“You should be here. I miss you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“It’s autumn. The leaves are changing. People are wearing sweaters and blazers. Next time you must come with me.”
“Okay,” I whispered. François was sleeping, and so I slipped out the sliding doors into the courtyard. The frogs trilling. The filter in the plunge pool further muffling our conversation. Or so I hoped.
“Let’s go away. For my birthday. Some place far.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll choose,” she said.
When I slipped back into my marital bed, François stirred. I’d awoken him. “Who were you talking to?”
“Anouk.”
“So late?”
“She’s in Paris.”
“Mmm,” he trailed off, his breathing eventually slowing, rhythmic.
I had just started to fade when he said, clear as day, “Why did you go outside to talk to her and not just the other room?” And because I didn’t have a good answer, I feigned sleep.
And so, as reluctant as I am to admit it, I’ve been counting down the minutes to our reunion. We’ve been invited to a private chamber concert at the home of Hayden Altschul, Minnie’s friend from the lunch in Malibu. Former PR girl married to an übersuccessful producer. Hayden’s cello instructor (evidently a serious hobby of hers) had assembled a piano quintet, friends of his from the classical music world, and Hayden was delighted to have them play in the “salon” at her Bel Air home, which apparently had outstanding acoustics.
I opt to wait for Anouk in her driveway, not wanting to risk another awkward run-in with Sacha. And every minute feels like fifteen.
Earlier in the day, when I told her I’d pick her up after collecting the kids from their various activities and preparing them dinner, she laughed and said that’s what her driver and her chef were for. She could not recall when last she’d cooked an actual supper. And so I knew whatever was keeping her was likely not mothering duties.
Eventually she emerges, ravishing in an orange wrap dress. Her hair, wavy, loose, tucked behind one ear, barely brushing her shoulders. A python clutch in one hand, and in the other, a small gift bag.
“I have something for you.” She smiles, slipping into the passenger side of the car. The side that had nearly killed her.
“For me?”
“For us.” She places a box in my hands. Peacock blue, a thin grosgrain bow.
“Are we celebrating something?”
“Do we have to be?” She watches me as I fiddle with the ribbon, open the box.
Inside are two silk pouches, each fastened with a mother-of-pearl button.
“Two gifts?”
“One is for me,” she says.
“Which one?”
“You’ll see.”
I take my time unbuttoning the first pouch. In it is a sleek lariat necklace. On one end, an elegant brushed-gold fishhook, at the other a faceted pear-shaped smoky-quartz stone set in gold. The necklace itself formed with a cord of waxed brown cotton. It is exquisite, expensive.
“Oh, Anouk. It’s breathtaking.”
She is quiet, watching me as I set about opening the second pouch. Inside is an identical piece. There is something deeply sensual about them. Dark, enigmatic.
