The Vanishing Year Read Online Free Page A

thinking of the pictures, God, I was so stupid. I want to bring CARE up a notch—I said that! What was I thinking? What if my face ends up in the newspaper? It wouldn’t be the first time.
    Shortly after I came to New York, I was part of a feature that appeared in New York magazinefor the flower shop where I worked, La Fleur d’Elise. I was a grunt, an intern. They stuck me in the corner of a group photo shoot, no matter that I tried to wriggle out of it altogether. I repeatedly turned my head at the last moment, until the photographer, exasperated, finally proclaimed he’d gotten a good one. Elisa had looked at me, rolled her eyes like she’d known I was the problem. When the feature ran, I sweat bullets for a month. But my face, my stupid, stretchy, involuntary grin was there, as recognizable as anything. Nothing happened.
    I press my fist between my teeth. I’ve always had a problem with listening, even as a child. I was stubborn. Hilary will do what Hilary will do. A common singsong refrain from Evelyn, her round cherubic face, healthy and flush with color, tilted up, her mouth open, her finger wagging in front of my nose.
    I remember something and fish through my purse. Pulling out a slip of paper, I dial the number scrawled on the back in my own hand. When the receptionist picks up and chirps New York Post , I ask for Cash Murray. His voice comes on the line after a small blip of hold music and I ask him to meet me for coffee. He agrees and picks a place a block from the office. I dress conservatively, in a white silk blouse and black pants,and I’m at the coffee shop ten minutes early. To my surprise, Cash is already there, seated in a corner booth, thumbing through the New York Times .
    â€œDo you have to hide out in obscure diners to read that?” I say as I slide into the booth across from him. My pant leg catches on a ripped swath of red vinyl. I look down quickly and am relieved to see the fabric isn’t torn.
    He gives me a grin, and I realize he’s much younger than I’d thought. He’s my age—a beefy man, the kind that spends an hour in the gym every day, but probably not more than that, a simple effort to fight off genetics. His elbows rest on the table and his arms are thick, his nails bitten to the quick. He moves quickly, the jumpy, alert markers of a journalist.
    â€œTo what do I owe the honor, Mrs. Whittaker?” He sips from his mug, raising one eyebrow. I flush, feeling transparent.
    â€œI need you to show me your pictures from last night?” I end the statement with a upward lilt, and silently curse myself. I think of Henry, who speaks with gusto , who would have thrown off the statement like a command, and Cash would be scrambling to meet it. I get raised eyebrows and a friendly smile.
    â€œOh! Yeah, I got some really great shots!” He’s enthusiastic now, leaning back in his seat. “I’d love to run them by you. You know, you’re easy to photograph.” He picks at his nail.
    â€œWell, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I need you to not run any shots of me, in particular.” I try for my Henry voice. “I did discuss that before the event, you know.”
    â€œOh, that’s almost impossible. I mean, you ran the show. The whole event was spectacular, and you were the shining star of the night. Really, if you’re worried about the shots, I’m telling you, they were stunning. I say that professionally, you know?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Murray, listen, it’s not that. I just can’t have my picture in the paper, okay? I won’t sign off on it.”
    â€œWell, to be honest, you don’t have to. I was invited to the event to take pictures. If you want me to run the article, I need to use you. Frankly, photos of impoverished kids aren’t selling the society pages. Beautiful women who care about impoverished kids are.”
    â€œThen don’t run the article.”
    â€œBut I