Girl in the Rearview Mirror Read online

  A man entered the gallery, baggy white shirt unbuttoned and untucked, probably a caterer arriving late, smiling flirtatiously at me. I spun around and headed to the lobby.

  Bryant was waiting for me, a flute of champagne in each hand. We drank, lifting the glasses to our lips and swallowing more than we normally would. He bounced on the balls of his feet. Around us, servers waited in the shadows.

  “I hope he’s not too late,” Bryant said.

  “Who?” I adjusted the flower on my shoulder with damp fingers.

  “Philip.” He looked me over, for the first time since I’d arrived. “You look beautiful. New dress?”

  I took another drink instead of answering.

  Now the elevator light glowed with the first guests rising from the garage. Bryant planted his feet farther apart. I felt the clenched effort of my smile.

  It was the Feinhorns: he a banker with combed-back silver hair, she a bottle brunette involved with the children’s hospital. She came into the lobby with arms stretched out enthusiastically. She obviously expected to grasp someone she knew, but she gamely took my elbow and hovered her cheek next to mine. Her face seemed to have been washed free of its original features and new ones drawn on: steep black brows, brown lips, angular pink cheekbones.

  “Hello, hello. We’re the first, aren’t we? We’re always too early! I blame this man.” She slapped her husband on the shoulder with her jeweled clutch.

  Mr. Feinhorn, having already released Bryant from a python’s grip, stretched his shoulders. “People are circulating, Winnie. Around and about.”

  “Please,” I said, “take a moment to sign in.” I gestured to the table. The Feinhorns ambled over, happy to ink their names in the book and admire the photo montages of last year’s event. As they came back, pinning on their orchids, a caterer swung by with a tray of drinks. I set my empty down and picked up another. I’d have to pace myself, that first glass had slid away. Nerves.

  “I know you, don’t I?” said Mr. Feinhorn. “You work for Jim.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Bryant agreed. “He’ll be here, of course.”

  “Fashionably late,” Mr. Feinhorn chuckled.

  “But how exciting!” Mrs. Feinhorn said. “You must work around the clock. Of course, we don’t even know the other candidate’s name.”

  “Gonzales.” Bryant sounded jovial, as though he couldn’t help liking the guy. “He’s got a lot of energy.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” said Mr. Feinhorn. “He snuck into this country and thinks he can tell us how it should work.”

  “He’s from Tucson,” I said, worrying Bryant would be offended.

  They turned to me, mouths open. Bryant smiled, angry.

  Mrs. Feinhorn held up a palm. “No politics. Marina would be scandalized to hear us talking politics at her party.”

  “My fault entirely,” Bryant said. “There seems to be nothing but politics in an election year.”

  Mrs. Feinhorn laughed meaninglessly.

  “Marina will be so happy you came,” Bryant said. “You’ve heard, of course, that she’s had to fly to Florida. Her aunt . . .” He trailed off, inviting them to fill in the gap. “You know how Marina is family first.” Smiling winningly, he rushed on, “But here we are, keeping you in the lobby! Please, you could drop your coats—and there are canapés—and the galleries are open, of course.”

  He was persuasive. The Feinhorns hustled out of the lobby with drinks in one hand and shrimp skewers in the other, and roamed out of view into the galleries.

  The elevator lit up again, and this time eight guests poured out, already mid-conversation, and Bryant and I welcomed them, my greeting coming more smoothly already. With a trickle and then a flood, the party began.

  When I was with Bryant, the clusters of conversation opened and swept us inside. He flattered, he flirted, he wanted nothing more than to share a word with you, Mr. Clark. And you, Mrs. Sherwood, may-I-call-you-Cindy? The trick would have seemed cheap, but Bryant genuinely liked people, and he remembered everything, not only your name but that of your spouse, children, dog. He remembered the summerhouse with the flooded basement, the niece who’d won a Fulbright, the eagle on the thirteenth hole at the Stadium Course.

