It will be a simple matter to determine whether these numbers are completely innocuous. If a man answers, or it it belongs to a place of business, the phone number will be considered irrelevant and the call will be immediately terminated.
If a woman answers, the call will also be quickly aborted.
But that number will be saved for further scrutiny.
His phone is replaced on the counter. His glass of water is brought to the library.
He should have returned by now.
“Thomas?” He does not respond.
He is met at the top of the staircase just as he emerges from the bedroom.
“Were you able to find it?”
He looks distinctly unwell now. He will require three aspirin followed by a long rest in a darkened room.
The evening’s encounter will come to a necessary, abrupt end.
The hope in Thomas’s eyes that further intimacies would progress has been extinguished.
“No,” he says. His distress is evident.
“I’ll get it,” he is told.
In the bathroom, he squints against the bright light. The medicine cabinet is surveyed. The luxury moisturizer is moved aside.
“It’s right here.”
Back downstairs, he swallows three pills and is offered a respite on the couch.
He shakes his head, then winces at the movement.
“I think I’d better go,” he says.
His coat is retrieved and offered to him.
“Your phone.” He nearly left it on the counter.
As it is picked up, a quick glance at the screen confirms it has automatically re-locked.
He tucks it into the pocket of his coat.
“I’m so sorry I had to cut this night short,” he says.
“I’ll make a call to the bakery first thing in the morning.” A pause. “The woman who waited on me needs to know her mistake.”
Phone calls concerning a mistake will be made tomorrow. That much is true.
But not to anyone Thomas expects.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Monday, December 10
Nothing about Dr. Shields’s home comes as a surprise to me.
I get invited into many people’s residences on Monday mornings to do makeup, and evidence of their weekend’s activities is usually on display: the Sunday New York Times splayed out on a coffee table, wineglasses from a party drying upside down on a dish rack, kids’ soccer cleats and shin guards scattered by the entryway.
But when I arrived at Dr. Shields’s town house in the West Village, I figured it would look like a spread in Architectural Digest—all muted colors and elegant pieces of furniture, chosen for aesthetics rather than comfort or function. And I’m right, it’s like an extension of her meticulous office.
After Dr. Shields greets me at the door and takes my coat, she leads me into the open, sunny kitchen. She’s wearing a creamy turtleneck sweater and dark-rinse fitted jeans, and her hair is in a low ponytail.
“You just missed my husband,” she says, clearing away two matching coffee mugs from the counter and depositing them in the sink. “I was hoping to introduce you, but unfortunately he had to head into his office.”
Before I can ask more—I’m so curious about the man—Dr. Shields gestures to a small platter of fresh berries and scones.
“I didn’t know if you’d had the chance to eat breakfast,” she says. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Coffee would be great,” I say. “Thanks.”
When I finally texted Dr. Shields back on Sunday afternoon, she again asked how I was feeling before she invited me here. I truthfully replied that I was a lot better than when I left the hotel bar on Friday night. I slept in until Leo licked my face demanding a walk, worked a few jobs, and went out with Noah. I did one other thing, too. As soon as the bank opened on Saturday morning, I deposited the check for seven hundred fifty dollars. I still feel like the money could float away; until I see the balance on my statement, it doesn’t seem real that I could be earning so much.
Dr. Shields pours the coffee from a waiting carafe into two china cups with matching saucers. The curve of the handle is so delicate I’m a little worried I might break it.
“I thought we could work in the dining room,” Dr. Shields says.
She places the coffee and the platter on a tray, along with two small china plates in the same pattern as the cups. I follow her into the adjoining room, passing by a small table that holds a single silver-framed photograph. It’s of Dr. Shields with a man. His arm is around her shoulders and she is gazing at him.
Dr. Shields looks back at me.
“Your husband?” I ask, gesturing to the picture.
She smiles as she arranges the teacups in front of two adjacent chairs. I take a closer look at the man, because this is the first thing about Dr. Shield’s house that doesn’t fit.
He’s maybe ten years older than she, with slightly bushy dark hair and a beard. They appear to be almost the same height, about five foot seven.
They don’t seem like a match. But they both look very happy in the photo, and she always lights up when she mentions him.
I move away from the picture and Dr. Shields motions to a chair at the head of the glossy oak table, beneath a crystal chandelier. The table is bare save for a yellow legal pad and, beside it, a pen and a black phone. It isn’t the silver iPhone I’ve noticed on Dr. Shields’s desk before.
“You said I’d just be making some calls today?” I ask. I don’t know how this fits into a morality test. Is she going to ask me to set someone up again?
Dr. Shields places the tray on the table, and I can’t help noticing that every single blueberry and raspberry is perfect, like the same designer who chose the graceful pieces of furniture for this room also selected the fruit.
“I know Friday evening was unsettling for you,” she says. “Today will be more straightforward. Plus I’ll be right here in the room with you.”
“Okay,” I say, sitting down.
I center the legal pad in front of me and that’s when I see the first page isn’t blank. Listed in what I now recognize as Dr. Shields’s handwriting are the names of five women and, beside the names, phone numbers. All have New York City area codes: 212, 646, or 917.
“I need some data concerning how money and morality intersect,” Dr. Shields says. She places my cup and saucer in front of me, then reaches for her own. I notice she takes her coffee black. “It occurred to me that I can use your profession to help with this fieldwork.”
“My profession?” I echo. I pick up the pen and press the bottom with my thumb. It makes a loud clicking noise. I put it back down and take a sip of coffee.
“When given a hypothetical scenario, say, winning the lottery, most subjects claim they would donate a portion of the money to charity,” Dr. Shields says. “But in reality studies show winners are often less giving than their own predictions would indicate. I would like to delve into a variation of this.”
Dr. Shields freshens my coffee from the carafe she has brought to the table, then takes the seat next to me.
“I want the people who answer your call to believe someone has gifted them a free makeup session with BeautyBuzz,” Dr. Shields says.
Something about her energy seems especially intense today, even though she is practically motionless. But her expression is serene; her ice-blue eyes are clear. So maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings. Because while I know this all makes perfect sense to her, I’m having trouble understanding why it would be important to her research.