Perfect Strangers

41

I have to take a few breaths to clear the frog from my throat. “I know. I love you, too. You’re a good friend. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“That’s what friends are for, dummy. I’m gonna hang up now before our hormones snap into sync and we start sobbing. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Talk to you then.”

After I return the receiver to its cradle, I sit with my hand on the phone and stare out the window for a long time, trying to decide what to do.

I’m still sitting in the same position when the phone rings again. But this time when I pick up, it isn’t Kelly. It’s someone I haven’t spoken to in almost a year, who shouldn’t have this number, or even know I’m in Paris.

It’s my ex-husband, Chris.

17

T

he first thing out of his mouth after I say hello is an abrupt and irritated, “What the hell are you doing in Paris?”

His voice is exactly the same upper-crusty New England voice it’s always been. The kind that suggests polo ponies and private social clubs and vacation “cottages” on Martha’s Vineyard. The slightly nasal Kennedy twang that comes across as rich and entitled, even when it’s cursing.

After a shocked pause, I answer evenly, “Why, hello there, Chris. So nice to hear you haven’t lost your charm and good humor since we last spoke.”

He bypasses my sarcasm and goes right back to barking questions. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out of the country?”

“Gee, let’s see. It could be because we’re not married anymore. Or because we haven’t communicated since the divorce was finalized. Or because, I don’t know, it’s none of your business?”

“You’re my wife,” comes the hard response. “Everything you do is my business.”

I remove the receiver from my ear and stare at it in confusion for several seconds. Maybe this is a dream. Did I have bourbon earlier? Am I face down on the bed right now, asleep and blissfully snoring?

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” I say after coming back on the line, “but as I recall, you signed the same paperwork I did. I’m very much no longer your wife.”

“Marriage is for life, no matter what the f*****g paperwork says.”

My eyes bulge to the point that I fear they might pop right out of their sockets. I’m in too much disbelief over what I’m hearing to muster any outrage. Instead, I start to laugh.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve obviously dialed the wrong number. The person you’re speaking to is single, and has been for a long time, and thinks you should seek immediate psychiatric intervention for this delusional episode you’re experiencing. And by the way, how did you get this number?”

“When I couldn’t reach you at the house, I called Estelle. I knew she’d know where you were.” He adds in a clipped aside, “That old bat always knows where you are.”

Why is he angry? Why is he acting so strange? What the hell is going on?

“Christopher?”

“What?”

“Why are you calling me?”

His silence is long and tense. I know exactly what he’s doing during it: pacing back and forth with one hand propped on his hip while scowling at the floor. He’s in his penthouse in Manhattan or in some swanky hotel room in the emirates on a high floor with a good view and thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

His dark blond hair is perfect. His crisp blue dress shirt is rolled up his forearms. Though he’s been working non-stop for more than a dozen hours and is exhausted, he looks like an ad for Brooks Brothers. There’s a half-empty bowl of peppermints somewhere in the room.

No matter what time zone he’s in or if it’s day or night, his laptop is open and a 24-hour news channel plays in the background on TV.

He says, “I needed to make sure you were safe.”

His voice is low and rough, and scares the holy living f**k out of me.

There’s an edge to it I’ve never heard before, a worried and emotional edge he never allowed himself to show during our marriage. Not even at the hospital. Not even at the morgue. He was always perfectly in control, perfectly calm, perfectly…

Cold.

And now, suddenly, he’s not.

I stand, then sit back down again because my heart is beating so fast I’m dizzy. “What’s happened?”

He says tightly, “Nothing’s happened. I’m just checking in on you.”

“That is a giant steaming pile of ostrich s**t, my friend, and we both know it. Is it…is there news about…”

He knows what I’m asking without me having to ask it. “No. The case is still open. No new leads.”

All the breath leaves my lungs in a huge rush. I close my eyes and flop back onto the mattress, settling a hand over my pounding heart. “What, then? I know you’re not giving me a random social call after an entire year for no good reason.”

“I just…I’ve just been thinking.”

My eyes fly open. “Thinking?”

“About us.”

Now not only are my eyes wide open, so is my mouth. Is it my imagination, or is his tone longing? “There is no us, Chris. There hasn’t been in a long time. Even before…” I swallow, then go on. “I don’t know what’s going on with you that’s motivating this phone call, but—”

“What’s going on with me,” he cuts in loudly, “is that I need to know you’re safe. That was all I ever wanted: to keep you safe.”

We breathe at each other for a while, until I say, “And how did that work out for you?”

He snaps, “Don’t be a bitch.”

Anger finally rears its ugly head, scorching through me like a hot and bitter wind. I push myself up, stand, and resist the urge to punch a hole in the wall.

Chris must sense my fury, because he turns contrite. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hang up. I’m sorry I said that, Livvie, it’s just…you can’t understand what it’s been like for me…”

He exhales a ragged breath. Then his voice comes in a miserable whisper. “You’re not the only one who lost her.”

My face crumples.