The Half Life Read Free Page B

laced with silver, tall and rangy, wearing his suit and lace-up wing tips like a costume, like a boy dressed up for Halloween in Dad’s going-to-the-office clothes. He pointed at Piper’s wallet. “You got an American Express card?”
    She nodded. This man, she knew, would never tease her for firing people for a living. This man would understand the demands of her job, the way she had to dive into different corporations with different cultures all over the world. Unlike her husband, this man would be impressed.
    â€œCall the concierge,” the guy advised. “Tell them you’re stuck in Philadelphia . . .” She saw his mouth pucker as he spoke her city’s name, which made her smile—people had such prejudice about Philadelphia. “And you need a room for the night.”
    She fumbled for her phone, her fingers brushing, once more, at Tosh’s envelope, when the man spoke again. “Hey, how ’bout we share a cab? You can call them from there. I want to get going.” He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, clearly eager to be on the move. Piper wondered whether he was an athlete, a runner or maybe a rugby player. She imagined him in cleats and white cotton shorts that left his strong legs bare, racing up and down a field, calling to his teammates. Tosh swam, a solitary, silent activity that suited him perfectly. He’d cut through the water like one of his ownmoving installations, graceful and absolutely alone. But this guy . . .
    He held out his hand with an appealing smile. No ring. “Mark Bancroft.”
    Actually, I live here
, she said in her head.
And I have to get home.
But then she realized that she did not in fact have to go home. Her mother would be fine. Nola would be fine. In fact, it might be more disruptive if Piper appeared, only to leave again. And Tosh . . .
    Without letting the thought continue, she took Mark’s hand. “Piper Garroway,” she said, even though she hadn’t been Piper Garroway for sixteen years . . . and then, laptop bag swinging briskly, she followed the man through the lounge’s sliding doors, down the escalator, and out into the cool spring night. “Volcano,” he said, shaking his head. “Volcano,” she repeated, and surprised herself by laughing.
    She thought that she knew how Mark Bancroft might imagine their evening would proceed. She’d seen enough films and TV shows about business travelers and the trouble they got into on the road . . . and although she would have never admitted it, watched the occasional pornographic movie, alone in a hotel room during one of her long business trips. There would be a getting-to-know conversation in the cab, coy glances in the check-in line, and then, after they’d been to their respective rooms, they’d meet for a drink in the hotel bar. Drinks would turn into dinner . . . or maybe just an invitation to come upstairs, so he could, say, show her something on his laptop. Then, in the semidarkness of a strange room, he would grip her shoulders, lightly tracing her lips with one fingertip, before leaning in and kissing her.
    For a moment she let herself imagine that it was Tosh in that room . . . Tosh, and not a stranger; Tosh meeting her at the Four Seasons the night she came back from Paris. “I’m sorry,” he would say, easing her back on the bed. “I love you,” he’d tell her, his talented fingers working at the hooks and buttons of her clothes. “I want us to be a family again.” Then, without intending it, she found herself thinking of a night with Tosh—a night
without
Tosh, really—three weeks earlier. At ten o’clock, after Nola had made her requisite three trips downstairs to ask for a drink of water and another kiss and an escort to the potty, Piper had put on her prettiest (and only) negligee, short and white and sheer, with a bodice made of lace panels. In the bedroom where she slept alone,