“What wife? Paul wasn’t married.” I feel as if the air has been sucked out of the room. The growl of the coffee grinder, the hiss of the milk steamer, all other conversation in the café recedes.
“Yes, he was, Allie.” Madeline’s eyebrows crinkle together, creating two deep grooves in the flesh above her nose. “You know that.”
“I don’t remember a wife,” I say. But as I reach back through time, grasping at memories, I realize maybe I do. Do I? One thing I am ashamed to admit is that at seventeen, I certainly didn’t care.
“You remember,” Madeline says in a matter-of-fact tone. “You used to spend hours in that darkroom blacking her out of all your photos.”
I shiver, a chill running through me despite the warmth of the room. Her words resonate in my bones with ice-cold veracity.
“My mother knew the wife,” she says. “Actually, she knew her mother. They were in some women’s club together. It wasn’t professional, nothing to do with the university, maybe some garden club? Either way, the scandal took a toll on them socially. They became pariahs, he deservedly so, but not she. I always felt somewhat responsible for that.”
“What happened to her?”
Madeline frowns, stirring her spoon in her mug. “No idea. The two of them moved away pretty soon after.”
“Do you know her name?”
A sad half smile forms on her lips, and she looks off in the distance as she speaks. “Funny you should ask. I don’t. I’ve made half-hearted attempts at tracking her down on the internet, just to see what happened. Try googling Mrs. Adamson. You won’t get very far. I suppose I could just ask my mother.”
“Would you?” I can barely get the words out.
“Of course. I’ll get back to you.” Madeline frowns at me, alarm in her face. “Alexis, you don’t look well. Was it something I said?”
As I rub Cole’s back in bed at night, my mind drifts, wondering how Madeline viewed me earlier at the coffee shop. Did she look past my impulse chop of a haircut, my dark circles and sallow skin, and see the curious teenager I used to be? I still saw the insouciant know-it-all in her, beneath her composed professional demeanor.
It was bittersweet connecting with someone from my past. I wish I had a group of girlfriends who knew me back when, whose childhoods were intertwined with my own, and acted as an extended family. Whenever I see women like that—laughing together, making private jokes, posing for pictures—I am gripped by an intense, primal jealousy.
I lean down to check if Cole is asleep. It’s always astounded me how he can be racing around the room one minute and snoring the next. I kiss his forehead and get up. As clichéd as it sounds, Cole has taught me about love. About the richness that comes from being hurt, but then forgiving.
I always blamed my lack of friends on having to leave Overton, but now I am willing to see that I’ve never really done the hard work of making and keeping female friends. I think of Leah—even though she has her own kids with issues—she’s carved out space in her life to let me in. Or Daisy, who makes time for me while juggling a successful real estate business and problems with her stepdaughter.
It’s not too late. I can create my own little tribe, or at least try to join one. And I will make an effort with Madeline, too. Who knows? Maybe there is enough goodwill that we can rekindle our friendship.
As I get ready for bed, I think about what she told me about Paul’s wife. Is it possible I had just erased this woman from my memories? I heard a story on NPR a while ago about people who wrote about their experience during 9/11 the next day. A few years later, researchers showed these folks what they had written, and the majority denied that they had done so. Their recollections had changed dramatically, and they were adamant that while the written memories were in their own hand, the substance was less accurate than their later recollections.
I let myself think about her for a moment, this unidentifiable wife. In my mind, she is cut from the same cloth as Katharine Hepburn, a New England classic in khakis and crisp, white shirts and pearls. I have no reason to imagine her this way, but I do. What does this woman do when she discovers her husband is sleeping with his student? When the entire school where he works is on fire with this scandalous news? How does she move on?
And where is she now?
I wonder if Madeline will really follow through on her promise to ask her mother about Paul’s wife. As I fall asleep, it occurs to me: if Madeline can get me info on the wife, I’ll probably be able to locate Paul.
And that may be the thread that unravels this whole goddamn knot.
35
My phone rings Monday morning just as I am stepping out of the shower. I can hear Mark and Cole in the kitchen below, and I am tempted to send the call to voice mail. Mornings run on a tight schedule, and I need to get down to the kitchen so Mark can get to work.
But when I see the call is from Valerie Simmons’s assistant, I take it.
“Hi, Ms. Ross, sorry for calling so early, but I’m going to have to cancel Ms. Simmons’s appointment today.”
Her clipped delivery and officious tone almost scare me off of asking any follow-up questions, but I forge ahead.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say. “Do you want to reschedule?”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear. Ms. Simmons won’t be using Mike Chau Studio, and she will not be working with you. Goodbye, Ms. Ross.”
I put the phone on Mark’s dresser
