8:00 p.m., November 4
FOR once, Harvey arrived at the restaurant ahead of her, already settled in their favorite corner. She left her satin-lined cashmere cape with the hat-check girl, smiled at the sweet-faced, very pregnant young woman perched on a bench near the front desk and threaded her way through the maze of other diners to where he sat. Twenty-eight red roses, one for each year of her life, and a small package professionally gift-wrapped in silver foil and ribbons, occupied one end of the linen-draped table; a bottle of Taitinger Brut Reserve chilling in a silver champagne bucket and two crystal flutes, the other.
âAm I late?â she asked, lifting her face for his kiss, when he rose to greet her.
âNo, Iâm early.â Ever the perfect gentleman, he waited until she made herself comfortable on the plush velvet banquette, before reclaiming his own seat.
âWhat, no last minute emergencies?â She laughed, happy to be with him. Happy that heâd made the effort not to keep her waiting on her birthday. So often, he was delayed, or called away in the middle of whatever theyâd planned, be it dinner, the theater, or making love. So often, he seemed preoccupied, distant, tense. Lately heâd even paced the floor some nights, then ended up sleeping in the guest room, worried heâd disturb her with his restlessness. She supposed that was the price a wife paid for being married to such a dedicated, sought-after cardiothoracic surgeon.
âNot tonight,â he said. âEd Johnsonâs covering for me.â He took the bottle of champagne, filled their flutes two-thirds full and raised his in a toast. âHappy birthday, Diana!â
âThank you, sweetheart.â The wine danced over her tongue, light and vivacious. Not too many years ago, the best they could afford when it came to celebrating special occasions was a bottle of cheap red wine and home-cooked spaghetti. Now, the only things red at the table were the long-stemmed roses, and there was nothing cheap about them.
Lifting the damp, sweet-smelling petals to her face, she eyed her husband mischievously. âThese are for me, arenât they?â
âThose, and this, too.â He pushed the foil-wrapped box toward her. âOpen it before you order, Diana. I think youâll like it.â
What was there not to like about a diamond and sapphire bracelet set in platinum? Speechless with pleasure, she fastened the lobster-claw clasp around her wrist, then tilted her hand this way and that, admiring the way the lamplight caught the fire and flash of the gems. âItâs the most beautiful thing Iâve ever owned,â she murmured, when she could speak. âOh, Harvey, youâve really gone overboard, this year. How am I supposed to compete with something like this, when your birthday comes around?â
âYou wonât have to.â He smiled and gestured to the leather-bound menu in front of her. âWhat do you fancy for dinner?â
She studied the list of entrées. âIâm torn between the rack of lamb and the Maine lobster.â
âHave the lobster,â he urged. âYou know itâs your favorite.â
âThen I will. With a small salad to start.â
He nodded to the waiter hovering discreetly in the background. âMy wife will have the mesclun salad with lemon vinaigrette, followed by the broiled lobster.â
âAnd you, sir?â The waiter paused, eyebrows raised inquiringly.
Harvey lightly tapped the rim of his champagne flute. âIâm happy with the wine, thanks.â
âYouâre not going to eat?â Perplexed, Diana stared at him. âWhy not, sweetheart? Arenât you feeling well?â
âNever felt better,â he assured her, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out a credit card. âThe thing is, Diana, Iâm leaving you.â
Why a chill raced up her spine just then, she had no idea. But in less time than it took to blink, all her warm fuzzy pleasure in the moment, in the evening, evaporated. Striving to ignore it, she said, âYou mean, youâre going back to the hospital? But I thought youâ?â
âNo. Iâm leaving you.â
Still not understanding, she said, âLeaving me where? Here?â
âLeaving you, period. Leaving the marriage.â
Heaven help her, she laughed. âOh, honestly, Harvey! For a minute there, I almost believed you.â
There was no answering smile on his face. Rather, pity laced with just a hint of contempt. âThis is no joke. And before you ask why, I might as well tell you. Iâve met someone else.â
âAnother woman?â Her voice seemed to come from very far away.
âWell, hardly another man!â
âI suppose not.â Very precisely, she set her champagne glass on the table, careful not to spill a drop. âAnd this womanâ¦how longâ¦?â
âQuite some time.â
When she was six, sheâd fallen into the deep end of her familyâs swimming pool and would have drowned if her father hadnât been close by and promptly hauled her to safety. Even so, sheâd never forgotten the soundless, suffocating sensation that had briefly possessed her. Twenty-two years later, it gripped her again.