Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [87]
AN HOUR LATER, I’m still high on the euphoria of saying what I finally needed to say, when Josie buzzes over the intercom and convinces me to tag along while she battles the post-Christmas crowds and returns some of her gifts. I grab my army green puffy down jacket, my fisherman’s hat and matching mittens, and meet her in the lobby.
“Wow, you look well rested,” I say. I haven’t seen her in a week; she and Art had bused the kids down to Naples for the holiday.
“It’s the sun,” she says dismissively, waving a leather-gloved hand, then picking up her shopping bags and moving toward the revolving glass door, which normally spun around nonstop with employees, but today, sat still.
“So how was vacation?” I ask as we hit the street, the biting winter air nipping at my neck like termites. I tug my jacket zipper as high as it allows, but still, air sneaks its way in.
“Good,” she says without much conviction. “No, it was good,” she reiterates, more forcefully this time.
“And Art?” I ask. A deliveryman nearly mows me down on the sidewalk, and I dart aside just in time to avoid collision.
“Still hell-bent on San Jose.” Her face contorts into a wistful smile.
“And you? How are you?”
“Still faithful.” She lets out a grotesque laugh that sounds more like a howl of a dying seal. “Still faithful,” she says again more softly.
“Well, that’s good.” I push open the glass door to Saks, but neither of us can get through: too many tourists rushing out in a wave. Finally, we edge our way in, and the pumped-in heat rises over my cheeks, warming them in an instant. We tug our hats off together, in sync.
“I suppose it’s good,” she answers, as we weave our way through the cloying, perfumed air of the cosmetics department. “Bart is back in San Francisco.”
“Oh,” I say with surprise and maybe relief. You are happy in seven years, goddammit! “For good?”
The escalator whisks us up and Josie shrugs but doesn’t respond. It occurs to me for the first time that this wasn’t just a dalliance in her mind, that, perhaps, just like when I came back for Jack, there was something real behind Josie’s desire, the thought of a rescue from her current life, even if it wasn’t a perfect fit, even if there weren’t any reassurances that she’d be any better off this time around. It was the illusion that she might be that fed her, the knowledge that she didn’t think she could be any worse off, at least, than where she found herself now.
Don’t be so sure, I think. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry, Jo. I am.”
“It would have been nice to have the option,” she answers, as we step off into the women’s department.
“You don’t have to tell me that,” I say.
She cocks me a sidelong look. “What are you talking about? You have this amazing guy who is gainfully and well employed, who placed a fat rock on your finger, whose family seems to adore you . . .” She trails off, as if she needs to provide no further explanation.
“You’re right,” I say. “Though I bet that at some point, Art had a checklist of strong points, too.” Funny how everyone’s life always appears shiny on the outside.
Her face goes blank, and I’m unsure if she’s lost in a moment of trying to remember what those attributes were or if she’s realizing that a checklist is meaningless, like a flimsy piece of paper left too long in the elements that erodes over time.
Before she can answer, my cell rings, and I root in my bag to grab it. Josie heads toward the counter, and I snap the phone to my ear. Henry? Oh please let it be Henry!
The static crackles on the other side of the line, and I repeat “Hello, hello” two times until I finally hear Jack. His voice sounds as if it’s underwater.
“Hey! I finally got a signal!” he shouts so I can make him out. Only there’s a delay and gap between Antigua and Saks, so mostly, I hear, “Ey . . . Inally ot ignal.” It’s like Pig Latin for rich tourists in the Caribbean.
“Hey,” I say, my voice raised three decibels, my finger wedged