The Devil's Interval (33 page)

Andrea rolled her eyes, and waved to the valet who had just pulled up in Calvin's Jetta. “Here we are,” she said. “You can drop me at the twenty-four-hour gym on the way home and I'll check out the action…” She paused for dramatic effect. “On the pommel horse?”

We all exchanged goodnight hugs, and I watched Calvin roar down Tehama. “Remedial,” muttered Michael. “That was a mistake.”

Our Volvo appeared a few minutes later, and I wiggled in, backside first, then cantilevered my legs in afterward. I reached forward and cranked the heat up in the car. Though I was wrapped in my coat, I felt chilled and shaky.

“Mags,” said Michael, “it's like an oven in here. Can't we turn the heat down?”

He looked over at me. “My teeth are chattering,” I said.

He reached over and put his hand on my cheek. “You're burning up. Are you getting sick?”

I shook my head, feeling miserable. We drove the rest of the way home in silence. The house was dark and quiet. I took off my high heels and crept up the stairs, and went into the kids' bathroom and locked the door. I ripped off the black dress, and climbed into a scalding hot shower, hoping to warm up. When I got out of the shower, I could hear Michael knocking on the door.

“Are you sick, Maggie? What's going on?”

I put the lid down on the toilet, and sat down. Wrapped in a big towel, I was still shivering.

“I'm okay,” I called in a hoarse whisper. “Go to bed. I'll be there in a little while.”

And then the nausea hit me. I leapt up, flung open the toilet and lost everything. When I finished, I rinsed my mouth, washed my face, wrapped up in another towel, and crept silently down the hall. I could hear Michael's breathing coming from our room. I stood in the doorway a moment, watching my husband sleep, and shivered again. I stood beside the long gallery of goofy family photos hung on the hallway wall. Right next to me was one of Michael, covered in mud, with his arms around both equally muddy boys. The photo had been taken one rainy Thanksgiving at my cousins' house, and all the kids had ended up playing kickball out on the rain-drenched back lawn. Michael had gone out to investigate and never came back. When I went out a half hour later, he was in the midst of the kids, running, yelling, and also covered with mud. My cousin had snapped a photo just before we shooed everyone inside for showers.

I put my hand on the photo, covering the three of them with my palm. I stared into Michael's face—had I just seen him with his arms around some strange woman, transported to some other place by the way she looked and felt and smelled in his embrace? I shivered again as another thought settled over me like a sudden snowfall. Was this how Michael felt when he looked at me and thought about my betrayal with Quentin? Once you've pictured your beloved in an intimate way with another person, do you ever shake the image?

I felt confused and exhausted, and completely unable to crawl into bed with Michael. I tiptoed down the hall to the TV room, picked up the hideous aqua and brown afghan Michael's
nonna
had made us for a wedding present, wrapped myself in it, curled up on the couch, and just before I fell asleep, I could hear her voice, saying “For the
letto matrimoniale
,” and wished I hadn't brought dishonor to that bed.

M
ichael was out the door early the next morning, taking the boys to Saturday morning soccer. He stuck his head in the TV room, looking as fresh and rested as I felt sticky and exhausted.

“Sleep in,
cara
, I've got the morning games covered.”

Zach was right next to him, looking puzzled.

“Are you sick, Mom? How come you're sleeping in the TV room? Did you stay up late and watch a movie? I'd have kept you company.”

Michael put his hand on Zach's head. “Slow down, buddy. Mom just needs a little more sleep.”

I struggled to focus. “It's our turn for snack,” I offered feebly.

“Got it,” he said. “Oranges already cut up and in the cooler.”

With that, he disappeared, with Zach trailing behind him, giving me one last curious look. “And there they go,” I mumbled disconsolately. “Saint Michael and the sons who'll grow up to hate me.” I pulled the afghan over my head and sighed. Maybe Michael was rendezvousing with the redhead. At the soccer game. Oh, I felt my stomach roil again. I roused myself, stumbled into the bathroom and stood under a hot, hot shower again until I'd turned bright pink.

Coffee seemed an unthinkable addition to my fragile digestive system, so I made tea, and collapsed at the kitchen table to contemplate my sins. Why couldn't I think of a single girlfriend to
call to talk about all this? None of them would understand. They all thought Michael really was a saint, and I had a life-size version of explaining to them how I'd reacted at the Crimson Club. “Good riddance,” they'd say, every disloyal one of them. The doorbell rang so loudly and unexpectedly, I tried to put my hands to my ears and managed to slosh hot tea all over my robe and the table.

“Can't even suffer in privacy,” I grumbled and walked to the door, expecting my neighbor or the early-morning brigade of Girl Scouts out peddling their little chocolate-coated thin-mint fat pills.

I opened the door to John Moon.

“Holy shit,” I said. “It's a miracle. You're absolutely the only person I want to see this morning. And here you are!” I opened the screen door, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside. Suddenly, I felt myself coming back to life.

“Maggie, what's wrong?” he said. “You look…”

“Ravishing.” I said. “I know. Nothing like a combo plate of too much alcohol, guilt, and insane jealousy to make a girl look her very best. Come on in. I'll give you coffee and you'll…” I gestured to a chair, “sit down and give me advice.”

He sat down gingerly on the edge of his chair. “Where's Michael?”

“Out being Father of the Year, where else? Leading his admirable, sainted, patient, kind, generous, self-righteous life,” I said. I think I was shouting. I shook the thermos. It was full. “Coffee, and it's hot? Or, do you want tea?”

He waved his hand. “Whatever you're drinking, I guess.” He hesitated. “You seem like you're on a roller coaster between manic and depressive, with a hangover holding the whole thing together.”

“Right you are,” I said grimly.

