It was very late when he finally stood up.
He went down the hall to his own bedroom. He lay on his back on his own bed. The apartment around him was silent in the way apartments were silent when one of the people in them had not come home, which he saw, lying there, was a silence with its own specific register. He hadn’t been sure he would recognize the difference. He recognized it.
He looked at the ceiling.
She would come back in the morning.
CHAPTER 14
ELIAS
Elias wasawake before the blue hour.
He hadn't slept. He got up and showered. He dressed, and at a quarter past six he crossed the hall to the kitchen and poured his own coffee because Maura was not yet in.
He stood at the island with the cup. The apartment was the apartment of a man whose wife had not come home. He had become able, in the long hours of the night, to feel the difference between a room in which a woman was sleeping down the hall and a room in which she was not. The rooms around him this morning were the second kind. There was nothing visible. There was no evidence a guest would have registered. There was only the hush of an apartment.
His phone, face up on the counter beside the coffee, chimed with a text. A text from Yvonne. He typed a response without reading her text:The kiss should not have happened and will never happen again. I apologize. But do not contact me again. There is nothing between us.Then he blocked her number.
Elias thoughts immediately turned back to his wife. He told himself, again, that she'd come back. She was at her mother's; she was at a hotel; she was somewhere composed, putting her face on, rehearsing the sentence she was going to deliver inthe foyer when she walked in. The sentence would be cool. The sentence would be brief. He had, in the course of the night, refined the sentences he was prepared to answer to, and the refinement felt, in the kitchen in the dim of the morning, like competence.
Eight came.
She didn't come with it.
Elias went to the office. He did not call her mother from the car. He did not call Maura, who by the time he left was in the kitchen, setting the breakfast things out for a woman who had not come home and about whom Maura did not ask. He didn’t call the driver at the Strathmore garage to ask which cars had left the building at what hours. He’d considered each of those calls in the course of a long night and rejected each of them for the same reason, which was that each call would produce a piece of record he did not want to have produced.
He arrivedat his office at the hour he arrived at his office every day. His assistant handed him the morning's folder without comment. The folder contained the calls he was expected to take before ten and the summary of overnight communications from the firm's Hong Kong office, a small stack of correspondence that had come in marked personal.
He took the first call at eight-twenty. He took the second at eight-forty.
He moved through the morning the way he moved through mornings. He was a man who had built a career on being a man who moved through mornings regardless of what was happening in the rest of his life, and the career, today, carried him. He was performing well.
But Elias was aware, underneath the performance, of his phone. He had set it beside him, face up. It hadn’t rung. It had produced no message. It had produced no email from the usual channel by which his wife, when she reached him in the course of a day, reached him: a short line of text, usually about a dinner or a confirmation.
The phone sat. He worked.
The buzzer sounded at a little after ten. His assistant opened the door.
“Your building manager is on the line. There's a delivery at the residence. The courier is requiring your signature in person; they're declining to leave it with the concierge."
Elias set his pen down.
"Who's the delivery from?"
"He didn't say. The courier's saying it's restricted to the addressee."
He looked at her. She held the phone against her shoulder. She’d worked for him long enough to read the second half of a room. She didn’t say anything else. She did not need to.
He stood. "Tell them I'll be there in twenty minutes."
At his building, the concierge nodded him through. The courier was waiting in the lobby beside the private elevator: a man in a dark coat with a black envelope in his hand and a clipboard in the other. The neutral posture of a professional who’d been instructed to deliver a thing and then forget, without offense, that he had done so.
"Mr. Strathmore."
"Yes."
The courier presented the clipboard and Elias signed. The courier presented the envelope and he took it.
