The Lobotomist's Wife(8)

In those early days, Susie often reminded her that just because Ruth didn’t live downtown, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it, and she was often Susie and Meg’s third wheel at the jazz clubs and salons they frequented. Susie’s downtown friends were fascinated by the enigma of the stunningly beautiful heiress who seemed to care about neither her looks nor her breeding. Hart Crane invited her to his poetry readings, Cole Porter solicited her opinion on his latest songs for the Greenwich Village Follies, and for a time, the doorman at the Cotton Club up in Harlem knew her by name. Well, he knew her as “Raffey,” but that was Susie’s fault. In those years, her nights out with Meg, Susie, and the men in their circles were a salve for the open wound of life without Harry, but eventually, the hospital began to fill that void entirely.

By the time she hired Dr. Apter, Ruth had accepted that her greatest passion was her patients, and when she wasn’t working, she was more than content to stroll around the city on her own or curl up with a book by the parlor fire of her townhouse. She relished her solitary life and had little concern about finding a man.

It stood to reason, therefore, that in the first few weeks Dr. Apter was at the hospital, Ruth attributed the unusual, fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach to professional excitement. He seemed more committed to finding a cure for insanity than even Ruth herself. Yet, six months into his tenure, Ruth found that she yearned to be in his presence more every day. She knew when he took his lunch and made a point of venturing to the staff dining room at that hour. She tried to justify it as professional interest, but she knew the truth: she desired him, romantically. It was humiliating, unprofessional, and entirely unexpected. But she couldn’t stay away. She had never been drawn to any man in the way she was to him, and the more she tried to hide her longing, the more she seemed to let it show.

In fact, Ruth believed that Dr. Apter used her unrequited crush to his advantage. In their one-on-one meetings, he always managed to graze her knee or place his hands on her shoulders to look over a file on her desk. He must have noticed how she blushed when they were alone together, seen the sweat form on her brow. She couldn’t believe how little control she had over herself when it came to him. She had never had this problem before in her life. Normally, this kind of attention in the workplace would have insulted her. But when it came from Dr. Apter, she found herself quietly hoping for more.

At night, she fantasized about him, dissecting each of his glances, his casual touches, in the hopes that they might reveal he felt about her the same way she did about him. In the morning, she vowed she would never act on her feelings.

Ruth had always worked late, but now, she often made a point of staying until she knew she could go straight home and collapse, avoiding torturous hours tossing and turning like a teenager. And then, one night, as she read through the stack of files on her desk, Robert interrupted.

“Lady Emeraldine, burning the midnight oil again?”

Ruth smiled. He was the only person in the world who could poke fun at her pedigree without inflaming her. “As I’m sure you know, Dr. Apter, the volume of paperwork associated with our patients is overwhelming. This is the quietest time to get it done. Once they’re all asleep.” She felt her cheeks warming already. Please let the light be dim enough to hide my flush.

“Of course. I agree completely. But it is also important to take a break, you know. Helps clear the mind to make space for the new ideas to emerge.”

“I take a break when I sleep.”

“And when you eat, I hope? Although I’d say, from the looks of it, you don’t eat often enough! Food feeds the brain. How about you join me for some dinner?”

Ruth felt her insides flip. Was it really happening? Could he possibly be asking her on a date? Or did he just think it was a smart practice to stay on her good side?

“Where were you planning to go?” The venue might give her a better indication of whether he intended business or pleasure.

“Are you saying yes? If so, might I suggest we make an evening of it and head to the El Morocco?”

“The El Morocco. Why, I’m not really dressed for it.” It is a date.

“Nonsense, you look lovely, as always.”

“I do have an awful lot to do tomorrow.” She looked at her desk; she couldn’t let him know how eager she was to accompany him.

“How about if I promise to deliver you home by ten o’clock?”

“Nine thirty.” Ruth tried to hide her grin as the fleet of butterflies grew in her stomach.

“Wonderful.” He smiled broadly. “Now where is your coat? I sense the need to get you out of here before you change your mind.”

Ruth collected her things quickly and made a brief stop in the ladies’ room. She looked at herself as she carefully reapplied her lipstick. Here she was, a thirty-four-year-old woman, giddy to be heading out to dinner, on a date with a man who, she was growing to believe more every day, was her mission’s greatest hope. She didn’t recognize the person looking back at her in the mirror, but she was so happy that she didn’t care.

When they arrived at one of the city’s most talked-about new supper clubs, Ruth was surprised to see that Dr. Apter was apparently something of a regular. She had, of course, heard about this place, but since nights out like this had long ago become a thing of her past, she had never been. As the host escorted them to what was clearly a prime table, in direct sight of the band, Ruth felt particularly drab compared with the zebra upholstery of the banquettes that lined the room and covered the bar, and the glitz of the patrons. Ruth wasn’t easily impressed by celebrity or family name, but surrounded by so many all at once—Errol Flynn, Clark Gable, multiple generations of Vanderbilts—she felt a bit humbled.