And the manic me sat down and ran through the whole story—going to the Crimson Club, finding out about the night Grace was there and the ensuing kerfuffle.

“You could have just asked me about that, Maggie,” Moon said when I took a breath. “It's all in the case file. We questioned several people who were at the club that night.”

“And?” I asked, taking a last gulp of tea. It was only lukewarm and had no taste whatsoever. Oddly, just talking to Moon had settled my insides. My stomach now felt secure enough to think about coffee. I stood up and grabbed a new mug, and splashed dark brew from the thermos inside. It smelled divine.

Moon shrugged. “And, not much. No one had seen the guy who caused the commotion before. He'd paid the cover charge in cash, so there was no record we could trace. And he'd disappeared with Grace's friend. And,” he held up his hand, “no, we don't know who that friend was.”

“Ginger? Carol Ann?” I asked.

“Ginger said no. And we didn't think about Carol Ann 'til recently, but I asked her if she'd ever been to the Crimson Club as part of our follow-up. And she'd never even heard of it.”

“Or so she says,” I suggested.

“Maggie,” said Moon, with a sigh. “How dumb do you think the police are? We've now shown photos of both women to the people who work at the Crimson Club—and who were there a couple years ago as well—and no one's recognized either of them as the woman who was dragged out that evening.”

I felt my headache coming back. I put my head down on the table.

“What are you so miserable about? You'd put all your investigative eggs in this basket?”

“I have no investigative eggs,” I said miserably. “I'm just a mediocre editor of a silly, shallow city magazine.”

“That's useful to know,” said Moon, crisply. “I imagine there are many people in town who'd be happy to relieve you of your silly, shallow job.”

“Oh, just shut up.”

“I will,” said Moon, “in fact, I'll leave you to your misery. It's a beautiful Saturday and I've got a million or so errands to run. Tell Michael to call me, would you? Our hockey team has a chance to play in an invitational in Wisconsin.”

I sat up. “Don't go,” I begged. “I'm just in a horrible, terrible
mood.”

“Is this the aftermath of a festive night out at the Crimson Club? I thought people went there to have naughty fun, fun, fun.”

“Well,
I
didn't have any fun,” I said.

Moon regarded me thoughtfully, and sat down again. “And from that statement, may I conclude that someone else had fun?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“And might that someone be Michael?”

So, I told him, the whole wretched story, from the moment I'd first seen Michael and the redhead, and felt just a little titillated and newly hot for my husband, to finding the two of them together, at the end of the evening, and feeling desperate and depressed.

“You've never been jealous before?” asked Moon.

I thought about it. “I don't think so,” I said. “Michael's such a straight arrow. I mean, I've seen other women—even men—be attracted to him, but he always seems so oblivious.”

“Last night was different?”

“I guess so. I mean, that's the whole point of being in a place like the Crimson Club—exploring other options. And I just felt overcome by the whole thing. And,” I sat up straighter, “I had to go find him. He never came to find me.”

Moon was silent for a moment. “I think you two were playing with fire,” he said. “And I can't say I think it's a very good idea.”

“Hey,” I said, “it was Michael's idea to come along.”

Moon narrowed his eyes. “You were going to go alone?”

“Well, with Puck, and Calvin and Andrea.”

“An intriguing foursome,” observed Moon.

“Okay, so now what? Give me some advice,” I demanded. “You usually have some ideas.”

Moon shook his head. “I think this has stirred up some complicated stuff for you, Maggie. And that's what therapists get paid to unsort. You and Michael are still seeing McQuist, aren't you?”

I sighed. “Yes, but I never feel as if she's on my side.”

“That's a fine thing, isn't it? Isn't she supposed to be neutral?
Or on the side of the two of you, not each of you as individuals?”

“Oh who the hell knows?” I snapped. “You're right, I'm sure this will come up. I just…” I faltered. “I just wanted advice from someone I trusted. Someone who's been married longer. Who's a friend.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Moon, standing up. He carried his mug over to the sink and rinsed it out. “You're way out of my league. I can't even imagine venturing out to the Crimson Club with my wife.” He laughed. “She'd worry too much about what to wear.”

“As little as possible,” I said. “And something that's easy to slip out of.”

Moon stopped and put a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to your therapist,” he said.

I
showed up early at the Junior League fashion show, for the sponsors' meet-and-greet cocktail party, and to drop by the backstage dressing room and wish Andrea luck. Navigating through the ballroom's sea of tables, dressed within an inch of their crème caramel and white-organza-draped selves, and awash in hotel silver, white orchids, caramel and black-ribbon-wrapped goodie bags, and programs, I thought, “Oh, excess.” That was followed shortly by a moment of jubilation when I realized that there would be really, really good dessert to make up for the predictable ladies' lunch salad main course. Desserts, always motivational.

The dressing room was actually another near-ballroom size hall. As soon as I opened the door, the noise assaulted me—thirty-five Junior League models, squadrons of dressers, makeup and hair artistes, photographers, and hangers-on. Discussing, exclaiming, laughing, all at larger-than-life sound levels. An emaciated woman with glasses dangling off a cord and bouncing on her nonexistent chest took my hand and pulled me through the door. She was dressed in a leopard-print jumpsuit and wide, black belt, which showcased two hipbones so prominent and sharp they looked like woolly mammoth tusks.

I started to introduce myself, and she interrupted, “You are
so
shockingly late. All the other girls are just getting final touch-ups.” My heart leapt for a moment when I realized she had mistaken me for a model, but it was a momentary thrill. She grabbed her
glasses, jammed them on her face, and consulted the clipboard she was clutching. “Name, name?” She looked up, and her face relaxed. “Sorry,” she said brusquely. “I thought you were a model, but obviously you're not.”