Goodnight Beautiful Page 14

  “It’s Linda’s recipe,” I say.

  “She a girlfriend?”

  I laugh out loud. “Are you crazy? No, she’s not a girlfriend. She’s quite a few years older and not my type.” Sam takes a bite of eggs and watches me. “Linda Pennypiece,” I continue. “Great name, right? We worked together, back in Albany.” Sam stays quiet, chewing. “Her son Hank used to bring her this meal every Friday.” Hank, the meathead. He’d show up in that pickup truck at lunchtime, two thick slices of Salisbury steak and a mound of instant mashed potatoes plastic-wrapped on a Chinet plate. He’d stay to watch her eat and then take the plate home, as if he planned to reuse it.

  “Well, tell her she’s a good cook,” Sam says, taking another bite of steak.

  “I can’t,” I blurt out. “We’re no longer on speaking terms.” I nearly called her two days ago. It was her birthday, and I saw on the Home Health Angels website that all the girls in the office had a party for her—Madge, Rhonda, Mariposa, posing in birthday hats next to the cake. I considered calling to wish her happy birthday but decided against it, too afraid that ignorant son of hers would get wind of it.

  “What happened?” Sam asks.

  “People grow apart,” I say, waving my hand to dismiss the topic. “Simple fact of life.”

  “That’s the truth,” Sam says, taking another bite of eggs. “So, who’s your favorite?”

  “My favorite?”

  “Yeah, of my patients. Who do you like the best?”

  “Who do I—”

  “Actually, no. Reverse that. What I really want to know is who you liked the least.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “You’re not mad at me?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and while I’m not sure my patients would love the idea of you up here, listening to their sessions, the truth is, if I was in your situation, I’d do the same thing.”

  “You would?”

  “Name a person who wouldn’t. Isn’t the desire to see inside people’s lives the entire premise of social media?” He takes a bite, chews. “Least favorite.”

  “Well,” I say carefully, “if you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I would have one hundred percent said Skinny Jeans.”

  Sam looks confused. “Who?”

  “Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I mean Christopher Zucker. I didn’t know who David Foster Wallace was, so I looked him up. Literary hero to men? Are you kidding me? He stalked and abused his wife, and what, nobody cares?”

  “I know,” Sam says. “It’s weird.”

  “I can’t tell you how hard it was sometimes, keeping my mouth shut up here.”

  “I can only imagine,” he says. “But then something changed your mind . . .”

  “I happened to see him recently, having lunch with his girlfriend.” It wasn’t entirely coincidental, of course. Rather, I found him under the About Me page on his company’s website, which led me to his Instagram account, which then led me to the model girlfriend’s, populated almost entirely with photographs she took of herself (I’m aware they’re called selfies, a word I refuse to use). It was here that she announced she was meeting Christopher for a date—#datewiththeboy #chestnutcafe—posing in six different outfits, asking everyone to help her decide what to wear. She chose the clingy black jumpsuit, not my first choice.

  “He seemed vulnerable,” I tell Sam. “Something in his expression when he looked at her. Like he was forcing himself to endure her.” I know I should stop, but I can’t help myself. “He’s been doing this his whole life. Feeling the pressure to date the most beautiful girl in the room. He needs to be told that this is a hopeless endeavor. Did you know that research shows that when two good-looking people get together, they have a high chance of a rocky marriage? Researchers at Harvard did a study on it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You want to see the study?”

  “You have it?”

  “Yeah, hang on.”

  In the library, I locate the purple binder where I’ve been filing the notes I keep on our patients. I finger through the tabs until I get to Christopher’s. “Look,” I say, returning to the room and handing Sam the six-page study. “They looked at the top twenty actresses on IMDb and found that a high percentage had unhappy marriages. And those considered to be the best-looking guys in high school had higher rates of divorce than the average guys.”

  “This is fascinating,” he murmurs.

  “I knew you’d get it,” I say. “I think this all has to do with Christopher’s father.”

