Devil's Food (11 page)

Lola made a brief pass over Dana’s steak before pulling a felt-tip pen from her apron. “Would you mind autographing the pepper
mill, Miss Banks? It would mean so much to me.”

Philippa hastily scribbled on the pepper mill. “That should do. Run along now.”

“Thank you so much!” Lola bowed and left.

Philippa took a bite of her steak. “Oh dear.”

“What’ s the matter?” Dana asked.

“I might have to send this back. It’s almost raw.” Hell on her hemorrhoids.

“Take mine. It’s medium.” They changed plates. Dana poured more wine. He was beginning to feel melancholy. “Must you really
catch that plane?”

“I’ve got to be in New York at ten tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come with me? I don’t want to go to the opening of
Choke Hold
with my agent. He smells like a moldy orange.”

“You know I can’t get away, Philippa.” The mere thought of returning to his office gave Dana a spasm of indigestion. “Let’s
get out of here. We could spend one last hour on the boat.”

To his chagrin, she didn’t even hesitate. “No way. I still haven’t seen Emily. How’s your steak?”

Dana gamely shoved another slab into his mouth. Too much damn pepper. Burned his insides. The chianti ate into his esophagus
like Drano. He now realized that somewhere between the champagne and the filet mignon, he had lost her.

They ate in silence. As he became ever more aware of people staring at Philippa, Dana felt cold, ill, used. Their final hour
would be hell. He almost wished Ross would appear, with or without a shotgun. They’d all have a good laugh once Ross discovered
that his wife was virtuous and his sister-in-law was a conniving harlot; with any luck, Philippa would go to the airport with
Emily, sparing him a farewell under fluorescent lights. For now he could only stare at her lovely mouth, so recently his,
and wonder what had gone awry.

Philippa wrapped long, cool fingers around her wineglass. “Have you seen Emily recently?”

“Emily?” He tried to think. She rarely came to the office. She
didn’t play bridge or tennis with Ardith like the other architects’ wives. She never went out to dinner with Ross’s clients
because she had to get up early for work the next day. “I haven’t seen her since July Fourth. We were all watching fireworks
from the boat.”

“How’d she look?”

Super! Unbelievable! “Pretty good,” Dana said, vividly recalling the toreador pants and the black halter top that had left
most of Emily’s back exposed. Men kept draping their arms around her, asking if she would like to borrow their jackets. “Like
a pastel version of you.”

Philippa was not sure that was a compliment. “Was she with anyone?”

“Ross, of course.”

As a busboy cleared their dishes, Philippa contemplatively sipped her wine. “I should have spent more time with her this trip.
We never see each other enough now.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast with her Friday morning? At her old job?”

“It was rather hasty, if you recall. I was in a rush to get to your boat.”

She sounded almost angry at him. Dana felt dizzy, as if he were being flushed to the bottom of a huge, swirling cesspool.
With difficulty, he fought to recover his balance. “Let’s go visit her, then,” he said. “Where’s that damn waiter?”

Right on cue, Eddy appeared at the table with two large bowls. “Black currants. Very rare.”

“We’re not hungry,” Dana growled. Odd, his tongue was hobbling over simple words. No, the tongue was okay; the jaws were not
moving. “We’d like to pay our compliments to the chef and leave.”

“Hold on. He’ll be here in a minute to say hello.”

“He?” Philippa echoed. “I thought the chef was a she.”

Byron, in full regalia, emerged from the kitchen. His immaculate white apron and tall hat beautified his tan. Dozens of friends
began to applaud as he strutted to the bar and turned down the music. When he approached the famous actress’s
table, a hush came over the dining room. “Philippa Banks,” he began, ignoring her dinner companion completely, “I have a confession
to make. I have been in love with you my entire adult life.”

With a wistful little grunt, Dana Forbes fell forward into the black currants.

