Crazy in Love by Luanne Rice Page B

started to walk away; Clare was concentrating hard on the view she was painting.
    “See you,” she said after I had turned the corner. Her voice drifted to me; she had barely noticed me leave.
    In my own kitchen I puttered around and wished I had someone to talk to. I started to call Nick, then remembered he was in an all-day meeting. We had not yet had to test his suggestion that I not check in to the Gregory; work had not kept him away since our dinner at Vinnie’s.
    I began to imagine him in the meeting. Over the years, he had described his work so vividly to me, I felt able to conjure any given situation.
    The Meeting: He would be nervous, just a little, before it started. He would go through the file, arranging documents in the order in which they would be discussed. He would check with Denise to make sure she had supplied enough legal pads and papers for the participants and to make sure she had arranged for coffee and doughnuts. He would fix his tie. He would feel sorry he had worn the red tie with the tiny stain. Then he would gather the documents, walk down the hall to the big conference room, and arrange the proper papers on the enormous oval walnut table. He would squint at the window, adjust the blinds to let in enough sun but not too much.
    The clients would enter with John Avery, the partner in charge. Since this was a friendly meeting, everyone would shake hands and people who had met before would ask about spouses and vacations. Nick would still be feeling nervous, but no one would know it because he could hide his nervousness extremely well. Nick would be asked to fill everyone in on what had happened since the previous meeting. He would start to talk. He would discuss the deal’s structure, the tax aspects, the percentage participation of each company. Within a few seconds, he would cease feeling nervous. The meeting would continue until lunchtime. Then Nick would ask everyone what kind of sandwiches they wanted. He would leave the room to call a messenger with the order, but first he would call me.
    I cut myself off there. I began to mash tuna fish for the sandwich I would serve Clare. With equal clarity I could imagine negotiations, smaller meetings between Nick and one partner or one client, shuttle flights to Washington, lunches at the Downtown or Broad Street clubs, places I had never set foot in but could envision perfectly, based on Nick’s descriptions. Following him through the day in my mind had once given me pleasure, but now I felt ashamed of it. It seemed like a secret vice, akin to following him into the city on the nights he had to work late. To Nick, the love of my life and husband of eight years, I now felt I was displaying my heart on my sleeve.
    I wanted to talk to Clare. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime. But the phone rang; it was Clare saying that the babysitter had a bad bee sting and couldn’t come to work, that Clare would have to take the boys to their swimming lesson. That she couldn’t come for lunch.
    I made myself a tuna sandwich, and I turned to the newspaper. I quit thinking about Nick, and I became the Swift Observer. I found the window on other people’s worlds quite consoling.

4
    ONE EVENING THAT WEEK I COMPLETED MY report. My last case involved seventy-three-year-old identical twins, separated at birth, who had lived in the same Bronx apartment complex for thirty years but hadn’t discovered each other until they wound up playing bingo at the same table one night. The news account said they were dressed identically, including their jewelry. I tried to imagine a seventy-three-year-old woman dressing up for another night of bingo. Perhaps it was her only night to socialize. At the bingo table she had glanced up, and there was her mirror image. Information gave me a number for Doris McNaughton.
    She answered the phone, and I identified myself. “Excuse me for bothering you,” I said, “but your story is fascinating. How do you feel, meeting your sister after so many