  Sam lifts an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “Move over,” I say, perching at the foot of his bed. He slides his casts to the side, making room for me. “Christopher’s father was insecure and vain, which he played out by scrutinizing his son’s physicality,” I say. “Christopher then grows up and exclusively dates women who are very attractive, but who he finds shallow and uninteresting. Why does he continue to do this? Because they validate the idea that he’s physically attractive, and therefore valuable in the eyes of his father.”

  “Nice work, Albert. That’s exactly right.”

  I open my eyes wide. “It is?”

  “Yes. You’re astute. It’s where I was leading Christopher, to that understanding about his father.”

  “Wow.” I’m proud of myself, and confused. “Why didn’t you save time and tell him that’s what was happening with him?”

  “He had to get there himself, and that’s delicate,” Sam says, handing me the study and returning to his meal. “It takes time. Like a good story.”

  “Well, you had me hooked from the first page,” I say. “In fact, I learned a lot from you.”

  “Oh?”

  I cross my legs, nervous. “Yes, about how we’re shaped by our childhood. I knew that, I suppose, but the way you talked about it—and not just downstairs, but in the papers you’ve published, your lectures. Let’s just say you’ve opened my eyes in a new way.”

  Sam stops chewing and something changes in his expression. “When did you see my lectures?”

  My face flames. “I googled you, after you came to see the space,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “Needed to make sure you weren’t on the Most Wanted list. I saw the two lectures you gave, on YouTube. I was impressed.”

  He smiles and finishes his steak. “Well, that’s nice of you to say.” He sets his napkin next to his empty plate. “And thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

  I stand, reluctant to leave, and take the tray from his lap. “You comfortable?” I ask, setting it on the cart. “You like your room?”

  “Very much,” he says, settling back on his pillows. “Except for that wallpaper. I don’t know what kind of drugs the designer was on, but man, that shade of yellow is giving me a headache.” I fish the pills from the pocket of my blue apron. Sam’s right. The wallpaper is quite dismal. I should have recognized that myself. “And one more thing Albert?” Sam says, as I count out two pills. “I’m sorry for how I acted the other night.”

  I pause. “You’re what?”

  “I’m sorry. You’ve been good to me, and you’re right, I was rude to you. I’m working on being a good guy, and I don’t always succeed. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “It’s . . . it’s okay,” I stammer.

  “No, it’s not. And it’s permissible to have feelings about what I did. I can handle it.”

  I hesitate. “I made a specialty cocktail for you,” I say. “It took nearly the whole morning to perfect it.”

  “And not only did I reject it,” Sam says, “I was also rude about it.”

  “The look on your face,” I say. “It was just like my father.”

  “I’m sorry, Albert. I hope you know that.”

  “It’s fine, Dr. Statler. Thank you for saying so.”

  “And if it’s okay . . .” Sam extends his hand. “I can do it myself.”

  “Of course,” I say, handing Sam the pills. He drops them into his mouth and sinks into the pillows as I push the
cart toward the door, feeling something I haven’t felt since moving into this house.

  Happiness.

  Chapter 33

  Annie stares at the timer on the oven display, her chin resting in her hand, counting along with it. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

  She drops the Visa bill on top of the others—four now, the latest one arriving today—and gets the oven mitts. She checks under the foil and then quiets the timer. A honk sounds from the driveway. She snaps the oven door closed and goes to the living room window.

  “Evening, Mrs. Statler,” Franklin Sheehy calls from the driveway as she steps out onto the porch in her bare feet.

  “What happened?” she asks, too anxious to bother correcting him. “Did you find something?”

  Sheehy gives a curt shake of his head. “No, ma’am. On my way home, and thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.” The motion light on the porch clicks off, casting them in shadow. “I imagine things can feel a little desolate out here.”

  “That’s nice of you,” she says, removing the oven mitts. “You want to come in?”

