At 11:30 p.m., we heard a door opening at the back of the house. Jane flinched at the sound. Then said, simply, “Zac.”
Aside from the phone call the other day, I’d never met Zac Ellis before. But I’d seen recent spreads on him and his work in the New York Times and Michigan Avenue magazine.
He came into the living room. He was a short man, definitely shorter than Jane, with wavy, light brown hair. And he was sexy. You could see that from across the room. He wore gray jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost thousands, but was somehow beat-up and tough-looking on him.
“Hi.” He threw a glance at us before turning to Jane. “You okay?”
“I am now that you’re home.” Jane introduced us.
He shook our hands, but in a terse way. He glanced at Jane. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen?” He left.
“Be right back.” Jane followed after him.
I looked at Charlie and Sam. “Sorry about this, guys.”
Sam picked up my hand and rubbed it. “Don’t be. You had to be here for your friend.”
We sat in silence for a while, the only sound the ticking of the mantel clock which looked like a miniature grandfather clock.
When ten minutes had gone by, I stood. “I’m going to tell Jane we’re leaving.”
I walked to the kitchen, but stopped when I reached a pair of pocket doors that were closed most of the way. Through the six-inch crack I saw Jane and Zac standing close together. Her back was to the countertop on the left side of the room. With a wide-legged stance, he stood in front of her. She had her arms crossed, her head bowed. Her face looked splotched, as if she’d been crying, but now it was expressionless, almost devoid of emotion.
I must have made a sound, because both of them looked at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry, I was just coming to tell you—”
Zac stormed to the pocket doors and pushed them open.
Surprised, I backed up. He strode past me, the leather of his coat brushing me, and marched into the living room.
He looked at Charlie and Sam, then over his shoulder at me as I trailed after him. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I appreciate you being here for Jane. But it’s time for you to leave.”
14
“Chilly,” Charlie said when we were on the street. He tilted his head at Jane’s house. He meant Zac. But that was about as negative as Charlie could get. “Weird night,” he said simply. “See ya, guys.”
He kissed me on the cheek, clapped Sam on the back and loped off down the street.
Sam and I stood on a now deserted street next to my silver Vespa.
“What was with the husband?” Sam said. “Just worked up about the break-in?”
“I guess.” And probably worked up about his wife’s stepping out. The whole thing made me wonder about Zac and why he had put up with her behavior for so long.
I stared at Sam, thinking how incredibly complicated relationships were. Such complications had never been so plain to me until the last six months.
“Why were you asking me earlier about cheating?” Sam said. “Is it because of Jane?”
Surprised, I hesitated. Then, “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. “Just a feeling I got in there.”
I darted my eyes lower. “I don’t want to break a confidence.”
“You shouldn’t. I definitely don’t want you to do that.”
I met his eyes again. “Thanks.” I thought about Jane and Zac for a second. “What do you think about open relationships?”
“You mean where you’re together but you can date other people?”
“I guess. Or sleep with other people.”
He looked up toward the sky, as if he was thinking hard about this. His green eyes returned to mine again. “I don’t think they can work. I mean, monogamy is hard. It’s a major sacrifice, but I think that’s the only way marriage or a long-term relationship can work.”
“But what about all those long-term relationships that fail, even though both people are faithful?”
He said nothing for a second. I knew we were both thinking, Like our relationship.
“I think there’s a better chance of things working out if you’re monogamous,” Sam said.
“But there’s no guarantee.”
I glanced over his shoulder at the outline of the Sears Tower, its top lit with pink lights. It made me think of last spring, only a year ago, an uncomplicated time when we were happy, in love, almost boring in our contentedness. We would sit on my rooftop deck, Blue Moon beers on the table in front of us, and Sam would play guitar, the lights of the skyline behind him.
As much as I missed that, and as much as I was afraid of the lack of guarantees in the world of love, there was something about this new complexity that I liked, that made me feel alive.
Sam kissed my forehead. “Let’s go to my place.”
I was about to say yes, but then I remembered, after I’d met the Fig Leaf manager, Josie, today, she’d “hired” me immediately, but we both knew she was only giving me the gig because her boss said she had to. I started the next morning. At 7:00 a.m., and I’d been told to wear only black or white.
“I can’t.” I told Sam about the store job. I’d already told him about the Trial TV gig earlier.
He raised his eyebrows. “Lingerie, huh? I just don’t want you to lose your drive for the law. I mean, the Trial TV thing is fun, and at least you’re still in the legal field in some way, but c’mon, Iz, you’re a lawyer, and you’re amazing at it.”
“Thanks, but no one is paying me to be an amazing lawyer right now.”
I wanted to tell Sam that aside from the money that I needed to make, the other reason I was about to specialize in bras was because Mayburn would also be paying me. I would, essentially, be conducting surveillance on Josie and the Fig Leaf. I’d be studying how she ran the business, how the store was handled while the owner wasn’t there—keeping my eye out for, as Mayburn had told me, “anything that smells even a little bad.”
But I also remembered his cautions about telling no one, and although I’d told Sam before when I’d worked for Mayburn as a freelancer, Mayburn hadn’t been happy about it, and he was insistent I not tell anyone this time. And so there I was, standing in front of Sam, another secret in the tiny space between us.
“Come to my place?” I said.
He shook his head. “I told a guy I’d run sprints with him early. I don’t have any of my gear with me.”
Sam privately coached some high-school rugby players, often at the crack of ass on Sunday mornings.
“Call you after practice tomorrow?” he said.
“Please.”
He kissed me hard. He kissed me in a way that told me how much he loved me. I kissed him back exactly the same way. And then we split apart, that space between us widening even more.
The air felt cool and cleansing on my skin as I drove my Vespa home. I’d driven a scooter since my mother bought me one in high school, too nervous to have me waiting at city bus stops. I had thought that when I started practicing law, I’d get rid of it, but there was something about driving the Vespa that invigorated me, had never allowed me to let it go.
Ten minutes later,