The Rome Affair

“Are you ready for that benefit coming up?” I asked Nick.

I loved afternoons like this, conversations like this. They made me forget what I’d done in Rome and how I’d never been able to confess.

Nick gave a rueful laugh. “The printers haven’t done the programs yet, and of course that’s my department.”

“Well, you’re on the board now,” I said in a teasing tone. “You’ll have to handle it.”

Nick had finally made it onto the board, but he was essentially a pledge in a grown-up fraternity. As low man on the totem pole and someone trying to make it as an official member, he’d been given much of the unglamorous work that went into planning the board’s benefits and charity balls.

“Why did you ever let me join?” he said.

I turned, a wet cotton ball in my hand, and smirked. We both knew he loved being on the board. He loved the kudos it brought him from the docs at his office and the new friends it brought into our lives. The limelight he’d grown up in was back—albeit a tiny, probationary light. The truth was we were both on trial for the board. As a result, we were busier than ever with dinners and cocktail parties and lavish benefits. It tired me more easily than it did Nick, who preferred to gripe grudgingly and enjoy every second. And ultimately, seeing him pleased made me more happy than anything else.

As I turned back toward the photo, my eyes landed on the wall, on Roberto’s painting, still hung where Nick had insisted, right above my table. My stomach swooped and sank, as it did every time I saw it.

I’d told Nick the painting was a souvenir. He took that to mean it was a symbol of a memorable Roman trip, and he wanted such a thing in the new room he’d created. But to me, it was mostly symbolic of a grave mistake. The fact that my husband had put it there tortured me.

Every once in a great while, though, when I was able to push past the guilt, the painting was a symbol of sex and confidence and desire, all of which I’d lacked for a while before Rome. But now Nick and I had those things again. The sex was passionate and the ghosts were gone. It was as if my night with Roberto had driven away the woman Nick slept with in Napa. I knew that such a thought was somehow sick and wrong—what kind of person needed a matching bout of infidelity to cancel out the other?—but the effect couldn’t be denied. I no longer thought of the woman as a goddess. I no longer felt insecure or bruised. I realized how much I loved this man, my husband, and because of that, we’d grown assured again in our relationship.

“Nick,” I said impulsively.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I want to take down this painting.”

“Your Rome painting?”

I nodded.

“It looks great in here. Why?”

I stared at its slashes of red and gazed at the girl, who seemed to be me, in the middle of it. My throat threatened to close. “I just don’t like it anymore. I don’t need it.”

When Kit and I had returned from Rome, I agonized over whether to tell Nick about Roberto. Nick hadn’t told me about his affair until a few months after Napa, but the point was he had eventually. He’d had enough respect for me, and for us, to come clean with his sins. In those weeks after Rome, I understood how impossibly difficult that must have been for him, and I cherished him all the more for it. But I found I couldn’t do the same. Not because I didn’t respect him as much, or our marriage. On the contrary, I adored him; I adored us, the way we were now, again. It was simply that we’d already been through too much. Another transgression would splinter us irrevocably.

It sounded like a cop-out to my own ears, yet in my gut I believed it to be true. And so I kept my mouth shut, and a little piece of my heart grew black from the secret, the lack of fresh air. But it was my fault, I reckoned, my cross, and I was bearing it willingly. I didn’t need the painting to remind me.

“What will we put there?” Nick asked.

“My photo paintings. I’ll be done with this one by the end of the week, and I know I’ll get it right this time.”

“Out with the old, in with the new?”

“Exactly.” If the painting was gone, maybe I could forget. Maybe I could forgive myself.

Nick stood from the chair, the newspapers crinkling. “Let me help you, then.”

Together, we leaned over the high table and each took a bottom corner of the canvas. Carefully, we lifted it higher, then together we pulled it away from the wall.

“There,” Nick said.

“Yeah.” I grinned. The wall looked clean now, ready for the future. I stowed the canvas in the closet.

Nick crossed the room and hugged me. I pressed myself into him, my arms around his back and felt myself stir. “Want to go upstairs?”

He groaned softly. “Absolutely.”

The phone rang. “Don’t answer it.” I ran my tongue up the side of his neck.

“Let me make sure it’s not the service.” Nick grabbed the phone off the arm of the big chair and looked at the display. “Kit,” he said.

