saw that piece in Vanity Fair? Is that why you came home?” I saw the article after I learned about it from Joshua and the girls. It was all anyone was talking about these last two days.
“It’s one of the reasons. What happened? How could . . . ?”
“Franny and Joshua have apparently grown quite close. She moved in a few months ago—to help with the girls, I thought—but it looks as if she’s been worming her way into Joshua’s heart. As your daughter. And then a couple of days ago, they had a fight after they told the girls they were getting married—”
Kaitlyn raises her hand to her mouth.
“Do you need the bathroom?”
As if the word prompted her, Kaitlyn gets up and runs to the powder room. I listen to her lift the toilet seat and choke up what sounds like her insides. I feel both cruel and satisfied. I never thought I was the vengeful type, but perhaps I am. Maybe this is what I’ve needed this whole time—my pound of flesh.
I wait a few minutes and then knock on the bathroom door.
“You coming out?” I ask.
“In a minute.”
“I’m not going to do it, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Hold your hair.”
The door bursts open. Kaitlyn’s crying and laughing at the same time.
“What are we going to do, Cecily? This is such a fucking mess.”
“You think I know? This is your rodeo, Kaitlyn. We’re all just along for the ride.”
30
BACKFILL
KATE
Going back to work was both the best and worst thing Kate—Kaitlyn then—had ever done. The best because it opened her world back up. Turned the lights back on in her mind. Kept her out of the funk she could, and did, so easily slip into. Made her more patient with the girls when she got home. More patient with Joshua. She slept better. Felt better. She was better.
Was this what made her susceptible? Or was it the proximity?
She and Tom had carried on a mild flirtation for years. She didn’t know when it started. It was part of the harmless background noise of her life. His eyes would meet hers sometimes at parties, as if they had a secret joke. They often laughed at the same things. Found the same things outrageous. Wanted to fight the same fights. And he always seemed attuned to her needs if they shared a meal. Her glass refilled at the right moment. The best slice of meat. Cecily was her friend, but she looked forward to those shared moments with Tom. They seemed brighter. More memorable.
It was a silly, harmless crush that neither of them did anything about. Kaitlyn had had them before and would have them again. One person can’t fulfill every role in someone’s life. Especially not after you’ve lost all sense of mystery about each other. That’s what Kaitlyn always thought, anyway. That it made her feel better and that nothing would ever come of it.
Until, one day, something did.
The flirting had picked up once she’d gone to work for Tom. In fact, she’d been slightly concerned about it before she accepted the job. But they were
