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  Naveen, who was facing Amithi, caught sight of her. “There you are, love,” he said.

  His response made her suspicious. Although she and Naveen sometimes used terms of endearment privately, they never did so in public.

  “Please do not stop your conversation because of me,” she said as she sat back down. “I think you were talking about a Paula someone?”

  “She was a classmate of ours,” Naveen explained.

  “She was more than that to Naveen,” Mel said with a boorish laugh.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Naveen looked down into his scotch and swirled the melting ice cubes.

  Amithi had known Naveen dated an American girl from his class before they were engaged. He’d told her as much before the wedding. Perhaps this Paula person they were talking about was she. But what Amithi did not understand was why Mel would be bringing her up now. There were so many questions she wanted—needed—to ask Naveen, but she would have to wait. Personal matters were not to be discussed in public.

  During the main course, Amithi ate little of the beautiful food in front of her: pan-fried halibut with lemon butter, whipped potatoes, and slender asparagus. What concerned her was that Naveen, too, seemed distracted. She told herself not to worry, that whoever Paula was, she was in the past. Amithi and Naveen had been married for over forty years. She tried to relax and enjoy the chocolate tart that the waiter placed in front of her.

  During the taxi ride back to their hotel, Naveen kept up a ceaseless commentary on the people they’d seen. He expressed surprise at those who had been successful despite their poor grades, and disappointment at those like Mel who, in his opinion, had wasted brilliant minds on making quick money with big corporations instead of contributing to scholarship.

  At the first pause in his diatribe, Amithi asked, “And what about Paula?”

  Naveen turned toward her. A passing car illuminated just one side of his face, but Amithi could see surprise in his expression. “What about her?”

  “Well, why was Mel talking about her tonight? Is she the girl you dated before we were engaged?”

  He paused before answering, “Yes. I told you about her, remember? It was never serious. I knew I couldn’t marry her.”

  “Because she was American?”

  “Not only that. She was a radical, always getting involved in some sort of political struggle or another. I suppose you’d call her a hippie. My family never would have approved of her, and I never would have put them through it. I suppose I was rebelling a bit, being so far from home. But it was just a fling.”

  A fling. Amithi frowned. She had trouble imagining her serious, professorial husband participating in a fling. A thousand thoughts spun around in her head. She’d been so shy and inexperienced when she and Naveen got married. She wondered if Paula, the radical hippie, had been a better lover. She wondered if Naveen still thought about her. Or worse, if he still saw her.

  “Are you still in touch with her?” Amithi asked.

  “I see her from time to time at conferences and such.” Naveen put his arm around Amithi. “I know what you’re thinking and you needn’t worry. She is my professional peer, nothing more.”

  Amithi’s shoulders tensed at his touch. “Mel made it sound as if you still know her quite well.”

  Naveen put his hands back in his own lap. “Mel likes to exaggerate, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’re right about that. But why have you never mentioned Paula to me? At least, not since we were young.”

  “Because she hardly seemed worth mentioning,” Naveen said, meeting her gaze.

  Amithi searched the brown eyes she’d trusted since she was seventeen years old and found nothing there to doubt. “You’re sure, then, that you’ve told me everything?” she asked.

  “There is nothing else to know.”

  Back at the hotel, Amithi realized she was exhausted from worrying and making small talk all evening. She imagined that being tired had a lot to do with the way she’d reacted to Mel’s crass comments. She got into bed and closed her eyes while Naveen leaned back on a pillow, reading a scientific journal.

  Just before Amithi dozed off, she remembered that she still had her rhinestone necklace on. She unclasped it and set it on the nightstand. As she did, she felt a hot hand on her arm.

  “What is it?” she asked, turning to Naveen. He was clutching his chest and wincing as if in pain. “Are you sick?”

  “I feel terrible,” he said. “But I am not sick.”

  Amithi realized, then, that Naveen had not told her everything.

  “Paula,” she said.

  Naveen nodded. His face contorted to show every wrinkle—most of them earned during the years of their marriage.

  “I knew it.” Amithi jumped up from the bed, as if touching the same surface on which Naveen sat would burn her. “How long has it been going on?”

  “It is not going on anymore,” Naveen said. “That is why I did not go to the Miami conference this year. I did not want to see her.”

  Amithi’s throat swelled with anger and tears that she refused to cry. She remembered thinking it had been strange that Naveen had skipped his trip to Florida that spring for the annual biochemistry symposium he always attended. She remembered, too, all the times she’d offered to go with him, wishing for a sunny respite from spring in Wisconsin, which was cold more often than not. Year after year, Naveen had discouraged her from coming, promising that it would be busy and boring.

  Now Amithi knew why he’d have had so little time for her. It was not that he’d been spending all of his time at lectures and events. He’d been spending time with another woman.

  “You did not answer my question,” she said, surprised at how cold her voice sounded despite the anger boiling inside of her. “How long has this all been going on?”

  Naveen exhaled. “Remember that time you took Jayana to India when she was a baby and I stayed home to—”

  “To go to the Miami symposium,” Amithi said, finishing for him. “You said you were presenting a paper that year.”