I took his hand and began leading him up the stairs. “Definitely don’t answer it.”

I hadn’t spoken to Kit very often since we returned. She spent much of her time with her mom or on the phone with Alain. But the truth also was that Kit made me think of Rome, and I wanted to forget it. In the same way I’d wanted the painting out of sight, I was inadvertently avoiding Kit.

Nick and I climbed the basement stairs, passed through our living room which was overly warm with late-afternoon sun, and went up the stairs to our bedroom.

At the foot of the bed, we kissed hard, our hands clawing at our clothes.

The phone rang again. “Sorry,” Nick mumbled. He twisted away and glanced at the bedroom phone on the nightstand. “Kit again.”

I lightly bit his collarbone. “Ignore it.”

But a minute later, the phone rang again.

“You better get it,” Nick said, slightly panting, his shirt off, his pants halfway down.

I groaned but grabbed the phone and answered it, holding my discarded T-shirt over my breasts.

“Rachel?” Kit said.

“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”

She broke into sobs.

“Kit, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my mom,” she said, still crying. “It’s everything.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital.”

In the parking lot of Chicago General Hospital, the sun beat on new asphalt, making my shoes stick as I hurried from my car. Inside the doors, the arctic blast of air-conditioning made me shiver.

I wrapped my arms around myself, realizing I had no idea where I was supposed to go.

“Cancer center,” said the woman at the information desk, handing me a map of the hospital campus. Chicago General was a vast complex, only a block from Lake Michigan, and although my husband was on staff, I rarely had occasion to visit.

I headed back outside, into the stifling afternoon. Using the map, I tracked down the cancer center and the chemotherapy unit, where Kit’s mom, Leslie Kernaghan, was supposed to be. And there was Kit, standing outside a glass-walled room, small tears skimming her features.

She smiled bleakly when she saw me. Her face was splotchy and her eyes were pink and raw, making their purplish hue sharper. Her red hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d just been roused from sleep.

I hugged her, then brushed her tears away with my knuckles. “What’s going on?” I looked inside the glass wall and saw Mrs. Kernaghan, or at least a withered, gray version of her, sleeping on a hospital gurney, tubes in her nose, IVs in her arm.

Kit took a deep breath, which caught in her lungs. “She needs this procedure tomorrow. It’s a new radiation treatment combined with chemo. It’s experimental, but it’s her best chance to survive. The thing is, the insurance isn’t covering anything anymore.” Kit stopped and her shoulders shuddered. More tears streamed from her eyes. “But Alain told me he’d pay for it.”

“Oh, how sweet,” I said.

“He said he’d wire the money right away. We didn’t get it. Then he told me yesterday he was getting on a plane. He was going to come here for the procedure, and he was going to pay for it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it sounded great,” Kit said bitterly.

I could guess the rest. Situations like this, where men disappointed on grand scales, were always happening to Kit. “He didn’t come.”

She shook her head. “He said he had an embassy function he couldn’t miss, and there were problems transferring money overseas. When my mom found out, she started panicking. You should have seen her, Rach. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were bulging.”

I put my arm around her.

“She’s stabilized now,” Kit continued. “I talked the doctor into doing the radiation tomorrow, but they’ll never let us do chemo without payment. It might be the only thing that can save her.”

Kit started to sob—quietly and desperately—with her hand against the glass wall, as if to touch her mom.

I tightened my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Honey, I’m sorry. Doesn’t the Chicago General Board have a fund to help cancer patients?”

Kit gave a curt shake of her head. “They helped us a year ago, when mom was having surgery, but they cut us off.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “There’s a cap on how much they’ll give one person, I guess. We don’t qualify anymore.” She turned to face me. “What am I going to do?”

“Could you get a second mortgage on her condo?”

“It’s an apartment. She rents.”

“I could get Nick to talk to the board. He’s a member now, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, he’s what they call an associate member. He hasn’t officially made it yet. But I’ll talk to him, and maybe the board can help you out again.”

“That’ll take too long. We need help now.”

“Then we’ll give you the money.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. I should have thought of it sooner. How much is it?”

“Three grand.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“I know it’s a lot, but…” She looked at her mom again, and her face twisted in agony.

“It’s fine. I’ll talk to Nick, and I’ll come back—”

“No, don’t,” Kit said. “Please don’t tell Nick.”

