Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“Because if that’s the case, I want to hear it.”

She remained silent. She thought she saw tears in his eyes, but then a cloud covered the moon and they were gone. “I love you,” he said. “More than ever.”

“What do you mean, more than ever?”

“The way you were tonight. With Em. With Anne, even. You bring out the best in her.”

“Stop it.”

“And in me. It’s true. You were the only adult in the room. I adore you. I’ll do anything you want, leave Anne, anything.”

“Don’t you see that’s impossible now?”

“Why? Why is it impossible?”

There were two reasons. First, what would be left of him, after? Second, she couldn’t allow it, not now, not knowing Anne-and the girl. Francie gave Ned the second reason.

She watched him absorb it, saw his pain, also saw how young he looked, and more beautiful than ever. Yes, there was no question: he was beautiful. Beauty in pain was something to which she reacted strongly, especially when it was visible to the eye. “Then that leaves us right where we are, doesn’t it?” he said. “Why can’t we just go on like this?”

Francie laid her hand on his knee. “You’re a sweet man, ” she said. “But…” For a moment, there was a lump in her throat and she couldn’t get the sentence out. But only for a moment. “… where we are is intolerable now, ” Francie said.

“What are you saying?”

“It’s over, Ned.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. ”

His lip quivered. Then he mastered himself and said, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

She said nothing.

He covered her hand, still on his knee, with his: two hands that still went together perfectly.“Until you can say that, nothing’s over.”

“Then-” began Francie when the car phone buzzed.

“Shit, ” said Ned.

It buzzed again. “Answer it,” said Francie, thinking that Anne might have fallen, might have reinjured her ankle.

Ned put the phone to his ear, said, “Hello?”

But it was on speaker, and the car filled with a woman’s voice, not Anne’s. “Ned? Hi. Kira.”

“Kira?”

“The same.”

“I’m very sorry,” Ned said. “I don’t have those figures yet. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Pause. “Okeydoke.” Click.

Ned put the phone down. “Syndication,” he said, rubbing his forehead as though struck with a sudden ache. “Go on, Francie.”

She withdrew her hand and said, “Let’s just leave it like this: we can’t see each other anymore.”

“You know that won’t work.”

“It has to.”

“Please, Francie.” He leaned toward her, put his arms around her, brought his face to hers. She leaned back, forced herself to lean back, because it was unnatural, like rejecting herself.

“It won’t work-you already know that in your heart,” Ned said. “How could someone like you ever throw this away?”

“How couldn’t-”

Someone tapped at her window. Francie pushed Ned away, hard enough so his back hit the door, then twisted around, saw Nora peering through the fogged glass, racquet bag over her shoulder, steam rising off her hair, still wet from the shower.

“To be continued,” Ned said softly.

“I heard all about it,” Nora said as the windows of Ned’s car slid down. “Way to fire, kiddo. How’s Anne?”

“It’s just a sprain,” Francie said.

“She going to be ready to play for the hardware?”

“She says so.” Francie opened the door. She turned to Ned, found she couldn’t quite look at him. “Thanks for the lift,” she said, again attempting to find the tone she’d use with a new acquaintance, again getting it wrong.

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, not even trying: more than that, making a deliberately careless reply, one she didn’t like at all. And then, could that possibly have been his hand she felt, brushing the back of her thigh as she got out of the car?

Francie glanced at Nora-what had she seen? what had she heard? — but Nora’s eyes weren’t on her. “Hi, Ned,” she was saying. “How’s it going?”

He peered at her. “Nora, right?”

“Got it in one. Legal Seafood, at Chestnut Hill-you and Anne were ahead of us in line.”

“I remember.”

“Finally caught your show the other day,” Nora continued, talking past Francie, turning on the charm, in fact. With her profile view of Nora’s face, Francie could see her doing it. “Blended families, I think it was,” Nora said. “Are those callers for real?”

“Paid-up members of Equity, each and every one,” Ned replied. Nora laughed, was still laughing when Ned said, “Good night, ladies.” His eyes lingered for a moment on Francie, then turned orange under the sodium arc lights as he drove out of the parking lot. They watched him swing into traffic and accelerate away, tires spinning on a patch of ice.

“What do you think of pretty boy?” Nora said.

“Pretty boy?”

“Come on. He’s gorgeous. Gorgeous, smart, sexy-and funny, too.”

“Grow up,” Francie said.

“Testosterone versus estrogen-what could be more grown-up than that? No holds barred. On the other hand, he’s married, and I soon will be. Bernie wants me in white-can you believe it?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Nora said, and gave Francie a look at a bad moment, the very moment the first of those bombshells she’d anticipated was going off in Francie’s brain: Someone like Anne, that’s different-modest sex drive at best. What were the implications of that now?

Nora’s eyes narrowed; then she went on: “Maybe you’re right. Some marriages-I’ll take that a little farther-most marriages baffle me. Why should mine be any different?”

Francie hadn’t followed, was aware that a question had been asked, no more. She nodded.

“What does that mean?”

Francie didn’t answer. She had meant to tell Nora about Ned, the constant omission of this fact of her life putting too great a strain on their friendship, but how was that possible now? Nora knew Anne-and more, much more, had speculated about Anne’s sex drive, found Ned attractive: how horribly tangled every little aspect of this was-and would thus be put in the intolerable situation of having to lie for Francie, an adulteress once removed. Impossible. Impossible and unnecessary, since it was over. She had just seen Ned for the last time. That was that. The resolved and the unresolved, all in a box. It just had to be closed and put away: a tidy, persuasive image, like slicing through the Gordian knot. But the back of her thigh still tingled in the place he’d touched it, if in fact he’d touched it at all.

“Are you saying that Anne and Ned make sense to you, for example?” Nora asked. “As a couple, I mean.”

Francie whipped around to face her. “Who the fuck does?” she said.

Nora stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You’re a thousand miles away, and when you’re not, you’re mean as a snake. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ll take that farther, too-you look like shit, if you want the truth, which isn’t your style at all. Something’s wrong, very wrong. Fess up.”

Francie took a deep breath. At that moment, she remembered the conversation on the ice: There’s someone I have to tell. I won’t say it’s you, if you don’t want, but I have to tell. Had she mentioned Nora’s name? Yes. Had Ned therefore assumed that Nora already knew? How else to explain his reply when she’d thanked him for the ride? The pleasure was mine. Was it a sort of inside joke, inviting Nora in on the secret? If so, why now, when he’d always been so careful? Did the burden of the secret sometimes grow so intolerable that the truth had to burst out, even be flaunted? That could be dangerous-could have been, Francie corrected herself, because it was all going in a box, resolved and unresolved.