  He nods and mounts the stairs. “Nice place you got,” he says, stepping into the living room and looking around at the beamed, vaulted ceiling and massive stone fireplace along the far wall. “I bet they don’t have houses like this in the city.”

  “No, they don’t,” she says, conjuring the last place they lived—a one-bedroom apartment off Washington Square that Sam was provided as a member of the NYU faculty, which he’d invited her to move into three weeks after they met. They’d just finished eating dinner when he left the room, returning with a cheap plastic shopping bag with an “I love NY” logo.

  “What is this?” she asked when he set it on the table in front of her.

  “If I wanted you to know what it was when I handed it to you, Annie, I wouldn’t have wrapped it.”

  “Not to get technical, but I don’t think this is considered wrapping.”

  “Okay, Martha Stewart. Just open it.”

  Inside were two hand towels, the fabric so cheap it glowed. “His” was embroidered on the blue one, “Hers” on the pink. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “They’re his-and-hers towels. Like for a bathroom.”

  “Thank you for that explanation,” she said. “I mean, why are you giving me these hideous towels?”

  He was starting to blush. “Is it too clever?”

  “Is what too clever?”

  “These towels,” he said, exasperated. “You know, his-and-hers towels? Like people who live together have in their bathroom?”

  “Wait,” she said. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And so far I appear to be doing a truly bang-up job of it.”

  She laughed out loud. “That’s sweet, Sam,” she said, handing back the bag and refilling her wineglass. “But no thank you.”

  “No thank you?” he said. “Why not?”

  “I’ve told you. I prefer my men in small doses.”

  “I know,” he said. “And would you like me to explain why you’re like that?”

  She set the wine bottle on the table. “Oh, would you? I love when guys explain things to me.”

  He talked for five minutes—detailing how her caution in relationships stemmed from losing her parents in a tragic way at a young age, leading her to see a familial bond as threatening or, worse, dangerous. This, in turn, had led her to construct armor to keep people away: the supremely cool badass not interested enough to commit.

  “Nice try, Dr. Phil,” she said when he’d finished. “But you’re wrong, and we’re canceling your show.”

  “Then what is it?” Sam asked, unconvinced.

  She held his gaze and then leaned back in her chair. “Okay, fine, if you want to know. Men are tedious.”

  He laughed. “Is that right?”

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s a cultural norm. We’ve been raising our boys to believe they need to repress their emotions. This may have made for easier sons, but it does not make for interesting men. Not in the long-term, at least. Six months, tops, that’s what I can tolerate.”

  “Well, I’m different,” he said. “I’m exciting. Plus, I got a PhD in feelings. You should at least give me a chance.”

  “Something smells good.” Annie startles at the sound of Franklin Sheehy’s voice, and realizes she’s letting in the cold air.

  “Lasagna,” she says, closing the front door. “My mom’s recipe.” The meal she’d intended to make for Sam the night of the storm. The ricotta cheese expired yesterday, but she needed something to do, so she made it, fully aware that she’ll likely throw the whole thing in the trash. The radio on Sheehy’s hip crackles, and he cocks his head and then lowers the volume.

  “Any news?” Annie asks, leading Sheehy into the living room.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Strangest thing, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Sheehy says. “Unless your husband switched out his license plate—and why would he?—we’d have had a reading on his car by now.”

  “I don’t get it. His car couldn’t have vanished.”

  “No, it could not.” Sheehy nods. “You’re right about that.”

  “I need a coffee,” she says, drained. “You want one?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Sheehy follows her into the kitchen, where she pours them each a mug from the carafe sitting on the counter. “Looks like his father,” Sheehy says. He’s at the refrigerator, leaning down for a better look at the article pinned under a magnet.

  “Twenty Questions with Sam Statler,” the adorable and ludicrous interview Sam gave the week they moved into the house. The reporter’s phone call woke them up from an afternoon nap, and Annie lay with her head on Sam’s chest as he stroked her hair and answered the woman’s questions, as charming as ever. “The top dessert in Chestnut Hill? I’m pretty sure my mom’s blueberry pie is the top dessert in the whole world.” “What do you mean you never saw West Wing? It’s the best show of all time!”

