The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [90]
“These are almost unsalvageable,” Robert said.
“I only have to make it home.”
“We’ll go down to breakfast,” he said. “Have a real breakfast.”
“That would be nice.”
“There’s no hurry.”
She sewed patiently and evenly, as Julia had once, long ago, taught her to do, hoping the tiny card of thread would last. She was aware that Robert was watching her intently. Something had changed since the night before, she reflected; her gestures seemed to be taking on a special precision, being so closely observed.
“You look almost happy,” she said, glancing up at him.
The insanity of yesterday lurked in the shadows, Kathryn knew, and it would always be there, a dark place in a lighted room. It would nag at her, drag her down when she let it. She thought then that she ought to be able to say she’d had the worst, got it over with. It would be a boon of sorts to know that a nadir had been reached. She could almost feel the freedom of that, to live one’s life and not be afraid.
But she knew already that such freedom was an illusion and that there might be more to come. All she had to do was imagine Mattie on the plane that had gone down. It might be Mattie on a future plane. Life could dish out worse than Kathryn had had, and worse than that. In fact, she thought, her life might be all the more harrowing for knowing what was out there.
She put down her sewing and watched Robert buff her shoes. The gestures reminded her of Jack, his foot perched on the pulled-out bread drawer. How long ago was that, exactly?
She rose from her chair and kissed Robert at the side of his mouth, her hands full with the stitching, his with her shoes. She could feel his surprise. She put her wrists on his shoulders and looked at him.
“Thank you for coming with me to London,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d have gotten through last night without you.”
He looked at her, and she could see that he wanted to say something.
“Let’s eat,” she said quickly. “I’m starved.”
The dining room had wood-paneled wainscoting with a subdued blue wallpaper above it. There was a red oriental on the floor. They were shown to a table in a bow window framed with heavy drapes. Robert gestured for her to take the seat in front of the window. The table was laid with heavy white linen, nearly stiff from its pressing, and set with silver and a china she didn’t recognize. She sat and put her napkin in her lap. On the walls were architectural prints, and overhead was a crystal chandelier. She saw now that most of the diners were businessmen.
She glanced out the window at her side. The sun glistened on the washed streets. The room reminded her of drawing rooms in old British films, and she thought it might once have been that, a formal space that also conveyed warmth. An effort had been made not to sanitize the room, as would have been done in an American hotel, so that you could never believe anyone ever had, or ever would, live there. A fire burned in a grate. They had ordered eggs and sausages, toast in a silver rack. The coffee was hot, and she blew over the edge of the cup.
She looked up and saw the woman standing at the entrance. Coffee spilled onto the white tablecloth. Robert had his napkin out to blot the mess, but Kathryn stayed his hand. He turned to see what she had seen.
The woman walked quickly toward their table. She wore a long coat over a short wool skirt and sweater. Kathryn had an impression of muted greens and disarray. The woman had drawn her hair up into a ponytail, and she looked frightened.
As she approached the table, Robert stood up, startled.
“I was unforgivably cruel to you yesterday,” the woman said straightaway to Kathryn.
“This is Robert Hart,” Kathryn said.
He held out his hand.
“Muire Boland,” the woman murmured by way of introduction, which he hadn’t needed. “I need to speak with you,” she said to Kathryn and then hesitated. Kathryn understood the hesitation to refer to Robert.
“It’s all right,” Kathryn said.
Robert gestured for the woman to sit down.