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Potboiler

Walking down the drizzly avenue, he had to admire how quickly she had deduced the truth. How did they do it, women? It was nothing short of prophecy. He wondered if that might make an interesting premise for a novel.

He slung a plastic basket in the crook of his elbow and wandered through the aisles, distractedly gathering the bachelor’s staples: milk, cereal, instant noodles. On his way to the register he passed the floral department and was inspired. A token—a warm hand extended—that was all that was necessary, wasn’t it? If Carlotta wanted to speak to him, she could pick up the phone just as easily as he could. He hoped she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could keep calm. After all, it was only a matter of time before she discovered he had taken the manuscript, and when she did, he would have no ready explanation. Indeed, he couldn’t understand it himself. Why would he, of all people, steal an unfinished novel? He had more than enough of those. But of course he had not known it was unfinished. He had taken it thinking it would wrap up nicely. He told himself that he’d merely wanted to finish reading it. But if so, why take the entire thing? Why not just the last seventy pages? What had he been thinking? He blamed fatigue, stress, grief, postcoital delirium. He argued to himself that he had not stolen but borrowed, and he decided that he would return the manuscript as soon as he had the chance. But if that had been his intention all along, why not leave a note? Why cover up his deed, as he had done, placing the old title page atop a pile of blank paper, so that anyone walking into the room would see nothing amiss? These were not the deeds of an innocent man.

He walked home. He put away the groceries. He avoided looking at the carry-on, which seemed to radiate with the aura of the stolen manuscript. Hoping to ease his nerves, he moved the bag to the back of the coat closet.

The website provided the option of including a card with his bouquet, but none of the choices seemed suitable. Neat descriptors—bereavement, thanks, love, apology—did not capture the complexity of the circumstances. In the end, he settled for “Just Because.”

21.

“They’re lovely, Arthur. Thank you. I’ve put them on my nightstand.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

“I’m so glad you stayed.”

“Me too.”

“But—you don’t have any regrets, do you? You shouldn’t,” she said, as if he had answered in the affirmative. “If there’s any lesson to be learned from all this, it’s that life is precious. We could both walk out of our houses tomorrow morning and get hit by a bus.”

“That would be some rotten luck.”

“Wouldn’t it, though. My point is we’re too old to get hung up. Be happy now, that’s what Bill always said. Well, that’s what I want.”

“By all means.”

“That applies to you, too, Arthur.”

“I am happy,” he said.

“Happier, then.”

“Everything in moderation,” he said.

“Funny man. When can I see you again?”

“Come anytime,” he said, instantly regretting the invitation. His apartment was unfit for a woman of any class, let alone Carlotta. “There’s a nice hotel a few blocks away,” he said.

“Really, Arthur. A hotel? Anyway, I hate planes, they’re so dehydrating. No, I insist: you must come here as soon as you possibly can, and I won’t let you argue with me.”

“Well—”

“I know it’s a long trip.”

“I have a job,” he said.

“Oh, who cares.”

It frustrated him, her refusal to acknowledge that forgoing work was not an option for most people. “It’s not that simple,” he said.

“And why not.”

“Do you know what a round-trip ticket costs?”

She whooped with laughter. “That’s your excuse? You silly man, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

The echo of his argument with Bill was unmistakable, and Pfefferkorn fought to suppress his anger and shame. “Absolutely not,” he said.

“Arthur,” she said, “please. There’s no need to be prideful.”

There was a long silence.

“I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”