She worries the lesson has been lost on her over the years. Maybe that is why she is kneeling in front of an empty suitcase, to remind herself to have faith in the power of action—her action. She stays a few moments longer, then returns the suitcase to the closet where no one questions its presence or its meaning.
Jackie grades papers until her eyes swim, then runs a bath—a rare event. She languishes in the tub and drifts behind the veil of sleep, dreaming of a blue suitcase that holds a piece of sky.
Miles calls out from below. She splashes water on her face to wake herself and listens to his footfalls up the stairs and along the corridor. He knocks on the bathroom door.
“Come on in. I’m all bubbles.”
His head appears. “Hey, beautiful. We’re leaving in thirty minutes, right?”
“What? It can’t be four already.”
“It is indeed.”
They have a wedding reception to attend, the children of two of her colleagues: Amy Chen’s daughter, Juliet, and Isaac Sorenson’s son, Leo. The dress is black tie, which means she has to pull out all the stops in precious little time. She yanks the drain plug, grabs the towel from the floor, and calls to Miles, “Do you need to shower? Because it’s going to be a NASCAR pit in here.”
He laughs. “I can use the guest bath. What are you wearing?”
“You pick! Extra points for accessories!” She owns only two dresses that would be appropriate, given the occasion and the season, maybe three, so the choice isn’t burdensome.
She dries off, throws on a robe, and sets to work. As she blow-dries her hair, she thanks her mother for teaching her how to create a chignon and tries to whip up enthusiasm for the evening. She doesn’t socialize with the parents and only knows Leo from a summer he spent as an intern in her lab six years ago. No one would miss her. When the invitation arrived, she intended to decline, but shortly afterward she ran into Leo at Wolf Hall. He had returned from California with Juliet to make wedding arrangements and made her promise to attend. His appeal was so sincere—he is nothing if not sincere—that she readily agreed.
At a quarter after six, the ceremony, wonderfully brief and ecumenical, is over, and the throng of guests has dispersed across the atrium of the Celestine Grill. Jackie accepts a glass of white wine from a roving waiter. The decor is old-world elegance; the marble floors, vaulted ceiling, and white columns are softened by potted palms and diffuse lighting. The tiers of the central fountain are arrayed with glass-covered candles, and the flower arrangements—dusky green, ivory, and blue-gray—are artful yet understated.
Ursula Kleinfelter appears at her elbow, wrapped in a flowing gold silk pajama-like outfit. On her, it works. “I see you silently tallying the cost.”
Jackie touches her glass to Ursula’s. “Touché. They seem so in love, though, don’t you think?”
“If not on their wedding day, when else?”
“Good point.” She sips her wine.
Ursula scans the crowd surrounding them. “Is Miles here?”
“Somewhere. When word gets around that he signs sports talent, he becomes instantly popular.”
“In this crowd?”
Jackie laughs. “Don’t be a snob, Ursula. You should know by now that Americans take their sports seriously, even those with Ivy League ambitions. Perhaps especially those.”
“I keep forgetting.” She snags a salmon and caviar canape from a passing tray. “So few quarterbacks from the Middle East.”
They chat for a few minutes before Ursula excuses herself. “I’m off to see Dodie, make sure she’s holding up.” Dodie is Isaac Sorenson’s wife and the mother of the groom. Ursula and Dodie are close, close enough that Ursula shepherded her friend through radiation treatment for breast cancer this past summer.
“Of course. See you later, Ursula.”
Jackie exchanges pleasantries with a couple of other acquaintances, the last of whom mentions the view from the rooftop bar, open only during private events. Dinner will be served soon, Jackie surmises, so she scans the room for Miles and, failing to spot him, heads to the elevator and the roof, figuring they’ll spend the rest of the evening together. Who knows? With a few drinks in him, he might even be up for a dance.
Jackie steps out onto the roof deck. The nighttime air shocks her bare arms and shoulders like a splash of ice water, but as she takes in the scene before her, she forgets the chill. The perimeter is adorned with a string of fairy lights along the railing and another above, with more crisscrossing the space and along the bar itself. Her gaze travels beyond the roof, across the top of the Treasury Building to the White House, its facade aglow, then beyond to the Washington Monument, a solitary spike against a velvet background. She moves between clusters of wedding guests to a spot at the railing. The obelisk is familiar, of course, but from this angle, in darkness, it’s as if she is seeing it for the first time. The sight fills her with reverence and awe.
“I wondered if you’d come.”
Jackie startles. That voice. She takes a breath before turning to face him. “Hi, Harlan. I didn’t hear you sneak up.”
He smiles and points to his shoes, gleaming black patent. “Leather soles. And you were entranced by the view, understandably.”
“It’s remarkable.” She glances at the monument, as if confirming her assessment, and surreptitiously takes in his suit: midnight blue with satin lapels. Unquestionably new. Miles opted for the classic black dinner suit he has owned for years, a three-piece style, which, he rightly argues, outlasts every trend. Jackie can’t imagine why Harlan would have invested in such an outfit. He eschews weddings, and formal occasions in general. Perhaps this has something to do with his new interest in portraiture and twenty-seven-year-olds. Jackie quickly surveys the guests clustered around them for Nasira and returns her attention to Harlan.
His smile contains great patience.
She regroups. “I was speculating about why you were here, but remembered that Amy and Landon are your neighbors.” And Amy Chen is an ardent fan, but she didn’t voice that.
“Yes, it would’ve been awkward to refuse.” A server nears. Harlan motions her over and takes two glasses of wine from the tray, handing one to Jackie. “To the promise of young love.”
It’s not like Harlan to recite Hallmark verse, but there’s not a hint of a smirk on his face. “Yes. Cheers.”
They drink. Harlan leans back, and his eyes roam over her body—appraising, but not lascivious—then return to her face, her lips, and settle on her eyes. Her first impulse is to throw her drink at him, but this is a wedding, and the roof is crowded. Plus, he’s giving her that look, the one that twists her, creating an ache she would rather not admit to.
“Don’t squirm,” he says softly. “You look extraordinarily beautiful. That dress on you . . . I can’t take my eyes off you.”
Her cheeks flame.
He grins. “That’s not helping.”
She escapes by turning to the view and sips her wine. Miles chose this strapless burgundy silk sheath. “To show off what rowing does for shoulders,” he said when she found it on the bed earlier. She was pleased then. Now she feels exposed. How dare Harlan play with her this way? She’s married; he should make no claim on her. Jackie’s anger flares, but the admonishments sitting on her tongue remain there. Her thoughts blur in confusion. She’s been obsessing over Nasira, and all along Harlan has remained attracted to her? Is he serious? The idea that he might be triggers a warm surge of—what? Desire?