Tina said, cheerful as ever.
I got off the phone and dialed our home number, trying to hold my flaring suspicions at bay. Maybe he was just using golf as an excuse, and he was home working on his paper. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. My own voice on the machine answered after four rings, politely asking callers to leave their name and number. I hung up and dialed Nick’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail, as if turned off by someone who very much did not want to be reached.
Something as heavy as lead crept into my chest.
I got up from the bed and went to the French windows. I pushed them farther open, hoping the sight of the Spanish Steps would lift my spirits, but the orange glow of the sun setting somewhere over the city only made me melancholy for company, for my husband, or at least the husband I used to have. The white marble steps seemed covered with couples taking in the coming twilight. As far as my eye could see, people were holding hands, speaking softly into each other’s ears.
Where was he? Why take off work on a Monday, only two days after I’d left? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
I thought about all the talks we’d had after his affair. Why, why, why? I’d asked over and over. Whydid you do it? Nick shook his head, his eyes anguished and disbelieving, as if he couldn’t quite accept what he’d done. He said it was a product of his boredom, his worries about whether he’d make partner at the office, whether he’d make it onto the board. He needed something new and exciting to distract him, and when she walked into his life in Napa, he felt she would bring him that excitement, if only momentarily. He swore there was nothing wrong with our relationship. He wasn’t bored with me, he kept saying. He wasn’t harboring any kind of resentment toward me.
In some ways, I was relieved by his answers, or lack of them. Because I didn’t want anything to be inherently wrong with us. I wanted Napa to be a colossal, bumbling, impulsive mistake.
But I’d never stopped to think that maybe he couldn’t control such impulses. I didn’t even ask if he wanted to.
I shut the windows and yanked off my robe. I started the shower, turned the heat high and stepped inside, letting the water pound my skin.
He’s at it again. That was all I could think. It wasn’t the goddess from Napa this time, but someone else. Unbelievable. How smug I’d been this week, thinking how much he’d miss me. How sure I’d been of his devotion when I turned my back to him at the airport.
Nick’s career couldn’t handle a divorce right now. Hadn’t he told me that in so many words while we were seeing the therapist? We’d sat side by side on the maroon leather couch in Conan’s office, while Conan himself, a large man with a trim gray beard, sat on a wide leather recliner.
How had Nick put it? “Rach, listen, I know this is unfair, but I have to ask you something. It’s…” His words drifted off, and he gave me a guilty glance.
“Go ahead, Nick,” Conan prompted. “Everyone is entitled to a request here.”
Nick nodded. “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell so many people about our…our troubles.”
It was our second visit when Nick said this, and I looked at him with disgust. “You slept with another woman. Over and over for a week.” I saw Conan studying me as my voice drove up in volume, so I took a breath and lowered it. “And now you want me to be quiet?”
“I am so sorry, Rachel,” Nick said. He reached out and touched my leg. “Like I said, I realize this isn’t fair. But you know how they are at the office.” In short, the partners at his medical practice looked favorably not only upon exceptional surgical skills and the publishing of papers, but also on charitable work and a clean, traditional private life.
I had assumed Nick wanted our marriage to work because he loved me, because he made that colossal, impulsive mistake, but now I began to wonder if he’d just been patching things up until he was a partner and a member of the board, when he could do anything he wanted with his life.
In the shower, a few frustrated tears slipped from my eyes, but after a minute, I began to hate my own confusion and self-pity.
I got out of the shower and called Nick’s cell phone three more times in quick succession. I started to despise the sound of his cheerful yet soothing physician’s voice—You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Nick Blakely. Please leave me a message. If this is a medical emergency…
I called the concierge and asked her to make a reservation at a good restaurant within walking distance. I dried my hair, recklessly directing the hair dryer any which way, never lifting the brush from the counter, so that the natural, erratic waves took over my dark hair. I put on black pants and high-heeled satin sandals. No more feeling sorry for myself. I had no idea what Nick was doing, but I was in Rome, and I was going out for the night.
As I walked to the restaurant, I filled up with the feeling I always got when I was in Rome—satiated though I hadn’t yet eaten, overwhelmed by antiquity even though I hadn’t yet waited in line to see anything. Beauty and history surround you in Rome. They’re inescapable, and their presence buoyed me, if only for a few moments.
The last time I’d been in Rome, Nick and I had strolled hand in hand over cobblestone streets, me gripping his arm when we crossed particularly choppy spots, and we stopped at nearly every os-teria for a glass of wine.
I pushed the thoughts of Nick from my mind as I spied Dal Bolognese, the restaurant where the concierge had booked me. It was tucked next to one of Piazza del Popolo’s twin churches. The place had white tablecloths and umbrellas out front. Soft light and classical music spilled from the white-curtained windows.
I stepped inside and looked around, my eyes immediately landing on a man talking to the maître d’. He wore tan linen slacks and a long-sleeved maroon shirt. His hair was dark brown, his skin tanned, and faint lines ran from his eyes to his full mouth. He had one hand on the maître d’s shoulder.
For some reason, the man turned to me as if expecting me. His expression when his eyes met mine said, Ah, there you are.
For a moment I forgot where I was. I don’t know how long I met his gaze. Surely it was too long, for the maître d’stepped around him, and said, “Madame?”
I stayed mute, still looking at this man, who felt brand-new and at the same time intensely familiar. One side of his maroon shirt collar had fallen aside, and I was drawn to the sight of his tanned skin below his collarbone.
“Madame?” the maître d’ said again.
I dragged my eyes away, but I could still feel him staring at me.
“Prenotazione per uno,” I managed to say. “Blakely.” I felt relieved to have spoken in coherent Italian, even if it was just a few words.
“Si, si,” the maître d’ said, glancing down at the reservation book. “Your table, here.” He gestured toward an umbrellaed table in front of the restaurant. “Please.”
I took a step to follow, but I couldn’t help stopping and turning. The man in the linen shirt was still standing there. He was still watching me.
“Your table,” I heard the maître d’say behind me.
“I should go,” I said to the man. Stupidly, I realized. He was a few feet away from me,
