Chapter 5: The Drive Home Alone
I didn't go back to the table to say goodbye.
I slipped the envelope into my clutch and held it tight against my body, the gold metal cool against my palm, and walked the side edge of the ballroom toward the double doors. A server was coming in with a tray of champagne flutes and I had to step aside to let him pass. At a round table near the wall, two women I didn't know were standing with their glasses half raised, watching me. I felt the wine on my dress before I saw them see it. That dark red stain on the pale blue, stiff now as it dried, and the little smear I knew was still on my cheek. No one stopped me. That was the point.
The hallway outside the ballroom was quieter, carpeted in a dull gold pattern, sconces humming low. I could still hear the band playing inside, something soft and practiced. I didn't look back.
The night air in the parking lot hit my shoulders when I pushed through the hotel doors. It was late August and the heat had finally broken. The lot was full, rows of cars under bright white lights, the asphalt still holding the day's warmth under my shoes. A valet in a red vest asked if I needed my car brought around and I shook my head. I knew where I'd parked. My old sedan was near the back by the highway fence, under a light that buzzed.
I unlocked it and sat for a second before I started it. My hands were shaking. I set the clutch on the passenger seat and wiped my cheek with a tissue from the console. The tissue came away pink. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My hair was still neat, my pearl earrings still in, and that stain was exactly what it had been an hour ago. I started the car.
I pulled out onto the highway and the hotel lights fell away behind me. The road out there was four lanes and then two, past the gas station and the diner with its neon sign still on, past the church parking lot where I'd taught Sunday school for twelve years. I didn't turn on the radio. I could hear the tires on the county road after I exited, that smoother, darker stretch where there were no streetlights, just my headlights and the reflectors along the shoulder.
The house was fifteen minutes from the hotel. It was a small white house with gray shutters on a half-acre lot, the one I'd bought with my husband in 1998 and kept after he passed. When my son finished college and couldn't afford rent, I put his name on the deed with mine so he could build credit. We understood each other. He'd live there while he got started, I'd keep my room and my kitchen, we'd share the work. For seven years I paid the mortgage out of my teacher retirement when his work was thin. I paid for the new roof three summers ago. I painted the porch myself. I planted the hydrangeas along the fence that he always forgot to water. It was our home, both our names on the county records, both our mail in the same box.
I pulled into the driveway and the motion light came on. His truck wasn't there. Of course it wasn't. He was still at the hotel, still in that dark suit, still standing somewhere near her in that white lace dress. I sat in the car a moment longer and looked at the house. One light was on in the front window, the one I always left on. The wedding was still going on without me.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of coffee from that morning. I locked the front door behind me and set my keys down on the little table. I carried the clutch to the kitchen. The house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming.
I opened the clutch and took out the envelope. It was still sealed where I'd pressed it closed. I didn't open it again. I needed it to stay flat, to stay clean. I opened the top drawer next to the sink, the one where I kept the checkbook and the house papers, and I slid the envelope to the bottom, under the manila folder with the property tax receipts. I closed the drawer. It made a soft thud.
In the bedroom I turned on the lamp and stood in front of the closet mirror. The pale blue dress looked different here, under the plain light. The stain had darkened to almost brown at the edges. I reached back for the zipper and pulled it down slowly. The fabric stuck a little where the wine had soaked through to the lining. I stepped out of it and didn't drop it on the floor.
May you like
I got a clean hanger from the closet and hung the dress up carefully. I didn't try to wash it. I'd learned a long time ago not to wash something you might need to show somebody later. I zipped it into the clear garment bag I used for storage and hung it on the back of the closet door where I could see it.
I put on my old cotton nightgown and washed my face at the bathroom sink until the water ran clear and the smear on my cheek was gone. When I came back to the kitchen I put my hands on the counter and looked at that closed drawer. The envelope was in there, unsigned. The house was still mine and his. And for tonight, at least, I was alone in it.
