Chapter 12
I look away and stare into the middle distance, wiping all expression from my face. But inside I’m seething, anger lacing through me like a brush fire. How dare she usurp this moment for herself? How dare she speak about Mel? And how dare Logan let her do it?
“Before we begin our meal, I’d like Professor Handler to give us an update on the new Muse office,” Maya announces quickly as if on a rescue mission. “It should be finished within a matter of weeks.”
Handler doesn’t miss a beat. The office, he explains, is in the same location it’s been in for years, the basement of the humanities building, but instead of simply being a large room, it’s been expanded and designed to be like the office of an actual literary magazine, with workstations, a meeting room, two podcast studios, and a comfy conversation pit where editors can brainstorm or just hang with their laptops and read submissions.
Everyone nods enthusiastically, and Logan mentions he was at the site Monday morning and thinks it looks fantastic. There’s an awkward moment of silence, but then, almost miraculously, two waiters enter the room, serving a beet and goat cheese salad, and guests begin speaking among themselves.
Chip directs his attention to me. He’s a nice-looking guy, with light-blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and conservatively cut brown hair, the kind of style you’d see on an upstate politician.
I force myself to smile and focus on him instead of my fury.
“So, you’ve had quite the trip,” he says. “How far is Uruguay, anyway? It’s near Brazil, right?”
“Yes, just south of Brazil, about five and a half thousand miles from here. What about you? Do you live in Cartersville?”
“A couple of towns over. It’s a bit of a hike each morning, but I enjoy the drive.” He flashes a grin. “And I get in plenty of audiobooks that way.”
“How long have you been working at Carter?”
“Since I got out of school. In fact, I’m a Carter College graduate.”
“Ahh. You must have liked the school a lot, then.”
He cocks his head. “It was hard not to. And Maya is making it better every year.”
“That’s wonderful to hear.”
There’s something overly smooth about his manner, like he’s reluctant to slip out of his PR guy role. Which means he not only looks like a politician but sounds like one, too.
Our brief exchange is interrupted by Maya asking the head of financial aid to talk about the impact she expects the scholarships to have.
While the woman fills us in, I pick at my salad and let my gaze crawl down the table toward Logan.
He’s obviously been expecting it because he’s staring right in my direction.
He looks pained, his face pinched in remorse.
Is it possible he had no idea Lisa was going to vomit her thoughts all over the table tonight?
For a few brief seconds, I feel pained, too, seeing how stricken he seems, but when I finally glance away, I remind myself where I’ve seen that look before. Not when Mel was murdered. Raw grief did something else altogether to his face, contorting it to the point where he was barely recognizable.
No, that face showed itself a year later, not long after the trial, when I told him I knew he was cheating. He was at least man enough to cop to it.
Knowing Logan, he probably spent days wondering how he’d given himself away, but it was actually the woman—his company’s brand manager—who ended up tipping me off.
It was at a party he and his partner were hosting to celebrate a new restaurant acquisition.
In hindsight I realized he hadn’t specifically invited me, but I’d attended many of his events and went that night to show my support and prove I was trying to engage with the world again.
He was standing next to her when I walked into the room, taking a sip from a glass of wine.
After he set it down on a table, she picked up the glass and took a sip herself.
As soon as she’d swallowed, she’d cocked her head, smiled, and said something I couldn’t hear, maybe just “Nice” or “Not bad.” But that’s all it took for me to realize they were lovers. You don’t sample your boss’s drink unless you’re also fucking him.
I’m torn from my thoughts by the mention of my own name. Jerking a little in my chair, I focus my attention quickly back on the present. The head of financial aid seems to be wrapping up her remarks and is thanking Logan and me again for our gifts.
The salad plates are whisked away, and the main course is served. Maya asks me a little about Uruguay, but before long a waiter interrupts, discreetly mentioning that she has a phone call, and she excuses herself. As soon as she’s gone, I sense Handler’s attention on me from across the table.
“Are you acclimatizing to the weather here?” he asks.
“Fortunately, I haven’t had to. It’s the same temperature in Uruguay right now. As we’re transitioning into spring here, they’re heading into fall.”
It’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realize what I’ve said, categorizing myself as someone who lives here, not there. Is that what being gone two days has done to me?
“Well, that’s not so bad, then,” Handler says.
Alison leans toward her husband so that she’s even more in my line of vision.
“Did you know Charles Darwin spent time in Uruguay when he was traveling the coastline of South America?” she says.
“One of the skulls he found there was from a giant species of mammals with a head almost as big as an elephant’s. ”
“Really?” I say. “I read he was in Uruguay for many weeks, but I don’t know much about his time there.”
“People think everything crystalized for him in the Galapagos, but he—”
“Darling, excuse me for cutting you off,” Handler says, touching her shoulder, “but while I have the chance, I want to give Bree some information I promised her.”
“Of course,” she says with a pleasant smile.
“Were you able to find Mel’s classwork?” I ask eagerly.
He shakes his head, lips pinched together. “I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, class material is only archived on Blackboard for five years, and then it’s automatically deleted.”
The news deflates me like I’ve had all the air sucked out of me and there’s nothing left on the chair but my blouse and skirt.