  “I did present a paper that year,” he said. “Paula came up to me afterward to congratulate me on my research findings. I hadn’t seen her in years, and we had a drink to catch up and—”

  “Enough. I can guess what happened next.” Amithi put a hand to her stomach, which seemed to drop to her feet.

  She remembered the trip to India that Naveen was talking about, back when Jayana was a year old. She’d carried the restless child from one relative’s house to another, not just on her side of the family, but on Naveen’s side as well. She’d lain awake in the spare bedrooms of his distant uncles and cousins. She’d endured their parenting advice and answered their tiresome, repetitive questions. And at the very same time, Naveen had begun to cheat on her. Not just with any woman, but someone who was his educational equal. Amithi wondered if Naveen thought her stupid. She had never even finished her BA, let alone a PhD.

  “So you have been seeing one another for more than thirty years?” Amithi asked, almost unable to get the words out.

  “No!” Naveen cried. “No. After that one time, Paula stopped attending the Miami symposium for several years, even though she lives in Florida. We both felt terrible about what had happened and agreed it should never happen again. But then she started coming again when she got the tenured position in Gainesville. There was a fair amount of pressure on her, I think, from other faculty to go and to present . . .”

  Amithi couldn’t believe it. Naveen was making excuses, not only for himself, but for Paula, too. “Just because she was there, Naveen, does not mean you needed to sleep with her.”

  “I know,” he said in an almost inaudible voice. “So that was about ten years ago, and it’s been every year since then, up until just a few months ago, when I told her that it was over and I wasn’t coming.”

  Amithi was afraid to ask her next question but had to know the whole story, now that she was this far in. “Was it just in Mi
ami, then, or did you see her other times, other places?”

  “There were other times, I’m ashamed to say. Sometimes she would meet me in Chicago, when I was there for work. She even came to Madison once. She came to speak on a panel and stayed in a hotel—”

  Amithi gasped. “How could you?” she shouted. “It is bad enough that you cheated—and for so long! But to carry on with her in our home—”

  Naveen shook his head. “I never brought her to our house.”

  “It does not matter,” Amithi said. “Madison is our home. We have built our life there. As far as I am concerned, you brought her to our home.”

  It occurred to Amithi that other hotel guests might hear her. Ordinarily, she would have cared about a thing like that. Not tonight.

  “It is terrible, I know. Unforgivable.” Naveen shook his head so forcefully it reminded Amithi of a dog shaking water off its back. If only it were that easy to rid oneself of the past.

  “Why have you never told me?” Amithi asked. She clutched the folds of her nightgown as if holding on to one small, tangible thing could keep the rest of her life from disintegrating. “Did you think I was too dense to figure out the truth?”

  Tears now flowed down Naveen’s cheeks. Amithi felt no sympathy for him. In fact, this broken, whimpering man bore no resemblance to the husband she thought she’d grown to love.

  “I knew it was a mistake, all along,” he said.

  “You had the chance to stop it, though, after that first time.” She pressed her lips together, a line against the rage inside of her.

  The sound that came out of Naveen’s mouth was a cross between a cry and a whisper. “Yes.”

  Yes had always been one of Amithi’s favorite English words. It had such a crisp, uplifting sound. In this context, though, its indisputable finality rang in her ears.

  “How could you have kept such a secret all these years?”

  “Because I was a coward.” He would not look her in the eye.

  Amithi walked over to the door of the hotel room and opened it. “Get out,” she said.

  “But where will I go?”

  “I do not care. Get your own room. Or sleep in the car. Just get out.”

  Naveen got up and shuffled toward the door with his head down. Before he stepped into the hallway, he lifted his eyes and looked at Amithi. “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

  Amithi shut the door and locked it without answering. She did not get back into bed. Instead, she turned off the light and sat in an upholstered chair near the window without opening the drapes. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. Finally, when she could sit there no longer, Amithi left the hotel room. She walked down the empty hallway and took the elevator down to the parking garage.

  As she drove westward on I-90 toward Madison in the dark hours of early morning, memories of her married life flickered at fast-forward speed in the back of her mind. The holidays, the birthdays. The endless shirts ironed, the countless meals cooked.

  It had all been a lie.

  Chapter 7

  INVENTORY ITEM: shoes, formal

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1960s

  CONDITION: fair; some wear on bottoms and insoles

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Red satin d’Orsay pumps with closed heel and toe.

  SOURCE: Brought in by a law professor from the university

  April

  ON A JUNE MORNING two weeks into her internship, Violet handed April the keys to her Jeep.

  “Do you think you could go pick something up for me on the north side of town?” she asked. “A lady is moving her mom into a nursing home and she posted pictures on Craigslist of a whole box full of amazing jewelry she’s getting rid of—enameled brooches and big, mod beads. I called ahead and the lady said we can have it for free as long as we come get it today.”

  “I’d be happy to, but is it okay if I take the bus?” April asked, embarrassed to have to remind Violet of her driving phobia.

  “Right.” Now it was Violet’s turn to look embarrassed. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t drive.” She took back the keys. “Forget about it. I’ll go get the stuff. Do you think you could keep an eye on things here for half an hour or so while I’m gone?”