Gas lamps flickered softly over Beacon Hill, inspiring the fireflies in the ivy. Nothing moved now but the clouds over the
moon. As she left the cab, shutting the door quietly, Emily glanced up and saw a pale glow behind her living room window:
Ross was home. A few hours ago, that light would have frightened her. Now she felt no more dread; tonight she had been traumatized
by other, perhaps larger, catastrophes. She stood a long time on her stoop, digging in her purse for keys. Ross had probably
heard the cab; ungallant of him not to come down and unlock the door. Ungallant of him to disappear for three days, in fact.
He sure picked a great time to come home. Emily found the keys, the lock, and went inside.

A slight fear returned as she noticed his suitcase in the foyer. Such dim light, such ominous stillness, were not her usual
greeting. She peered into the living room, the den, the kitchen, unwilling to call his name; to bleat into this silence. Then
she heard the clink of ice on crystal: He was in the atrium.

Ross lay on the couch, watching the moon. Seeing her in the doorway, he slowly raised his glass and drank. She knew from the
heavy sloshing of ice that it no longer floated in much scotch. “It’s late,” he said finally. “Where have you been?”

Emily dropped into a chair. “The question is, where have you been.”

Ross said nothing for a very long time. Then he slowly raised himself to a sitting position and switched on the lamp next
to the couch. Moonlight, forgiveness, fled; only his piercing eyes remained. She trembled, guilty forever, forever damned.
Ross never blinked. “Are you having an affair with Dana?” he asked in a tight, merciless voice.

Emily made a little hiccuping noise. “Dana?” Then she
seemed to laugh. Could it be true? Was she spared? Her pulse feebly returned. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw you board his boat on Friday.”

“That was Philippa, not me, you fool!”

Ross’s face sagged. He shut his eyes. “I don’t believe it.” Emily waited, but her husband did not apologize. Instead, he went
to the window and stared into the backyard. “How did that happen?”

“Remember Dana’s job in Paris last month? They met there. Philippa came to Boston to spend the weekend with him on his boat.
She wanted it kept quiet. They were at the restaurant tonight.” Her voice faltered; Ross still refused to turn around. Emily
went to the window and saw why: He was crying. “Sit down, Ross,” she said as a fresh blast of guilt twisted through her. “I
have some bad news.”

He only shook his head and stared at nothing.

“They were at Diavolina,” Emily continued, feeling her throat dry. “Just as they were about to eat dessert, Dana ... Dana
...”

Ross finally faced her. “Dana what?” he whispered.

“Collapsed.”

Ross grasped her arm. “You’re making this up!”

“I am not!” Her voice began to wobble. “It was horrible. Philippa went off the deep end. There was almost a stampede. The
police came. The ambulance, the lights, oh God they made a mess! And Dana was just lying there with whipped cream all over
his face. I’ll never forget that.”

Ross squeezed her arm. “Which hospital is he in? I have to see him.”

“Hospital? He’s dead! He was dead before he hit the floor!” She was becoming angry at having to explain things over and over.

“What do you mean, ’dead’? From what?” Ross shouted.

“I don’t know,” she shouted back. “Heart attack! Stroke! Indigestion!” This was a very bad finale to a very bad dream. Her
husband should be comforting her, not shrieking as if this were all her fault. “Good of you to ask! Where the hell were you
for
three days? If you had been home, none of this would have happened!”

Ross stared at her a moment. Then he flung his glass against the far wall. The vicious crash dismayed them both: this room
was no longer safe. In silence, they watched a dozen weak rivulets creep down the wallpaper, away from the point of impact.
“You came that close, Emily,” Ross whispered, holding two fingers an inch apart. “That close.”

From the kitchen, where the light was cleaner, he phoned the police. Ascertaining from a reliable source that his business
partner was indeed deceased, Ross hung up. “I’ve got to see Ardith,” he said. “I don’t suppose you want to come along.”

Ardith? Who gave a damn about Ardith! Emily guffawed bitterly. “I’m sure she’d rather see you alone.”

She was splashing her face with cold water as the downstairs door slammed.

