Francie hadn’t followed, was aware that a question had been asked, no more. She nodded.
“What does that mean?”
Francie didn’t answer. She had meant to tell Nora about Ned, the constant omission of this fact of her life putting too great a strain on their friendship, but how was that possible now? Nora knew Anne-and more, much more, had speculated about Anne’s sex drive, found Ned attractive: how horribly tangled every little aspect of this was-and would thus be put in the intolerable situation of having to lie for Francie, an adulteress once removed. Impossible. Impossible and unnecessary, since it was over. She had just seen Ned for the last time. That was that. The resolved and the unresolved, all in a box. It just had to be closed and put away: a tidy, persuasive image, like slicing through the Gordian knot. But the back of her thigh still tingled in the place he’d touched it, if in fact he’d touched it at all.
“Are you saying that Anne and Ned make sense to you, for example?” Nora asked. “As a couple, I mean.”
Francie whipped around to face her. “Who the fuck does?” she said.
Nora stared at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’re a thousand miles away, and when you’re not, you’re mean as a snake. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ll take that farther, too-you look like shit, if you want the truth, which isn’t your style at all. Something’s wrong, very wrong. Fess up.”
Francie took a deep breath. At that moment, she remembered the conversation on the ice: There’s someone I have to tell. I won’t say it’s you, if you don’t want, but I have to tell. Had she mentioned Nora’s name? Yes. Had Ned therefore assumed that Nora already knew? How else to explain his reply when she’d thanked him for the ride? The pleasure was mine. Was it a sort of inside joke, inviting Nora in on the secret? If so, why now, when he’d always been so careful? Did the burden of the secret sometimes grow so intolerable that the truth had to burst out, even be flaunted? That could be dangerous-could have been, Francie corrected herself, because it was all going in a box, resolved and unresolved.
“Go on,” Nora said. “Spill it.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Nora nodded. “Okay, pal.” She swung away and walked off toward her car. Francie wanted to call out to her, Nora, Nora, and just let whatever happened after that happen. But she didn’t. She hadn’t done any damage yet, not to Anne or Em, and that was the way it had to be.
Francie went home. The answering machine was beeping in the living room. She switched on lights, listened to the message. “This is Roger,” said Roger. He hated speaking to machines-she heard it in his voice. “Things are… promising. Vis-a-vis Bob Fielding. I’ll be here for another day or two. No need to pick me up.” Long pause. “And good luck. I’m referring to the tournament. If you’re still alive.” Another pause. “In it, that is. Good-bye.”
Francie saw the future: Roger in some condo in Fort Lauderdale, she staying here. Just a few hours ago that would have seemed if not ideal then much better than what she had. But now there would be no Ned to complete the imperfect picture. Even if he did leave Anne, no Ned. She told herself that a few times, then went upstairs, stripped off her warm-ups and her tennis clothes, lowered herself into a hot bath. No Ned. But what if he did leave Anne, and then some time went by-how long? six months? a year? more? — and after that he called her? Was that okay? No. Why not? She was trying to answer that question when the phone rang. Francie picked it up, expecting Roger.
“How’s Saturday night?” Not Roger, but Anne.
“Saturday night?”
“After the match. For our little foursome. I thought we could try Huitres-am I saying it right? Ned loves seafood.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to play?”
“I’m on my feet right now! No pain. Maybe it’s all mental, like they say. Your confidence is rubbing off on me. That’s what Ned thinks.”
“He said that?” Francie said, wishing she could have phrased it as “Does he?” or just kept her mouth shut.
“No, but it’s what he thinks. I can tell. So how about it?”
Never. “Roger’s out of town right now. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“Okay. But I’ll go ahead and make the reservations. I hear it’s a pretty hot place.”
It had been hot, as Francie recalled, the year before; then cursed herself for the thought. “Sounds nice,” she said. “Take care of that ankle.”
“I told you. No pain. We could go out there and whip ’em right now, you and me.”
Call waiting sounded. “I’ve got another call,” Francie said.
“Then bye. And thanks again.”
Francie pressed the button. “Think if this were France,” said Ned. “Or Scandinavia.”
Her mouth went dry. “Where are you?” she said, thinking Anne might walk in on him any second.
“Back in the car,” Ned said. “I forgot the goddamn milk. Serendipitous because it gives me a chance to call you.”
But he’d never called her at home before. “What are you doing, Ned?”
“What I should have been doing from the start. As I would have done, I hope, in France or Scandinavia.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been there. You know, better than I, how the Europeans handle this kind of… situation. There’s no either/or. We could be open, semiopen at least, like Mitterrand, and no one would think twice. And above all, no guilt. That’s the part I’m cutting out-the horrible guilt, the headaches. Is love something to feel guilty about, Francie? They understand these things in Europe.”
“Would Anne?”
“Why not, under those circumstances?”
“Here in America, Ned. Would Anne?”
Silence.
“Would Em?”
Silence.
Would Roger? she asked herself, the most worldly of the three, certainly the one with the most experience of Europe. Possibly, she told herself. But they weren’t Europeans; they lived not in a land of complaisance but of either/or. “Then that answers that,” Francie said, “doesn’t it?”
“You’re letting guilt run your life,” Ned said. “And there’s nothing to feel guilty about-you’ve got to see that.”
“I don’t. There is-and there could be a lot more. That’s what we’ve got to prevent.”
“Then just tell me you don’t love me.”
She couldn’t.
“And even if you did”-his voice broke-“even if you did say it, even if you meant it, I wouldn’t give up. I’d make you love me again.”
Francie covered the mouthpiece with her hand. She didn’t want him to hear her crying.
“Francie? Are you still there? Francie?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you’d hung up. Don’t hang up.”
“I’m not.”
“I should have called you at home long before this. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to-I memorized your number, even though I never used it. I’ve been so fucking careful, I almost forgot what this is all about.”
Francie covered the mouthpiece again.
“Francie? Are you still there?”
She mastered herself. “I’ve got to go.”
“Why? Is he there?”
“No.”
Pause. “Where is he?”