“Why?”

“I’m embarrassed. And my mother is, too. She hates being a charity case. Please.”

I thought about our finances. We had joint checking and saving accounts, as well as joint investments. If I took money from any of those, Nick would notice. But I also had my own savings, started long before Nick and I were together.

Kit sank her face into her hands, her shoulders trembling. “I just don’t know how much more I can take.”

I kissed her on the head. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you the money. I’ll go talk to your mom now, and then I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning, okay?”

She raised her head and gave me a fierce hug. “You are a good friend.” She said it in a way that implied she hadn’t been so sure about that a moment before.

On Monday morning, I went to work at seven. With the office cool and still empty, I checked my e-mail, returned calls from Friday and made appointments to call on an architectural firm the next day. As other employees trickled in, I checked my watch, waiting for nine o’clock, when my bank would open its doors and I could get Kit the money she needed. Because I was getting the funds from a savings account, I couldn’t write a check.

At five minutes to nine, my boss, Laurence Connelly, stepped into my office. His suit coat was already off, and he wore his usual suspenders, a too-shiny pink tie and a smirk. “How’s it going, Blakely?”

“Just fine.” I tried a smile, but since I’d gotten back from Rome without the Rolan & Cavalli account, things had been icy between Laurence and me. Every time Laurence tossed it in my face, which was often, I was reminded not only of my failure at the meeting but how I’d failed my marriage, as well.

“How was your weekend?” I asked.

He ignored the pleasantry. “Are you seeing the Baxter Company soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Get them to up their service agreement. We need that cash. Got it?” I knew what he was saying behind the obvious words—salespeople who didn’t bring in that cash could be fired. He’d already let four people go this year.

I stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I know that, Laurence. That’s why I’m going to see them.”

“And what about Thompson & Sons?”

“I’m calling on them today.” I tossed my purse over my shoulder and reached for my sunglasses at the edge of my desk.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bank.”

He crossed his arms. “You can do your banking at lunch.”

I thought of Kit’s mom, tubes extending from her arms, like a battered boat tethered to a dock. “It’s important personal business. I’ll be back soon.”

“This is the business you need to be concerned about.” He pointed to the floor with a stubby, manicured finger.

I moved toward the doorway, hoping he’d step back. “I made my numbers last month.” Translation: Back off, blowhard.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re doing too well this month.”

“And that’s why I’m seeing the Thompson people today and Baxter tomorrow.”

He wasn’t moving. I knew Kit was at Chicago General, pacing, waiting for me, while her mother waited, too.

I angled a shoulder and pushed past him, trying to ignore the heavy, musky cologne he apparently thought was sexy. “See you later, Laurence.”

Outside on Monroe Street, the August air lay like steam over the Loop. People rushed for the doors of buildings—and for the air-conditioning—the same way we all rushed for warm shelter in the winter. I got in a cab and directed the driver north to Lincoln Park Savings & Loan, the small community bank where I’d done my banking since college and where Nick and I had opened accounts after we got engaged. We no longer lived in the neighborhood, and it was rare that either of us actually had to visit the branch.

I stepped inside the chilly confines of the bank and waited in line for one of the three tellers who appeared unruffled by the fifteen or so people already waiting for their services.

Ten minutes later, I finally made it to a teller.

“How can I help you?” asked a young man wearing a white shirt and blue tie.

“I need a money order for three thousand made out to Katherine Kernaghan.”

I thought of Nick then. I should tell him—I should come clean about something—but this was merely aid for a friend who desperately needed it, with money that was truly mine, which I’d earned. And Kit had asked me not to mention it.

The rationalizations didn’t help much. It only reminded me of the other, larger, secret I’d kept from him.

Two minutes later, I was in another stuffy, airless cab, speeding toward Chicago General.

Kit had changed clothes from the day before, but she was standing in the same place, her hand on the glass window.

I stood next to her and looked inside. Her mom was being tended to by a thermometer-wielding nurse in pink scrubs.

“How’s she doing?” I said.

“Same.” Kit’s voice was devoid of emotion.

“Are you working this week?”

“Goodman gave me the week off.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” Neither of us moved. “Were you able to get the money?”

“Of course.” I handed her a white envelope with the money order inside. I felt like I was doing something illicit.