  The crowd swelled. The rooms buzzed with chatter. None of the men cared much about the absence of their hosts. The women clucked their tongues sympathetically, smirking. They probably suspected the truth—marital problems, infidelity, a younger woman. On Bryant’s elbow, I was accepted as an appropriate representative; they didn’t recognize me as the person they usually saw in shorts and sneakers, rallying their children. I was dizzy with cheek kisses, hand squeezes, drinks pressed on me as my half-full glass was whisked away. I’d always been awed by these people. Up close, their insecurities were on display. Lenore Leland’s white shawl shed feathers; Heather Clark’s dress might have been spray-painted on. Mrs. Gilly had gotten another face-lift, but her neck remained crumpled as a paper bag. Jennifer Jensen, married to an oil contractor away in Iraq, found her way to Paul Huff, the professional golfer, and kissed him lingeringly on the cheek. Sweat and perfume mingled in the air.

  Seven forty-five. Heels clicked; waiters collected empties, their red bow ties setting them apart in the sea of black and white. Philip still hadn’t arrived. I left Bryant and checked my phone in the quiet of the ballroom. No calls, no texts. I dialed Philip again and was shuttled straight to voicemail.

  Reentering the party, I felt shy. Bryant had disappeared among the men in suits. From outside the circles of conversation, backs and elbows created impenetrable hedges.

  I drifted in the gaps between groups. The ivory blooms on every guest had a unifying effect, like activist ribbons, turning the crowd into supporters of Marina. I’d already talked to everyone I recognized. I stuck to the perimeter of the room, pretending to admire the artwork. It was absurdly hot. My throat was dry, my neck flushed.

  While I studied a tapestry, a woman approached, holding her champagne flute tensely up near her chin.

  “Beautiful,” she said with a perfunctory glance at the art. Her lips twitched over her big teeth. “You’re Finn, aren’t you? I’ve been trying to say hi all night.” Her handshake would have crushed a small mammal.

  I didn’t recognize her. She might be one of Marina’s lower-tier friends, or one of the school moms who set up playdates for Amabel even though their children were much older or younger, angling to gain entry into the Martins’ circle. She wore an unflattering dress that flared over her hips.

  “How is poor Marina doing? She must be just crying about missing this.”

  “Family comes first for Marina.” I’d repeated the line all evening, until it had worn out and frayed. I wondered how the Senator managed to say the same words over and over, and always make them sound forceful, like a fresh epiphany.

  The woman nodded, scanning the crowd around us, and I was both relieved and offended to lose her interest. But then, to my surprise, she stepped closer. “I wonder if she’s upset with Philip.” She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “He’ll be here any minute.”

  An impatient sigh. “Let me lay my cards on the table. I’d love to bend your ear—I’m willing to make it worth your while.” My confusion must have been clear because she clucked and lowered her voice. “You work for the Martins? They’re my job, too. I’m doing interviews . . . learning more about them. Nothing bad! Just: what are their habits, what’s their daily routine, and so on. You’ve got a unique perspective—”

  She was cut off when a man joined us. Young, blond, holding a glass of champagne as roughly as a can of beer.

  “Some party.” He was amiable, addressing both of us. An ordinary party guest, schmoozing before dinner.

  The woman’s lips pursed. I excused myself and slipped away, pushing through the crowd. I nudged the men, my palm on their shoulders or backs, and when they turned and saw me they ducked away, smiling with wet lips. The women didn’t move; their heads spun with sharp eye
s, like hawks’.

  The room was loud, a roar more like a machine engine than human voices.

  I finally spotted Bryant. His artificial laugh hadn’t lost any of its gusto. I seized his hand, and he blinked at the eagerness of my hello.

  Three men filed into the room, mundane as grooms on a wedding cake, except for the cords running from their ears to their collars. Snoops.

  A whisper rustled through the crowd. Heads turned. The Senator stepped through the doorway. Funny how his famous face stood out even in the crowd of old white men. For an instant, it seemed everyone might erupt into cheers. He threw an arm up into a wave. The gesture sufficed to make everyone feel personally greeted. A smattering of applause, giddy laughter. The buzz restarted with twice the energy. The crowd pressed forward, but the Senator was flanked by two Snoops and made his way to Bryant and me. He nodded at this person and that, but when he reached us, his eyes glittered narrowly.

