Was there still a chance, the smallest chance that Reid might somehow make it all right? She knew it was possible to live without him, hurt and empty, but going on. Was it still possible that there might yet be a way for her to live with him?
She wasn’t thinking anymore. She had her plan. Just get her stuff. If Reid appeared, she’d simply see what happened next.
“Wait a minute,” Angie said as she pushed at the door. “I think I accidentally double-locked it.” The key was slick with her sweat. She turned to Sean and Thomas, the two handsome, young Irish immigrants who were helping with the move.
“Want some help?” Sean asked, his eyes open wide with the question, his lilt delightful.
Angle’s fingers slipped again on the key. It had occurred to her that Reid might have changed the locks, but she didn’t like to think about that. And he hadn’t said anything over the phone. She tried the door again.
Her heart pounded. She was an attorney, she reminded herself. What she was doing was not illegal. Until the divorce action was filed and a settlement was drawn up, this place and its contents were as much hers as Reid’s. She told herself that, but her hands and now her armpits were sweating. Her stomach flip-flopped. Suddenly she felt so sick that she thought she might vomit. She tried to take some deep breaths but the nausea didn’t go away.
Why wasn’t the door opening? At last she remembered that the door was a little warped and had to be pulled in as the lock was disengaged. She did it, and the welcome sound of the spring opening allowed her to push the door in. “Here we are,” she said and hoped that the panic she’d felt wasn’t showing on her face.
She stepped into her own living room as a stranger, but very little had changed. Well, she’d only been gone a week. She looked at the denim sofa they’d bought at Pottery Barn, the long table near the window that she’d ordered through a Crate & Barrel catalog sale. She’d leave all of that, even if she’d paid for part of it. Don’t think about Reid, she told herself. All she was interested in were her really personal possessions.
“Open some of the book boxes,” she told the movers. She went over to the shelves, pointing. “All of these and all of these,” she told them. “I’ll come back and look at that shelf later. And if one of you could make a couple of wardrobe boxes up, I’ll need them in the bedroom.”
Sean nodded and passed a glance to Thomas. Were they realizing now what kind of an operation this was? Did they have a lot of divorced-women break-up scenes as a part of their ongoing business? Without wondering anymore, Angie left them and went into her bedroom.
It surprised her that the bed was unmade. Of course, she had always been the one to make it, but she thought that Reid needed things neat. The whole room, in fact, looked disheveled. Not dirty, but messy, with clothes on the floor, newspapers and piles of magazines strewn randomly.
Then something about the room hit Angie almost like a force field. For a moment she felt as if she were trying to move underwater, or as if the air had solidified and was heavy on her shoulders, her arms, her chest. Her stomach tightened and she felt her nausea return. This room, where she had been so happy, felt very, very threatening. It made her somehow feel deeply sorrowful—sorry in a way that sapped her anger. She knew that both of them had been happy here. How wasteful that that happiness had been destroyed.
Angie did a quick visual inventory; she would only take the things around the room that were hers. She began to collect them, cradling them in her arms like groceries off the shelf in a convenience store. Her perfume, the two stone turtles Reid had bought her in Mexico, the Rosenthal bud vase she kept by the side of the bed. She didn’t like to actually touch the bedclothes, but as she snatched up the throw pillow she’d had since college—the one with the beaded flowers—she nearly dropped everything else.
She called for Sean to bring in a box. He did, and she filled it with the knickknacks. Then she went into the bathroom and filled another box with her deodorant, makeup, hair dryer, brushes, and her other nonsense. She didn’t want any of the stuff, but she certainly wasn’t going to leave her tampons or spray gel for the Soprano—or any other strange woman Reid might march through here.
She stopped for a moment and looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara had smudged on one side of her lashes, and she stopped to fix it and brush her hair. While she was at it, she might as well put on fresh lipstick. She studied herself in the mirror. “You’re hoping he’ll come,” she said, and the face there nodded at her. “You’re disgusting,” she said aloud, just as Sean came back into the bedroom. He heard her.
“Excuse me?” he said.
Embarrassed, she told him it was nothing. He smiled, and gave her an appreciative once-over. She must look better than she thought. “I need that wardrobe box over here,” she added, and slid open the closet. She began stuffing dresses, suits, and jackets into the wardrobe box, pushing them against each other to pack them tightly. But it seemed that there were more clothes than she remembered. She noticed a blue silk dress because it stood out from the usual brown and beige and red that she wore. She took it out and held it away from her, her other arm weighted down with a load of clothes on hangers. Angie looked it over and dropped her own clothes on the floor.
“Here, let me help,” Sean said, thinking her action had been accidental and picking up the dumped outfits.
Angie, as if from a long distance away, murmured her thanks. Then, with the blue dress over her arm, she walked back into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and hung the dress on the hook beside the tub. She sat down on the closed toilet seat and stared at the dress. It wasn’t hers. It had never been hers. And even if Reid was a transvestite, the dress wasn’t his, either. It must have been a size four. Angie stared at the evil little dress.
It must be the Soprano’s. Had Reid already invited her to live with him? Angie and Reid had been separated for less than a month. Could it be that?
Angie left the dress there and walked back into the bedroom. Sure enough, there in the closet was a jacket, a couple of pairs of unfamiliar jeans, two blouses—one white, one blue—and a gray business suit. Below them there were four pairs of shoes, neatly lined up: two pairs of pumps, one black, one navy; a pair of Reeboks, and another pair of flats. Angie crouched down. They were size seven-and-a-half. She picked up one of the black pumps and caressed the suede. Suddenly, squatting there on the floor, Angie felt as if her heart might break.
“I’ll take this one out to the hall,” Sean said, holding the full wardrobe box. “Shall I bring in the other?”
Angie turned her face to him and nodded.
“You know, I’d wondered if … well, before we start up the truck, you’d like to have a beer with me?” Sean asked. “That is, if you drink with the help.”
Angie smiled. He was cute, with Irish dimples. But she had other things to think about right now, though she appreciated the compliment.
“I’m married,” she said. Sean raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He left her alone and she got up, still holding the pump, and sat on the little chair in the corner, the one she had taken from her old room. She gripped it with both hands, as if she might be thrown out of it. The shoe lay like a dead thing on her lap. She was taking this chair, she thought. It and everything and getting out.
She couldn’t understand what Reid was. She could, perhaps, understand how he might have cheated on her, and even changed his mind and wanted her back. Maybe giving her the ring had been a sincere gesture. But what she couldn’t understand was how he could have told her he wanted her, that he wanted to renew their vows, and go on immediately to start living with another woman in just a few weeks’ time. Had he ever loved her? Would any partner do? Had she merely been a Reid Wakefield accessory, like his golf clubs, his squash rackets, his navy blazers?
The realization that she had called him, opening a door, horrified her. How embarrassing, how weak. Her face flushed deeply. He might yet show up. It was the last thing she wanted. God, she had better get out of here fast.