Yeah, boring.
And that was probably my whole problem. Which is why I had pulled it out of the garage earlier when I learned that Julia Kate was going to spend the night with a friend to celebrate the beginning of spring break and my husband was going to the club to meet with a client. I figured that was code for “chasing some skirt.” And now that I knew what skirt he was chasing, I could see for myself if my suspicions were true.
So I was parked several houses down from the tennis pro’s cute little cottage.
With Ruby.
“I think the charger’s in the bag. I put some protein bars in there, too,” I said, lifting the binoculars I’d found in my husband’s duck-blind bag from my lap and training them on the craftsman-style house with the brass mailbox. Thing was, I’d never used binoculars before, and I’d twisted the knobs seven ways to Sunday with no clear result. I couldn’t see anything and cursed the fact that the tennis pro I was spying on had a tall privacy fence that blocked the view into her backyard and detached garage. I couldn’t tell if Scott’s truck was sitting in the hidden driveway or not. Would Scott be so stupid as to have parked in the driveway of a woman he was secretly screwing? Maybe so, because I hadn’t seen his truck anywhere on the street.
I had studied him for the past four days, and nothing in his demeanor suggested he was sliding the sausage to someone else. I had scanned the internet (erasing my browser history, of course) for ways to tell if your significant other was cheating. Scott hadn’t suddenly started grooming himself differently or buying me gifts. Our intimacy had waned long ago, so it wasn’t like he’d recently stopped being into me. He wasn’t spending more money or changing his routine. Well, other than being into Julia Kate’s tennis lessons.
I knew I was resisting the obvious, but I couldn’t help that I didn’t want my world to fall apart. Not over a few texts and some idle speculation. But that afternoon, everything had changed, forcing me outside of my comfort zone and landing me on a snooping expedition.
“Why’d you bring protein bars?” Ruby asked, lifting her head from the recesses of the floorboard, holding up the monogrammed bag.
“Well, I didn’t know how long we’d be on this stakeout.”
I could feel Ruby studying me, trying to figure out how she’d ended up sitting there with me when she should be studying for the midterm in her business class. I didn’t want her to feel like she had to do extra things just because I was her employer, but I was glad she was beside me. Should I say that? Would that insult her? I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, she sighed, took the binoculars out of my hand, and turned them around. “You’ll have a better chance of seeing if you try this way.”
Oh. Yeah.
But in my defense, both ends looked the same.
I put the correct end of the binoculars to my eyes, but even then I couldn’t see anything but blurry darkness.
“If I had known you wanted to go on a stakeout, I would have worn black,” Ruby said, glancing down at her tight khaki leggings and violet blouse that could have cost $500 or $5. Ruby wore it with some cool vintage jewelry and a pair of high-tops. She had a particular style I liked—breezy, young, but also comfortable.
“It was last minute. And besides, we’re in the car.”
Ruby’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah, about that. The van would have been a better choice.”
“What’s wrong with this car?”
“Don’t you watch movies? Stakeout cars are supposed to be nondescript.” Ruby ripped open a granola bar and took a bite.
“Yeah,” I acknowledged, thinking I probably should have brought the minivan. Dime a dozen in this town. “But this car is . . . perfect.”
“If we were Thelma and Louise,” Ruby said, with a somewhat chocolaty lift of her lips.
Suddenly I saw us as that duo, except maybe switched. Ruby seemed more like the confident Louise, knowing how to use a gun, making all the right moves, and I was the duped, trampled-upon Thelma. I didn’t want to be Thelma, though. I wanted to be proactive.
“Well, at least I wore all black,” I said, sweeping a hand over my black yoga pants and matching hoodie. It was early spring and no longer cool, but I had dressed for stealth. I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
“Which would work better if you covered your hair,” she said, looking pointedly at my recently lightened hair, which I’d pulled back into a ponytail.
So I wasn’t good at spying on my husband. Sue me.
For the past few days I’d pretended everything was fine . . . even when Ruby and I had gone to the estate sale Saturday morning. My preconceived bonding hadn’t really happened, though we had found two pairs of the most splendid burgundy velvet curtains and a valuable chandelier that just needed some minor repair. Ruby had been stoic but interested at each stop, and I had been quieter than normal as my mind nattered away at what Scott might be doing to the tennis pro in Lafayette while I poked through worn sheets and bad paintings. I managed to fake my way to Monday morning, dragging my somewhat depressed self to work because I had no good reason to stay in bed and bemoan the black hole in my soul. I had vowed to tell no one until I could prove Scott was sleeping with this twit. I had so many questions. Had he really gotten physical with her? Was it just about sex? Did he love her? Was he planning on leaving me?
At the end of the day, Ruby had walked in with a caramel macchiato and glanced at the yellow roses sitting majestically on my desk.
“You got me a macchiato,” I’d said.
Ruby looked down at the drink and then up at the bags under my eyes. “I figured you needed it.”
“Why?”
Ruby looked real hard at me. “I ate the chicken salad, too.”
I took three swallows of my sugary drink and said, “I think Scott is cheating on me.”
Ruby’s eyes turned to glittering topaz gemstones. “Then we need to take that sonofabitch down.”
Something about the way she came so quickly to my defense, like we were a team, made things a little better. I’m not sure why. I didn’t know Ruby well, but her proclamation checked a box for me. She made me want to do something about Scott.
So here we sat in my grandmother’s convertible.
Ruby kicked her Converse shoes up on the dash, drawing my attention from the blurry binoculars to her, framed against the darkened street where Stephanie lived. My assistant sipped wine from a foam cup. I had sort of bribed her to come with me with booze.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” she said.