Part 27 (1/2)

”Oh,” was all he managed to say before he seated himself.

”I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off,” Greta said. ”I fixed it myself.”

”It smells wonderful,” Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so formal all of the sudden?

She poured him a gla.s.s of wine and handed it to him, then lifted her own gla.s.s and held it out to him. But he had already taken a sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint of awareness.

Matthew placed the covered lid aside. ”Wow, my favorite dinner,”

he said.

”I know,” she said, clearing her throat.

He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her, two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables, took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere else.

No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be.

The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right place, like normal. The same was true, she thought in silent agony, of her marriage. At odd times it had felt as though it was all still there. But not now. Plain and painfully simple, he had forgotten.

After a minute or two, as if remembering that she was there, Matthew looked up from his dinner.

She sat staring at him with s.h.i.+mmering eyes, her utensils still resting untouched beside her plate. Before he could say anything, she spoke.

”Happy anniversary, Matthew,” she said. A weighty tear dropped down her face.

His body slackened. He set down his utensils. All at once he saw the brightness of her lips, the accents around her eyes, the fine, glimmering pattern in the silk dress. He became acutely aware of her perfume lingering among the aromas of the meal. Her tears were painting dark trails down her cheeks. He gazed down into his plate, their anniversary dinner, and let loose a guilty sigh.

”Greta, I'm sorry. I'm, so, so sorry. With all the work and everything...” He lifted his hands a bit. ”I just, well, I just forgot.”

She reached her gloved hand across the table and touched his wrist. ”It's all right, Matthew,” she said with a resigned smile.

She wiped her cheek with her napkin and lifted her fork.

”It is delicious,” Matthew said enthusiastically.

She speared a few vegetables, chewed slowly, put down her fork, and took a long drink of wine, all the while watching her husband's hurried consumption.

”Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can't we enjoy our dinner together tonight?”

”I'm sorry, honey. It's just that, you see, I've got more work to do,” he said, then tentatively added, ”for the trip.”

”What trip?”

”Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell on Monday, didn't I?”

”No, Matthew, you did not.”

”Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean.

I'm so overwhelmed these days.”

”Matthew, you're changing in unpleasant ways. And there's nothing funny about it.”