  “Of course,” April said, glad to finally be entrusted with something other than polishing old silverware or ironing pleated skirts.

  While Violet was gone, a middle-aged woman in yoga pants and a zip-up pink sweatshirt came into the shop and struggled her way to the register with a heap of velvet and sequins in her arms. She deposited them on the counter with an exaggerated exhale.

  “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?” April asked.

  “I need more room in my closet.” The woman repositioned a piece of highlighted blond hair that had escaped from her ponytail. “So I decided it’s time to finally get rid of all my old theater stuff.”

  April held up a garment from the top of the pile—a burgundy, empire-waisted gown with gold trim on the bodice.

  “That was from when I played Juliet,” the woman said in a wistful voice.

  “You’re an actress?” April tried to picture her on a stage, commanding the attention of an entire audience. It was a stretch.

  “Was,” the woman replied. “In New York, in my twenties. Then I moved to Madison after I got married. My husband landed a tenure-track position to teach history. It was the only offer he had, so we couldn’t pass it up.”

  “I can’t believe you got to keep the costumes.”

  “I usually didn’t.” The woman ran her hand over the gauzy skirt of what looked like a dance costume. “I got to be friends with the costume designer, though. She convinced the head of the theater company to let me have a few pieces as a good-bye gift when I left New York.”

  The sadness in the woman’s eyes bothered April. She wished she could offer some bright and hopeful words but didn’t know what to say. “We have a couple decent theater groups in town,” she said after a pause. “Have you ever acted in any of their plays?”

  “I auditioned for a few things when I first got here, and even landed the part of Eliza Doolittle in a production of Pygmalion—God, that would have been fun.” The woman shook her head. “I had to back out, though, because my youngest had a lot of ear infections when he was a baby. I missed too many rehearsals for doctor appointments and visits to the ER. It wasn’t fair to the rest of the cast, so I had to quit.”

  April wondered why the university-professor husband couldn’t take the kid to the doctor once in a while but didn’t say anything. Insulting customers by judging their spouses was probably not good for business. “So are you looking to sell these?”

  “Uh-huh. I’d been saving them for my kids to play dress-up with someday. My three sons don’t seem to be interested, though. At this point, the stuff is just taking up precious space in my closet.”

  “It will probably take me a while to look through everything. It’s my first time in the shop without my boss here. Do you want me to give you a call and you can come back when I’m done?”

  “Oh, I’ll just stay and browse. My husband’s got the kids for once, and I want to stretch this time out as long as I can. If I go home, someone will need a ride somewhere, or need me to make a sandwich or wash a baseball jersey. I’d rather just stay here while I’m free.”

  “I’ll need to check your ID,” April said. “We need to see ID for anyone who sells items to the store—I know that much.”

  The woman dug around in her canvas tote bag and produced an overstuffed vinyl wallet. She removed her license and set it down with an exaggerated sigh. “I hate that picture. I wish I could have a hair and makeup crew now, like I did for all those shows.”

  April looked from the picture to the woman and back again, and read the name: Lane Lawton. She copied down Lane’s name, driver’s license number, and birth date. The photograph, despite the too-bright lighting, showed a woman with a confident, commanding smile. In the smile, April could see a hint of the dramatic diva that didn’t come across in the role of
frazzled mom that Lane seemed to be playing right now.

  April handed back the driver’s license. “Thank you. If you just want to take a look around, I’ll call you over when I’m done going through everything.”

  Lane walked to the back of the shop to study the purses and shoes. April put her hands on her growing stomach and tried to calm the anxiety fluttering around inside her. Or maybe it was the baby she felt. Either way, April wondered what motherhood would do to her, if it could make a New York actress leave the stage to make sandwiches and drive carpools.

  Except that April didn’t drive. She was embarrassed that her fear had gotten in the way of her doing her job duties that morning. She knew she’d have to get back behind the wheel eventually, probably before the baby was born. But every time she sat inside her mother’s Toyota parked in the garage—the car her mom didn’t crash—her hands shook and she couldn’t breathe.

  She looked down at Lane’s heap of costumes. It spanned many places and times. There was a denim dress with a cowgirl vibe and a blue ball gown with petticoats, reminiscent of the Civil War. April wondered again how Lane could have given up acting. What a gift, to be able to morph into someone else, even if only for a couple of hours under hot lights.

  April realized that Violet hadn’t really told her much about pricing. She looked for Violet’s leather-bound inventory book to try to get an idea of how much she should pay Lane for her items. She spotted it on the counter, serving as a coaster for a red Moroccan tea glass half-filled with water. April set the glass aside and leafed through the inventory entries until she felt she had an idea of how to pay for the costumes.

  “Lane?” she said.

  The woman looked up. “Yes?”

  “I’m done going through your things, so I’m ready if you are. Sorry it took me so long. I’ve only been working here a couple of weeks.”

  “It’s okay. Trust me. This is most peaceful half hour I’ve had in a long time. I’ve gotta come in here more often.” Lane smiled. “Oh, and I found these.” She dangled a pair of red d’Orsay pumps from her hand.