Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

I’m a cop. I know. You want to tell me about your financial arrangements with Bonnie Spencer?” Silence.

“If you’re straightforward with me, we’ll both hang up and that will be the end of it. If

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you dick me around, I’ll pass on my suspicions to a buddy of mine in the IRS in Washington.”

“I paid her…” His voice faded. This guy had an Irish name; I couldn’t believe he could be such a wimp. Fucking assimil-ation.

“How did you pay her?”

“In cash.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars. She was the one who asked to be paid in cash. I swear to you, I never offered it.”

“How did you get it to her?”

“Her father lives outside of Scottsdale. She visits him once a year, then drives over, sees the mock-ups for new catalogs.

We talk and…” If this guy went through a red light, he’d probably handcuff himself, turn himself in and beg the judge for the max.

“You talk and what? You hand her the money?”

“Yes, in an envelope. But I promise you, it won’t happen again.” All right! I thought, as I hung up. Score one for the good guys.

I searched around and finally found a couple of paperbacks, Stephen King and Clancy, and brought them into her room. I didn’t want her to hate it, being stuck in there, and I didn’t want her to think I was a semiliterate jerk who, when he read at all, read statistics—although that was more true than not. She was a writer; she had full bookshelves. What was I going to say? Hey, Bonnie, I may not read books much, but I read three papers a day and watch all the historical documentaries on cable. You want to know about the Battle of Midway? Metternich’s life story? Just ask me.

“These are for later,” I said. “Now it’s time to talk.” I pulled back the shade and looked outside. The last of the soft, magic daylight was fading.

“Okay, but…I’m not telling you how to do 276 / SUSAN ISAACS

your job…maybe you could give Vincent Kelleher a call.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t telling you the truth. And I’m going to tell you the truth. I know how badly I’ve messed things up for myself, and now you’re giving me another chance. Well, I want to be worthy of your confidence. And I want you to believe me about everything.”

This time, the cop beat out the man. She shouldn’t think she had me on her side; she should convince me. I said:

“Maybe I’ll call him later. For now, tell me how you hooked up with Sy again.”

C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

When you and Sy split, was there a lot of bad feeling?”

“No.” Bonnie leaned back against the headboard, one of those cheapo woven wood jobs that squeak every time you inhale. She was wearing what she’d worn when I found her folding laundry: red nylon running shorts and a black tank top. The white socks she’d had on had gotten filthy on the run through the field, so she’d taken them off. She hadn’t been wearing shoes.

She drew her knees up together, folded her arms over them, then rested her head on the arms. Jesus, was she flexible; it was the kind of position that normally only an eight-year-old can be comfortable in. “The day I signed the separation agreement, he took me out to lunch. Le Cirque. Soft lights, soft linen napkins. Soft food, so you wouldn’t crunch when you chew. We were sitting on the same side on the banquette. He held my hand under the table and said, ‘It’s my fault that I wasn’t able to love you enough. But I’ll always be there for you, Bonnie.’”

So, obviously, would Moose. The dog rested her 277

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face on the blanket until Bonnie patted her. Then she lay down on my feet.

“Did you throw up when he said that?”

“No, it was before the appetizer. But see, in his own way, Sy was sincere. He truly believed what he was saying, even though twenty seconds after he dropped me off at Penn Station so I could get the train back to Bridgehampton, I ceased to exist. But since I hadn’t given him a hard time about splitting up…I mean, I cried a lot and asked him to go to a marriage counselor, but that was all. I didn’t want alimony.

So he felt kindly toward me. If someone had asked, ‘Sy, what was your second wife like?’ he’d have said, ‘Hmmm, second wife. Oh, yes. Bonnie. So sweet. Down-to-earth.’ It was funny: If you crossed him, he’d never forget you, but niceness made no impression on him.”

“Why didn’t you fight harder to stay together?”

“Because…” She put her hands together, prayer fashion, and touched her forefingers to her lips. Finally, she said:

“Because I knew he didn’t love me anymore—if he ever had.

Sy could fall in love, but it was like an actor immersing himself in a character. The week I met him, in L.A., he must have just come back from a John Ford retrospective—so I became his cowgirl. He walked around wearing a denim jacket, squinting, smoking; this was before his decaffeinated days. He broke off the filters and lit his cigarettes with those matches you’d strike on the bottom of your boot; he actually took to wearing an old pair of shit-kickers, which wasn’t so terrible because he was three inches shorter than me. God knows where he got them—probably in some Madison Avenue antique-boot boutique. We’d go riding a lot. Western saddle. He said, ‘The English saddle is so effete.’ But after three weeks back in New York—six weeks into our marriage—he got tired of being Hopalong Cas-MAGIC HOUR / 279

sidy. And he got tired of loving me. I knew it.” She turned away from me for a minute and got busy folding over the pillow, so it made a better support for the small of her back.

“There was