Free The Late, Lamented Molly Marx by Sally Koslow Page B

didn’t have the balls to tell me.” I’d like to admit I only thought the second half of the speech, but I actually did say it.
    “It just happened,” he said.
    “Da Silvano takes planning,” I said. “Reservations are involved.”
    “She asked me.”
    “You didn’t say no,” I pointed out.
    “I’m not sure why we are having this conversation.”
    Because I want you all to myself, although I am married and you and I are just friends
. Because. Because. Because. Luke had given me an opening, but this was not a door I was ready to walk through. The only thing I was sure about was my own discomfort.
    “No good reason, Luke,” I said, and forced a laugh, trying to pretend that I had recovered my sense of humor. “I’m being a possessivebitch. But I wish you’d told me you were seeing Treena. Not that you don’t have every right to. But she is my own damn assistant.”
    “Thank you, Molly Marx, for giving my social life your seal of approval.” He spoke this with a particularly corrosive brand of sarcasm.
    “Luke, that’s enough,” I said. “Let’s agree I was a baby. A self-centered idiot. I’m sorry.”
    “Unless you have something else in mind.” The expression on his face read,
I double-dog-dare you
.
    “Such as?”
    “The thing about you, Molly, is that you don’t know what you want or who you want it with.” He shrugged and walked away. Two days later, he sent a friendly enough text message, as if everything were back to normal. I knew, of course, it wasn’t. Everything had changed.

Twelve

KISS, KISS
    here’s Snuffleupagus, Mommy.” Whenever we passed the sprawling granite outcropping crouched over Central Park, Annabel pointed it out. But today, as she holds Delfina’s strong, slim hand, the beast who rules my daughter’s imagination doesn’t get as much as a glance. She soldiers ahead, silent and grim.
    Delfina and Annabel enter the elevator at our synagogue, and the nursery school director swoops down to four-year-old level. “We’re so happy to have you back, Annabel,” she says. “We’ve missed you.”
    Though Annabel used to greet this woman with a giddy grin, she bites her lip and says nothing. When she and Delfina reach the threshold of the classroom on the sixth floor, Annabel turns to Delfina. “Do I have to?” she asks.
    “Your friends want to play with you,” Delfina says. “And school’s your job. We all have our jobs.”
    Annabel’s face carries the worry of an old crone. I wait for tears.
    “Your dolls?” Delfina asks. “You’re thinking about your dolls?”
    Annabel nods.
    Delfina bends to whisper. “Can you keep a secret? If you go toschool, when I pick you up we’ll eat with your friend Ella. It was going to be a surprise.”
    Annabel allows a small smile to creep across her face and turns to search the classroom. She catches the eye of her best friend, who’s already in the playhouse. Ella sees Annabel and runs across the room on her chunky legs. “Annabel!” she shouts. “I’m making pizza. C’mon.” Ella towers over my daughter and, in the tradition of anatomy as destiny, considers herself older, wiser, and now responsible for looking after her friend whose mommy died by the river like a character in a goose-pimply Grimm’s fairy tale, the ones she won’t let her dad read to her anymore.
    “See you later, alligator,” Delfina says to Annabel, and bends to give her a hug.
    “After a while, crocodile,” Annabel says. One of her purple mittens is missing, but she hangs her red jacket with the furry trim in her cubby, which features a family picture—Barry, me, Annabel as a toothless baby. Every move is fluid and concise. I hope Barry remembers that I had planned to enroll her in ballet. I am positive she is on the Clara track for
The Nutcracker
.
    “I’ll be the mommy,” Ella says, “and you’ll be the girl.” They play until the teacher asks all eighteen students to gather in their morning circle. Annabel walks with the rest to