  Bryant held out his hand. “You just got the party started, sir.”

  The Senator’s mouth was curled upward agreeably, in a politician’s photogenic smile that wouldn’t widen or droop the rest of the night.

  “And hasn’t Philip arrived?” Surprisingly, he was addressing me.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  His eyes hadn’t dulled with age. They were critical and probing. The flag pin punched into his lapel had an aggressive air, like a sheriff’s badge. From his stance, and the edge behind his question, I concluded that he knew it all—Iris’s pregnancy, Marina’s humiliated retreat, perhaps even my part.

  “Haven’t you heard from him?” I faltered. “He said he spoke with you earlier.”

  He pounced. “So you have talked to him.”

  Bryant took tight hold of my elbow, glancing between us like a man watching his horse lose.

  “Only briefly,” I said. “I called him after the party started, to see where he was.”

  “And where was he?”

  “I assumed at the house. I’m sure he’ll be here, though. He knows what it means to Marina.” Involuntarily, my lips had spread into a desperate smile.

  “Does he?” The Senator seemed irritated. He scanned the room over my head. “By the way, Marina sends her apologies. I heard from her on my drive over. She said she was embarrassed to have left you in the lurch. Apparently she was in too much of a rush to explain anything. But Bryant’s told you, hasn’t he? Her aunt is sick. Days to live. They were very close, apparently.”

  “She did leave in a hurry,” I said carefully.

  The corners of his eyes creased with apparent amusement. “Smart of you to call Bryant. It’s always best to let a professional handle these things.” He pivoted toward the room, as though he were referring to the party.

  Bryant’s grip on my arm relaxed, but anxiety remained wedged like a bone in my throat. The Senator must know I knew his story was untrue. He was warning me.

  “Marina had planned every detail,” I heard myself say. “It was simpler to carry it through than to cancel.”

  “Marina was devastated to think of canceling.” Bryant gave me an adoring smile, as if he hadn’t just bruised my arm.

  “Was she? Then I should thank you.” The Senator took my hand and lifted it, dipping his head in a courtly gesture. I was painfully aware that my palms were sticky with sweat. He lowered his face closer to mine. “You look lovely, Finn. I’d hardly have recognized you.”

  Before I could respond, he released me and inclined his head almost imperceptibly.

  His assistant stepped forward. “The Albrights would like to say hello.”

  “Off I go,” the Senator said. “If Philip does arrive and you manage to spot him before I do, send him to me.”

  The guests shifted like currents in a river as the Senator crossed the room.

  “I didn’t realize Philip wasn’t here,” Bryant said. “I should have been paying more attention. I’d better call him.” He pushed off in his boss’s wake, and the guests swirled, propelling me out of the gallery and into the hall, where a bell began to chime. Dinner.

  15

  The dinner: small plates. The music: Sinatra. The company: businessmen whose titles didn’t offer any clues to the nature of their work, their wives, and Bryant’s empty seat. The talk was of Italy, children’s immunizations, a popular podcast. Wine poured freely; I never saw the bottom of my glass. The food was a success. Tiny clams glossy with butter, spicy steak, sweet potatoes flecked with cilantro, a mango crème brûlée. Marina had said she was so tired of custard, but it was the thing now, everyone would expect it. Better than lava cake, at least.

  Bryant slipped into his chair midway through the entrée. “He’s here.” He snapped his napkin into his lap. Apologizing to the woman on his other side, he was sucked into a conversation about her powder room renovation.

  I couldn’t spot Philip. The room was crowded, and the black and white attire made everyone alike.

  “Miss?” A waiter lifted my plate. “Finished?”

  A microphone shrieked. Philip stood at the podium, tapping the mic. He was immaculate, hair smoothed back, tuxedo crisp. He wore his most charming mask.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors—I owe you all a sincere apology. You shouldn’t be listening to me right now. You should be watching my wonderful wife, Marina, the heart and soul of this institution. You’ve done nothing to deserve the downgrade in the program, and I can only assure you I’ll do my best to approximate her charms.” He paused for a bubble of laughter. “As you know, this institution has been Marina’s dear project for the last decade. But it’s only thanks to you that it’s grown from the valley’s minor art museum to one of the premiere centers for the study and preservation of indigenous art and culture in the West. Last week, the guest book included names from California, New York, London—even China.”