“And there’s no way to retrieve it?” I say, not disguising my frustration.
“Not that I’m aware of. But I’ve saved some student writing in my files at home, and I’ll look through them tomorrow to see if there’s anything of Mel’s.”
“Terrific. That would mean so much to me.”
“And though I know you have copies of The Muse from your daughter’s time here, I had the library pull a few extra copies for you. There’ll be at the front desk there tomorrow or I can have someone drop them off at your hotel.”
“I’d be happy to pick them up,” I say, grateful he made the effort. Perhaps he’s not as haughty as I pegged him to be.
Maya returns to her seat just as the key lime tart is served and seems eager to engage again, but I’m desperate now for a few moments alone. I inquire where the restroom is, and depart using the door not far from me, rather than the one at Logan’s end of the table.
In the mirror, I find that my cheeks are so red they look ready to blister. I run a paper towel under cold water and dab at them, but it does little good. Thank God the dinner can’t go on much longer.
When I open the door, I discover Logan standing right there, clearly waiting for me. Why am I surprised?
“I’m really sorry,” he says, keeping his voice low. He’s still wearing his guy-in-the-doghouse expression.
“How could you?” I demand.
“Bree, you know me—so you know I wouldn’t have planned or okayed anything like that.”
“I know you, Logan? As we both came to see, that wasn’t the case at all.”
“Come on,” he says, looking agitated now. “I was a profound jerk, but let’s not rewrite a nearly twenty-year marriage. You do know me, and you know I didn’t have a fucking clue she was going to say something.”
I exhale, trying to defuse my anger a little.
“Okay, so you weren’t aware she was going to toast our dead daughter, a person she never met, but events this week are bound to be emotionally fraught, and you brought someone with no clue how to act under the circumstances.
For a guy who’s legendary at reading a room, you picked a girlfriend who’s an utter failure at it. ”
All the emotion drains from his face, so it’s impossible to tell his reaction.
“Look, I meant what I told you,” he says gently after a few beats. “I’m truly sorry. But I just didn’t feel I could handle this week alone.”
For the second time tonight, I feel a twinge of pain on his behalf. This whole experience is as crushing for him as it is for me.
“Okay, apology accepted. But she’d better not open her mouth Thursday night.”
“Understood. I’ll speak to her, of course.”
“And please leave the dinner ahead of me tonight so the three of us aren’t bunched together at the front door.”
“Yup . . . Why don’t you go back in first? I need to use the restroom anyway.”
I stroll back to the table, and though I half expect to find people staring at me with their eyebrows raised, wondering why the ex-spouses have sneaked out of the room at around the same time, they seem oblivious.
Some of them are even caught up in the early stages of departure, laying their napkins on the table, scooting their chairs back.
Though the grandfather clock hasn’t even struck nine yet, people seem eager to be on their way, and I can hardly blame them.
A night like tonight couldn’t have been much fun for anyone.
I refuse to look directly at Lisa, but I glimpse her out of the corner of my eye, and she’s sitting up stick straight, obviously on alert. She certainly noticed that both Logan and I had left the table. He appears moments later, and after saying something in her ear, she rises from her chair.
I give the two of them a chance to skirt behind me so they can offer their thanks to Maya. When I’m sure they’re gone, I lean toward Maya and express my own gratitude.
“I know this can’t have been easy for you, Bree,” she says, her voice not much above a whisper. “But I so appreciate you coming,”
“Thank you, Maya. It was lovely of you to do.”
As I wait in the hall for my coat, I suddenly find myself next to Alison Handler.
“I enjoyed hearing about the fossil Darwin found in Uruguay,” I say. “You don’t paint fossils, do you?”
She chuckles a little. “Not as of now, but maybe one day, because they fascinate me.”
“So, what does your work tend to feature?”
“I paint dreams,” she says.
Her answer startles me a little, and I’m momentarily at a loss for words.
“How intriguing,” I say finally. “And do you still find time to talk to students about the connection between art and poetry? Melanie mentioned you did that during her years here, and she really enjoyed it.”
Alison hesitates as if she isn’t sure at first what I’m speaking about.
“Oh right . . . And it was my pleasure to do that. As Plutarch said, ‘Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.’ But sadly, I don’t have the time to participate anymore.”
“That’s a shame. But well put, Plutarch.”
“Would you be interested in seeing some of my paintings?” she asks, cocking her head slightly. “You could come by my studio this week.”
In another life I might say yes, curious to see her dreams put to paintings. Not now, though.
“Unfortunately I’m only here for a couple of days, so I doubt I’ll have the chance.”
As Handler joins his wife, a waiter hands me my coat, and I quickly slip into it, eager to leave.
“Are you staying nearby?” Handler asks me.
“At the Cartersville Arms.”
“I hope someone has arranged a ride back for you tonight.”
“I’m actually going to walk.” It’s a white lie, but if they find out I’m planning to order a car, they might insist on driving me.
“Don’t be silly. Let us give you a lift.”
“Thank you, but it’s only a few blocks from here, and I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Alison interjects. “We live just over on Birch Street.”