D
anas’ gone. I’ll never see him again: “Never” is too monstrous to even comprehend. And he was innocent, after all. Well, half
innocent: If he had Philippa, he half had Emily. Damn him, he should have told me! It might have saved his life. Might have
saved my marriage as well. But Dana was never one for confession. Hell, why confess if he didn’t believe he was erring in
the first place? He was just having a little fun. Fun! I hope he died happy, with a gut full of wine, a riveted audience,
maybe Philippa crying hot tears on his hand... bitch. She should have told me, too. Instead she told her sister, who chose
to keep her mouth shut.

Emily said he died quickly: didn’t hurt for long, eh friend? What could have passed through his mind those last few seconds?
Surprise. Panic. Wonder. Remorse, not for his misdeeds, but for their cessation. Perhaps he had time to telegraph a goodbye
to Ardith, his high school sweetheart. That eleventh-hour whore Philippa couldn’t even have figured in the last, garbled flare
inside his head. Did he think of me before the lights went
out? He should have. I’ve loved him the longest and I’ll miss him the most. God! Why didn’t he just tell me he was sailing
with Emily’s sister? In thirty years, he’s never hesitated to tell me about any of his women, great or small. What the hell
was so different about Philippa?

Aha. He must have thought he was in love with her. Then the rules would change, the secrets expand ... and no safety net.
Dana wasn’t used to that. Somehow she must have infiltrated the tiny closet that held the key to his existence. I can understand
his delight, his dismay; happened to me years ago with Emily, and I told no one. I couldn’t. It was a private miracle, a fragile
veil separating twilight from absolute darkness. As long as that veil remains, you cannot allow yourself to go down without
a fight. Dana fought, I’m sure. But he had no chance: too much dissolution before he staggered into Philippa

Dana! What could you have been thinking of! Remember your family? Remember that little business of ours? Am I supposed to
start designing kitschy carriage houses and shopping malls now? I’d rather eat my protractor! Who’s going to take care of
building permits? What about your Fourth of July sailing party? What about half our skyscrapers? Major without Forbes; now
that is truly a nightmare. I don’t know how I’m going to live through this. I’m not sure I want to.

I wish she hadn’t told me he died with his face full of whipped cream. Dana didn’t really deserve that. It haunts me.

Ardith was thoroughly drunk when Ross arrived at her home in Brookline. She was not alone, however; Rex, a man with muscles
and a tan, answered the door. He took Ross to the living room and resumed his place on the couch next to the bereaved widow,
who had evidently been crying into his khaki shorts. Each time Ardith said “bastard,” she broke into fresh tears, as if Dana’s
death had forever besmirched her virtue. After half an hour, realizing that the woman was incapable of giving or accepting
sympathy, Ross patted her shoulder and left.

When he got home, his wife was in bed but not quite asleep. She had been drinking too; unlike Ardith, however, alcohol on
Emily smelled exotic and sensual, like a perfume she only wore on special occasions. Her skin was warm, hair wet: She had
been in the bathtub. Filthy and acid, Ross crawled into bed. When she rolled over, wrapped her arms around him, he cried for
a long time. At first he cried for Dana. Then he realized that his wife had forgiven him for his recent outbursts, and that
she was all he had left now. He cried because she was still there, still his bulwark against that nameless monster borne of
time and solitude, who ate all souls in the end. Finally Ross cried because he had no children. They would have made him braver,
filled in some of the craters Dana had left, half answered some of the mysteries ... but it was not to be. He would have to
find consolation elsewhere. Theology? Work? He didn’t know. Toward sunup he ran out of tears and slept with bleak, flitting
dreams.

At seven o’clock, Emily brought his coffee to bed. She kissed his cheek. “How do you feel?” she whispered.

Then he remembered, and momentarily submerged beneath the cold waves. Daylight felt like a splash of peroxide in his eyes.
“All right.” He saw she was already dressed.

“I have to go to Diavolina for a while,” she said. “The police are finishing up.” She waited as Ross wanly swallowed some
coffee. “I guess you’re going to the office.”