  The speech continued, wrapping saccharine thanks in statistics of the museum’s success, like the bacon-wrapped dates we’d had for an appetizer. After every thank-you, the guests applauded. Finally, Philip introduced the speaker, a professor from Mexico City. A thick gold bracelet cinched her bicep, offering a contrast to the staid wardrobes of the mostly white faces tipping up at her, listening, but also tapping their brûlées and stirring Splenda into coffee. She traced the story of the more valuable—culturally rich—pieces. Mostly things related to death: knives, spears, drums.

  Philip had taken a seat behind her. The spotlight on the podium left him in shadow.

  I touched Bryant’s hand. “Where was he?”

  “Not now,” he whispered. “I should check in with Jim. I’ll meet up with you later.” He dropped his napkin on his seat, and a waiter swooped in and folded it into a pyramid.

  “The knife handle depicts a coyote in the traditional pose, howling at the moon. Many cultures believe the coyote was present at the beginning of the world. The coyote is neither good nor evil, but simply wild.”

  Or beautiful, I thought, remembering Marina’s words. The lean silhouette darting across the dusky backyard, furtive and starved. I ran my fork across the tablecloth, tracing random lines like the wake of a boat.

  The woman was still speaking. “As important as preserving the pieces themselves—the clay, the fabric, or the ink—it’s vital to preserve the stories the cultures told themselves to understand the world.”

  I finished off my wine and knew I’d had too much. I went to the restroom, unsteady in my unfamiliar shoes. Golden lights bordered the mirrors and lit my skin with a healthy pink glow I suspected wasn’t accurate. I reapplied my lipstick and listened to the gossip in the stalls.

  “She’s always been a cold fish. Do you remember when I sat next to her at the Clarks’ Easter brunch? She didn’t say a word to me.”

  “You know I had to make some calls just to get invited to this?”

  “I bet she walked in on him.”

  “With someone younger.”

  “More flexible.”

  Cackles.

  “Form a line, plea
se,” the attendant said. Women streamed into the lounge. The lecture must have finished. I stared in the mirror, surprised by the deep red tint I’d drawn on my lips.

  In the ballroom, people milled around the empty tables. There was no sign of Philip. The perfume I’d touched to my wrists threw off a nauseating thick odor. I slipped out to the patio. A dance floor waited under strings of lights. The band had finished setting up, and the players were hanging around the bar, chatting up the bartenders I’d seen from Marina’s window.

  I sank into an uncomfortable wooden chair. The seat swayed like a raft.

  The smell of smoke slipped into the air. A man ashed his cigarette into the fountain as he headed to the bar. He wore a loose white shirt with no jacket. Whatever he said to the bartenders made them giggle. Turning away, he held a highball in each hand and the cigarette clamped between his teeth. Sloshing booze with every step, he headed right for me.

  It was the man who’d interrupted my conversation with the pushy woman. And, I squinted, who’d approached me by the Frowning Man.

  “Give me a hand?” he said.

  From politeness, I took the sweating glasses. He sat sideways in the chair next to mine, so his knees jutted toward me.

  I passed him the drinks.

  “Just one. I’m not greedy.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Come on, keep me company.” He shot a toothy grin, crunching on ice. “Nice party. They were giving away whole cases of Altoids in the bathroom.” He held his glass out, admiring the heavy base. He lit another cigarette off an orange plastic Bic.

  He seemed strangely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Maybe he was just a type I’d met too many of. His hair was combed back to add a couple inches of height to his face, and he’d stuck his orchid behind his ear. His shirt was baggy, a feat given that his shoulders were big enough to lift refrigerators. A gold chain glinted under his collar. His was definitely not among the names inscribed on Marina’s satiny invitations. Probably he’d come as some woman’s plus one, and she regretted her decision to bring him and abandoned him. He stood out like a tarantula on a dish of crème brûlée.