Picture Perfect by Jodi Picoult Page B

Cassie said. “Really.” She looked from Alex to Herb and then back at Alex again, silently thanking the little man for forcing his entry this afternoon. With Herb added to the mix of her mind, Alex couldn’t help but seem more familiar.
    Alex clapped an arm around Herb’s shoulders and led him upstairs to the dining room. “Cassie—can you get the plates? All right, Herb, tell me what Joe’s doing in Scotland.”
    Cassie wandered into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. Somehow the ordinary things, like finding plates, or cooking, or watching the shower steam up the bathroom, made her feel at home. Alex had seemed so much less threatening that morning when they were doing things together—him pouring juice and her finding the ice, standing side by side and chopping peppers for an omelette, picking up a stack of papers the wind had scattered to the floor. There was an intimacy to simple tasks, things everyone knew and everyone did, that formed a floor of false comfort and security beneath even two strangers.
    Herb and Alex were talking in the dining room, a running river of syllables she caught from time to time. Cassie looked from one cabinet door to the next, wondering where the dishes were. She opened the door closest to her. Tablecloths, and a breadbasket. The door beside it revealed wineglasses.
    â€œJoe’s filmed the six lousy scenes that don’t revolve around you—the witches, and something or other with Banquo. He says Melanie did a tour de force with the hand-washing bit.” Herb watched Cassie open a third and fourth cabinet, bite her lip, and then check beneath the sink. “What’s with her head?” he whispered to Alex. “She’s still a little meshugge ?”
    Alex shrugged. “The doctor told her it’s going to take some time for her to remember who she is, and what the hell knocked her out.” His eyes followed Cassie as she finally opened the cabinet that held the dishes. “In the meantime, I figure I’ll just keep her near me. Safe.” He grinned at his agent. “Shit. If I can’t bring back her memory, I don’t know what can .”
    Cassie brought back three plates and a stack of paper napkins. She hovered at the edge of the table, the outsider. “I could only find wineglasses,” she said.
    Herb waved toward her chair. “Just sit. We can drink out of the bottles.” He unwrapped a sandwich with a colossal amount of meat jammed between the slices of bread, and Cassie watched his mouth contort to seal around the bulk of it. “I hope you’ve thanked your lovely wife, Alex, for the free PR.” Herb pinched Cassie’s cheek. “Nationwide coverage of the heartbroken Alex Rivers shielding his wife is exactly the kind of pre-Oscar coverage we need.” He held his sandwich inches from his mouth. “It can’t hurt all your buddies at AMPAS to see you being a family man before they cast their Best Actor and Best Director votes. You know, I’m going to call Michaela this afternoon and see if we can’t milk this on Oprah . You can plug Taboo , maybe we can get Cassie on for the last five minutes—”
    â€œNo.” At that last word, Cassie jumped. Alex hadn’t spoken particularly loudly, but he’d slammed his fist on the table so forcefully that he had cracked one of the hand-painted tiles that made up its surface. Cassie watched a tiny line of blood trickle down Alex’s wrist, but he did not bother to wipe it away. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table toward Herb, upsetting a bottle of soda. “You will not exploit my wife on television to stack my odds for the Oscars.”
    Herb blotted his mouth with a napkin, as if he were used to this kind of outburst every day. “Okay, okay,” he said.
    Stunned, Cassie sat motionless, watching the clear stream of Sprite puddle onto the carpet. She looked up at Alex. “I