A week or two later, I looked up from the breakfast table and watched Richard select a crispy piece of turkey bacon that I’d prepared along with our scrambled eggs. His face was still slightly flushed from our morning workout. Steam curled from his cup of espresso; The Wall Street Journal was folded by his plate.
He bit into the bacon. “This is perfectly cooked.”
“Thank you.”
“What are your plans for today?”
“I’m going to shower and then head over to the club for the used-book drive. Lots of sorting to do.”
He nodded. “Sounds good.” He wiped his fingertips on his napkin, then snapped opened the newspaper. “And don’t forget Diane’s retirement luncheon is next Friday. Can you pick up a nice card and I’ll put the cruise tickets inside?”
“Of course.”
He bent his head and began to scan the stocks.
I stood up and cleared the table. I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. As I ran the sponge over the marbled granite, Richard approached me from behind and wrapped his arms around my waist. He kissed my neck.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too.”
He put on his suit jacket, then picked up his briefcase and walked toward the front door. I followed him, watching as he headed to his Mercedes.
Everything was exactly as Richard wished it to be. When he came home tonight, dinner would be ready. I’d have changed out of my yoga pants into a pretty dress. I’d entertain him with a funny story about what Mindy had said at the club.
Richard looked up at me through the big bay window as he walked toward the driveway.
“Good-bye!” I called, waving.
His smile was wide and genuine. He radiated contentment.
I realized something in that moment. It felt like glimpsing a pinpoint of sunlight in the cottony, suffocating gray pressing in on me.
There was one way my husband would let me go.
It would need to be his idea to end our marriage.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
I am updating my résumé on my laptop when my cell phone rings.
Her name flashes across the screen. I hesitate before answering. I worry this could be another of Richard’s traps.
“You were right,” says the husky voice I’ve come to know so well.
I remain quiet.
“About the Visa bill.” I fear that even my slightest utterance will cause Emma to stop talking, change her mind, hang up. “I called the credit card company. There was no wine charge from Sotheby’s. Richard never ordered the Raveneau.”
I can hardly believe what I have just heard. Part of me still worries Richard may be behind this, but Emma’s tone is different from in the past. She no longer sounds contemptuous of me.
“Vanessa, the way you looked when he said he would escort you downstairs . . . that’s what convinced me to check. I thought you were jealous. That you wanted him back. But you don’t, do you?”
“No.”
“You’re terrified of him,” Emma says bluntly. “He actually hit you? He tried to strangle you? I can’t believe Richard would—but—”
“Where are you? Where is he?”
“I’m home. He’s in Chicago on business.”
I’m grateful she’s not at Richard’s apartment. Her place is probably safe. Although her phone may not be. “We need to meet in person.” But this time it will be in a public place.
“How about the Starbucks on—”
“No, you have to stick to your routine. What do you have planned today?”
“I was going to take a yoga class this afternoon. And then go pick up my wedding gown.”
We won’t be able to talk in a yoga studio. “The bridal shop. Where is it?”
Emma gives me the address and time. I tell her I will meet her there.
What she doesn’t know is that I’m going to arrive early to make sure I’m not ambushed again.
“What a perfect bride,” Brenda, the boutique’s owner, exclaims.
Emma’s eyes meet mine in the mirror as she stands on the raised platform in a creamy silk sheath. She is unsmiling, but Brenda seems too busy surveying the final fit of the dress to notice Emma’s somber mood.
“I don’t think it needs a single tweak,” Brenda continues. “I’ll just steam it and we’ll messenger it to you tomorrow.”
“Actually, we can wait,” I say. “We’d like to take it with us.” The dressing area is empty, and in a corner are several armchairs. It’s private. Safe.
“Would you care for some champagne, then?”
“We’d love some,” I say, and Emma nods in agreement.
As Emma slips out of the dress, I avert my gaze. Still, I see her reflection—smooth skin and lacy pink lingerie—in a half dozen angles in mirrors around the room. It is an oddly intimate moment.
Brenda takes the gown and carefully places it onto a padded hanger while I impatiently wait for her to leave the room. Before Emma can even finish fastening the button on her skirt, I head to the chairs. This bridal shop is one place where I can be certain Richard won’t unexpectedly show up. It’s practically forbidden for a groom to see his fiancée in a wedding gown before the ceremony.
“I thought you were crazy,” Emma says. “When I worked for Richard, I used to hear him on the phone with you, asking what you’d eaten for breakfast and if you’d gotten out for some fresh air. I had access to emails he sent asking where you were. Saying he’d phoned four times that day but you hadn’t answered. He was always so worried about you.”
“I can see how it seemed that way.”
We fall silent as Brenda returns with two flutes of champagne. “Congratulations, again.” I’m worried she will linger and chat, but she excuses herself to check on the dress.
“I figured I had you sized up,” Emma tells me bluntly once Brenda is gone. She looks at me carefully, and I see an unexpected familiarity in her round blue eyes. Before I can place it, she continues, “You had this perfect life with this great guy. You didn’t even work, you just lounged around in the fancy house he paid for. I didn’t think you deserved any of it.”
I let her continue.
She tilts her head to the side. It’s almost as if she is seeing me for the first time. “You’re different than I imagined. I’ve thought about you so much. I wondered what it would feel like for you to know your husband was in love with someone else. It used to keep me up at night.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She has no idea how true that statement is.
A loud ding emanates from Emma’s purse. She freezes with the flute almost touching her lips. We both stare at her bag.
She pulls out her phone. “Richard texted me. He just arrived at his hotel in Chicago. He asked what I’m up to and wrote that he misses me.”
“Text him and tell him you miss him, too, and that you love him.”
She raises one eyebrow but does what I ask.
“Now give me your phone.” I tap on it, then show it to Emma. “It’s tracking you.” I point to the screen. “Richard bought it for you, right? His name is on the account. He can access your phone’s location—your location—at any time.”
He did the same thing to me after we got engaged. I eventually figured it out after that day in the grocery store when I wondered if he already knew what I’d be serving him for dinner. It was how he discovered my clandestine visit into the city, and to the wine store a few towns over.
Richard was also responsible for the mysterious hang-ups that began after I met him, I’ve realized. Sometimes they served as punishment, such as during our honeymoon, when Richard thought I’d been flirting with the young scuba instructor. Other times I believe he was trying to keep me off-balance; to unnerve me so that he could subsequently reassure me. But I don’t tell this part to Emma.
Emma is staring at her phone. “So he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m doing even though he does?” She sips her drink. “God, that’s sick.”