  “You know Sam’s father?” Annie asks, handing Sheehy a mug. Theodore Statler. The absent larger-than-life man Sam rarely spoke about.

  “He taught math to both my girls,” Sheehy says. “Before his big adventure down to Baltimore. Got any sugar?”

  It’s up on a high shelf in the cabinet; when she turns around, Sheehy is standing at the kitchen table, leafing through the pile of bills. “What are you doing?” she says sharply, crossing the room to snatch them.

  “Didn’t mean to pry,” he says.

  She shoves the bills into the junk drawer under the coffeepot, not bothering to hide her irritation.

  “Mind if I ask if you knew about those bills?” Sheehy gently takes the canister from her hand.

  She hesitates and then sinks onto a stool at the kitchen island, too depleted to put up a fight. “No.”

  “How much?” Sheehy asks.

  “A lot.” She watches him pour a slow stream into his mug. “One hundred and twenty thousand dollars, to be exact.”

  Sheehy releases a slow, sputtering breath. “How do you make sense of this?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t that more your area?”

  “Sure is,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “But I don’t think you’re gonna wanna hear what I think.”

  She clenches her jaw. “You think he left.”

  “What I think is that financial pressure can be hard on people, men especially.”

  “Are you suggesting he drove off a cliff?”

  He shrugs. “Or decided life would be easier elsewhere.”

  She stands up. “No, Franklin, you’re wrong. He texted me before he left the office to say he was on his way home. He wouldn’t do that if he was planning on heading elsewhere.”

  “Any chance I can see the text he sent?” Sheehy asks.

  Annie takes her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and hands it to him. He retrieves a pair of read
ing glasses from his shirt pocket and begins to scroll, reading aloud. “‘Hello Dr. S. It’s me. Charlie.’” Franklin stops. “I don’t get it. Who’s Charlie?”

  “Me,” Annie says, immediately exhausted by the idea of having to explain the text exchange to this idiot. “It’s a joke, kind of.”

  “Oh, gotcha. Good one. ‘I broke up with Chandler and would like to see you tomorrow.’” He stops again. “Like from Friends? Or is that a joke too?”

  “No, they’re made-up people. It’s something we do.”

  He returns to the phone. “‘I’ve been thinking about your invitation. I’ll be there.’ This address you wrote down here. Whose address is that?”

  “That’s our address.”

  “Does Dr. Statler not know where you live?”

  “Yes, Franklin, Sam knows where we live.” She snatches her phone back. “I was pretending to be someone else. A patient named Charlie.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he says, removing his glasses. “You were texting your husband, pretending to be a man named Charlie, and you were asking him to come over?”

  “Not a man, a woman,” Annie says. “We were role-playing. I was a patient named Charlotte. He was my therapist, feeling trapped in his marriage. He was supposed to be blowing off his wife to come to my place.”

  “I see.” He turns down his mouth and picks up his coffee. “Seems you two got quite a thing going on.”

  She sighs, drained. “I’m telling you, Franklin. Something happened to Sam. I know him. He didn’t leave.”

  Sheehy holds her gaze, silent for a few moments. “Let me ask you a question,” he says. “How long did you know your husband before marrying him?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asks. Franklin stays silent, eyebrows raised, waiting. “Eight months,” she says.

  His jaw drops. “Eight months? Why on earth would you marry a man you knew for eight months?”

  “Why did I marry Sam?” Annie snaps. “Because he’s smart and funny, and unlike most men, he experiences complex emotions. I’m a strong, intelligent woman who’s comfortable with my sexuality, and he’s the first man who didn’t find that threatening. He’s also head over heels crazy about me. So crazy, Franklin, that the last thing he would ever do is leave me.”