Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

Oliver wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder. “I still think that,” he said. “But am I not allowed to resent it for taking away the woman I adore?”

“Nope,” I said, resuming the chopping. “We’re a package deal. Can you get the water started? The big pot, under the counter. Lots of salt.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation?” Oliver said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s not a great time. I’ve got a lot on my plate, and—”

He held up a hand. “A long weekend, then. Can’t they spare you for a few days?”

“I guess so.” The olive oil in the cast-iron pan was sizzling by now, and I dropped the shallots in. After they turned soft and golden, I’d add diced tomatoes. The meal was simple—pasta, salad—but Oliver was impressed by whatever I cooked. He liked to brag about this to his friends. I cooked, and I worked, and I was from real America, not a born-and-bred New Yorker. In other words, I was nothing like the kind of woman that a man like him tended to date.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything. You can try the wine now, if you like.”

The police were cautioning the Bradleys against hope. By now they assumed Stella was likely dead, but with no body and no weapon—and no sign of the boat—the leads were scarce.

At KCN, without new information to fan the flames, the gossip had finally died down. My visitors and lunch invitations slowed to a trickle. People are scared of loss. They’d rather say nothing than risk saying the wrong thing. This wasn’t fun for them anymore.

Occasionally Eliza would call me into her office, close the door, and express concern. Was I taking care of myself? Did I have someone to talk to? I always answered by saying that work was a good distraction. When I finally asked for a day off, Eliza smiled gently. “Good,” she said. “You need a break.”

Oliver and I drove out to Long Island on a Thursday night in early April. It was late when we arrived at the hotel—a small place in East Hampton, gray shingles and white trim and green lawn. A woman appeared at the sound of our knock and showed us to our room.

“Special occasion?” she asked.

“It’s our four-month anniversary,” Oliver said.

After she left and closed the door, I said, “It is?”

But Oliver was already in the bathroom, turning on the faucet in the clawfoot tub. He held his hand under the stream of water, adjusting the knobs. “Let’s take a bath,” he said. He shucked off his shoes, started unbuttoning his shirt.

When the tub was full, soft drifts of jasmine-scented bubbles on the surface, I undressed and slid into the water. It was almost too hot, but the pain released its grip in a few seconds. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track,” I said, settling into the tub’s curved back, closing my eyes against the flickering candles around the edge.

“What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” Oliver said.

Checklists were Oliver’s way. Expensive hotel, bubble bath, candles—and I could bet there’d be champagne and oysters later this weekend. His predictability was a pleasant change after Stella. After a moment, I opened my eyes. Oliver, in his bathrobe, was sitting on a stool and gazing at me. “Aren’t you getting in?” I said.

“I’m savoring this moment.” He smiled.

“You’re sweet, Ollie,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh—God, sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like that nickname.”

“I hate it,” he said, teeth bared. He stood up and walked out. From the bedroom came the blaring sound of the TV, much louder than it needed to be.

“I’m sorry,” I called out. “Oliver. I’m really sorry.”

When he came back several minutes later, his face was dark. He stood with his arms crossed, towering above me. “You realize that she was the only one who ever called me that?”

“Who was? Stella?”

“She knew how much I hated it. She relished saying it, just to drive me crazy. And look—now she has you saying it, too.”

“It was a stupid slip. It won’t happen again.”

“You know, Violet, sometimes I look at you”—he gestured at the tub, and I became hyperaware of my naked body—“and all I can see are the ways in which she left her mark.”

“She was my best friend,” I said. “Of course she rubbed off on me.”

“You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”

“We’re talking about her, Oliver.”

“This was supposed to be a nice weekend. A getaway.”

“It is, it’s—”

“Not when it’s all about Stella,” he said coldly.

A draft came from the open door. In the guttering candlelight, the hollows and shadows of Oliver’s face stretched and retracted like a yo-yo. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Violet. But my whole life, she’s been the center of attention. After she disappeared, I thought this was the silver lining.”

My heart was thudding faster. My face flushed, pricking into sweat. “This?”

“ This, ” he said, smiling. “Us. Finally getting free from her.”

I felt light-headed. A laugh track from the sitcom on TV, loud and false, echoed off the hard tile walls.

“I’m turning into a prune,” I said. “Pass me that towel?”

I was aware of Oliver’s gaze tracking me as I stood up, the water sucking at my limbs. I wrapped myself tightly in the towel, but he stood in the door to the bedroom, blocking my way.

I shivered. “I need to get some clothes on.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?” he said, gazing at me.

“Are we still talking about this?” I tried to get past him, but he shifted in response.

“Please answer the question,” he said firmly.

I stopped. Looked up, and stared him right in the eye. “Of course I loved her.”

“But you love me more.” It was a statement, not a question. His words hung in the air for a long beat. Oliver took a step closer, and ran his hands down my bare arms. I let the towel drop to the floor.

After we had sex—good sex, charged and sparking—and I went into the bathroom to pee, the candles around the tub had extinguished down to waxy stubs. Only one was still burning, a tiny flame dancing above a pool of clear wax. A romantic prop that had outlived its moment. I licked my fingers and pinched it out with a small hiss.

When I woke up the next morning, the bed was empty. Oliver’s note said he had gone downstairs for breakfast.

“You’ll love this place,” Oliver had said, on the drive out from the city. “It’s known for its food.” He thought a love of fancy cuisine had to accompany my love of cooking. He tried so hard, paying attention to every little detail. But I was the last person who could fault him for that.

“There you are,” he said, when I came into the dining room. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, the smell of wood smoke and coffee in the air. The table was covered with plates of fruit, a basket of bread and pastries, several newspapers. Oliver had already worked his way to the op-ed pages of the Wall Street Journal.

“What’s our plan for the day?” I said. The bread was dense with raisins and pecans, the bright yellow butter dotted with flakes of salt. It was, I’d admit, delicious.

“I have a tee time at Maidstone. Do you want to use the spa this afternoon? And we could walk on the beach before lunch.”

“Sounds nice,” I said.

The warped intensity of the night before was gone. Instead, it was like Oliver and I were reading from a script, a performance of normalcy. Our words sounded so rote, so trite. I felt detached from the scene, watching from above and wondering, is this really how couples talk? Could two idiosyncratic, complicated people really be reduced to these clichéd exchanges? The man on the golf course, the woman at the spa. But maybe this was just what it was like to be in a relationship. How would I know?