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“Both, Cece. You’re both. Just like me.”
I have to blink rapidly. “At least this will make for a great story one day,” I say.
She nods. “We’ll have to practice it a few times before we tell it around the dinner table with our real husbands.”
“Do a few trial runs.”
“Yes. We have to get the pitch just right.”
I chuckle, and she gives me a broad, bright smile, the one that’s Nadine to a T. All of her passionate, artistic self. “I should have just married you,” I tell her.
“Still an option,” she says. “Once you’re divorced from St. Clair here, I’ll swoop right in.”
“I love you, you know.”
Her eyes soften. “I know. Love you too, Cece. Now get in this car before you give your new husband’s driver an aneurism, and call me later.”
“I promise. Prepare yourself for fifteen pictures of his apartment.”
“You mean a FaceTime video tour, right?”
“Sorry. Yes.”
I get into the dark, leather interior of St. Clair’s private car. Steven says something from the front, but I don’t catch it, turning to wave to Nadine. She gives me a single wave back, her hair drawing up tight from the drizzle, as we’re already halfway down the street. City Hall looms large behind her.
Now it’ll always be the place I got married for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Steven. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”
“Please fasten your seat belt, Mrs. St. Clair.”
Mrs. St. Clair. That’s me now.
I’m Mrs. St. Clair.
My hands shake as I do what he says, so I lock them tight together on my lap. He doesn’t say another thing to me during the drive to Victor’s apartment on the Upper East Side. It’s good, because with my spiraling thoughts, I don’t know if I’d be able to respond.
The address is familiar. I’ve ordered a hundred airport pickups and taxi appointments for St. Clair from his home. I’ve sent home his dry-cleaning, I’ve coordinated with his housekeeper. I’ve calculated the time it would take him to walk to different restaurants to cut down on wasted time, as he liked to call it.
Also known as any time he couldn’t be productive.
My new husband isn’t human. But then, I’d known that for a long time.
I’d just never thought I’d get to see it up-close and personal.
Steven leads me past a stone-faced doorman and through a grand lobby. He hands me a keycard.
“Floor eighteen,” he says. “The code is eight, five, five, eight, three.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be on standby for you all afternoon. Just call when you want me to drive you to your old apartment.” Steven inclines his head and heads off with brisk steps.
“Thank you!” I call. “For everything!”
He falters and then raises a gloved hand. “Of course, ma’am.”
I manage to operate the fancy elevator. I even manage to walk down the single hallway on the eighteenth floor and stop in front of a black door. No keyhole. Just a keycard reader, a fingerprint scanner, and a keypad.
