David merged into traffic.
“Is the heat okay, Cece?” he asked.
Cece. Not Cecilia.
“Maybe a little warmer,” she answered softly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling. I feel awful.”
I looked at the back of her head. “No,” I said. “You don’t.”
David’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
The storm wrapped Manhattan in silver rain. My husband asked his secretary whether she needed water, gum, mints, his jacket, even his shoulder. He never asked if I was cold.
When we reached her apartment in Queens, he escorted her to the entrance with the umbrella entirely over her. He returned to the car smiling like a man who had just finished a first date. The smile disappeared when he saw my face.“You’re still upset?” he asked. “Grow up, Cat.”
I looked at him quietly and said nothing.