Kit took it and put it in her purse. “It’s unfair, isn’t it?” she said, still looking at her mom. The nurse had finished up, and signaled Kit that she could come in. Kit barely nodded in return.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s entirely unfair.”

“Some people get nothing in life. They never get a goddamned thing. And then other people get it all, no matter what they do.”

“Yeah,” I said, not exactly sure what she meant.

She turned to me. Her eyes were clear again, not red like last night. “Like you, Golden Child. Everything is perfect for you.”

I opened my mouth. I was about to remind her of Nick’s affair, of my own, of my parents’ divorce and my sliding status at work, of how I’d thought I’d be a mother by this time in my life but how my marital problems had derailed that plan. But the fact was, despite it all, I knew those were not the world’s worst problems. I knew how fortunate I was. So I just nodded.

“Yep,” Kit said, with bitterness in her tone. She turned back to the window. “Everything works out for you.”

I felt stung by her words, but I knew she was hurting and scared, so I said nothing. I went inside the glass door and said hello to her mother. And then I left. In the cab, heading toward the Loop, I realized that Kit hadn’t thanked me.

7

Oftentimes, when I think back about Kit, I try to put my finger on the exact minute it all began to crumble and slide. When an earthquake happens, there’s always a quiet rumble that starts the disastrous movement. Sometimes I think that rumble might have gone as far back as our childhood together. Other times I think maybe it was the moment at the hospital, outside her mother’s room. But no matter where it started or why, I can always pinpoint the moment I knew with certainty the slide had begun—the night of the Weatherbys’ dinner party.

We’d been told it was “a get-together with just a few board members,” and being a Monday night I’d envisioned pizza and beer. I should have known better. The members of the board always lived large.

“A toast to one more month of summer,” said Joanne Weatherby that night. “And to Nick and Rachel.” She raised a glittering champagne glass.

The dinner crowd of twelve responded with clinking glasses and inquiring smiles sent our way.

“Eat, eat,” Joanne said, taking her seat. She was a tiny, blond woman and had been the executive director of the board for twenty-five years. This impressed me as much as her gargantuan, two-story, candlelit Michigan Avenue apartment, her designer clothes and the fact that, from what I’d heard, neither Joanne nor her husband had ever held a job.

“If I could just say a word,” Nick said, standing and holding up his glass. “Rachel and I are very glad to have met you all. We feel fortunate to call you friends.” He paused to take in the nods from the group, then raised his glass a little higher. “To the success of the board.”

The group raised their glasses once again. “To the board!”

When Nick had taken his seat once more—on one of the white, silk-covered chairs I was terrified of spilling on—and appetizer dishes of caviar had been served, all eyes fell on us. Again.

“So, Rachel, where do you two live in the city?” asked Valerie Renworth, a thin, raven-haired woman with round green eyes.

I should have anticipated such a question. After all, this was what it had been like since Nick made the board—dinners and charity balls and lots and lots of questions for the new couple. It was as if Nick and I were getting our fifteen minutes of fame in a certain, tony Chicago crowd. But we both knew this was a trial. We hadn’t been truly accepted yet.

Unfortunately, I was in mid-bite when Valerie asked her question, and the saltiness of the caviar caught in my throat. I coughed it down, tried for a discreet sip from my water glass and answered as fast as I could. “Bloomingdale Avenue. Do you know it?”

Valerie shook her head.

“Well, not many people do know it,” I said, warming to my topic. “It’s this tiny street south of Armitage. It runs only for a few blocks alongside an old train line. We’ve got a little bungalow there.”

“It sounds charming.” Coming from someone else, this could have been a backhanded slight, but Valerie had an easy, open way about her, and I smiled in return. I suppose she was used to people liking her. She was married to Charles Renworth, a man I had yet to meet since he was often out of town on business, but whom everyone knew owned half the commercial real estate in the Midwest.

“It is charming,” I said, glancing at Nick. “My lovely husband built me an artist’s studio in our basement. It’s the perfect house now.”

“Except for the cab situation,” Nick said. “In terms of taxi availability, we might as well live in Gurnee.”

Everyone laughed. I shot a confused look at Nick. Like me, he rarely said anything bad about our adopted street. Bloomingdale was like a member of the family, whose faults would never be discussed in public.

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