My page is laden with nasty messages from people I don’t know, accusing me of fleeing the investigation, of not cooperating with the police . . . of killing my husband.
Many of the comments are liked, even loved, by dozens of people, even though some kind strangers have posted sensible arguments against the haters. Anything from don’t judge what you don’t know to try her in court—not on social media.
A lump of fear and frustration and God-knows-what-else forms in my throat. I nearly whip my phone against the wall, but I don’t want to wake Bella, lest she witness my second screaming fit in a matter of hours.
I’m about to exit the app, but I have the presence of mind to open my privacy settings and turn everything to private. I can’t help what’s already been posted, but no one will be able to do it again or read the nastiness from here on out. I delete all the comments without responding.
Shell.
God, I hope my mother-in-law hasn’t visited my page and read such ugly things about her son and me.
I try Shell’s cell phone again. Surely, they’re back on Plum Lake by now, but the past few times I’ve called, her voice mail has picked up instantly. Cell service is questionable up at the lake, she’d said. Hit or miss.
Tonight it’s a miss.
I leave a message: “Shell, it’s Veronica. Again. Please call.” I breathe through the tears I feel coming on. But a moment before they fall, I catch sight of the stack of photographs I piled atop the family room built-ins, and my resolve returns. Micah had secrets.
And while I’m hesitant to disturb Mick by ringing the landline—it’s getting rather late—I try the number at the lake house. No answer.
Everywhere I look in this place, I imagine Micah dancing with another woman. Maybe even with Natasha Markham.
Micah was so deceitful. This house was a nest he filled with memories . . . memories that may have included Elizabella—depending on whether Nini is a real little girl . . . my daughter’s half sister? . . . or just, as Dr. Russo insisted, an imaginary friend. But there is no question that my husband’s life here did not involve me, despite my name on the deed of this house.
Why didn’t he simply put Natasha’s name on the deed? If she were going to live here, wouldn’t it have made more sense to leave me out of this mess? Perhaps I never would’ve learned Micah’s secrets if I’d never found this deed.
Either she stole my husband, or he went to her willingly, but gone is gone. Or maybe, considering her children are older than Bella . . . Was I the thief? I did steal him. In college. Micah chose me. But he obviously never completely cut ties with Natasha.
How could that have happened?
I hear Claudette in my head: his traveling made a dual life possible.
I pull a stack of portraits from the shelves and study the children’s features. There’s no denying their resemblance to the man I married.
But if Micah is the father of these children, they were born during our marriage. After all the frustration of negative pregnancy tests—we had thirty-six before Bella—and poking and prodding and ejaculating into cups, is it possible Micah went the easy route? Impregnated someone else?
Maybe he planned to leave me after these boys were born, but I turned up pregnant—finally—just as he was about to break the news.
Or . . . ironically enough, fertility treatment involves very little actual sex. Our microscopic cells come together; our bodies don’t. Nothing about the process is erotic.
Did the lack of sex drive him away?
Did he find himself torn between two families?
If Micah didn’t have a job, he probably came here every time I thought he was flying. Sometimes he was gone for three days a week, sometimes four. If he spent as much time here with Tasha as he did with me at the Shadowlands, maybe her life is just as turned upside down as mine is right now.
I look around at the home of Micah’s other woman. Flowers and green grass year-round. Beautiful breezes. A variety of places to eat. I’m not sure how anyone isn’t happy living in a place like this.
That’s one thing I hated about the Shadowlands, I now realize. The rigidity. The lack of options. Sure, it’s a safe, hemmed-in neighborhood, beautiful, with plenty of space to spread out. But sushi is a fifteen-minute drive. Ice cream after November? Only at national chains. It was a difficult adjustment after living in the city, where everything was just a block away.
But this place? There’s plenty of space here. Plenty of variety. Could I find a happy medium here?
At the moment, I have two options: stay here, in a house I own free and clear, or trek back to Chicago, to mounds of debt and questions no one can answer.
I could let Mick sell the Shadowlands house; that would settle the mortgage debt back home. It’s not home anymore without Micah. But I don’t know that I can stay here, either. Will I ever be able to look at the shelves across the room without seeing the photographs of his other family?
Not likely.
Maybe if I fill the space with pictures of Bella and me . . .
Or maybe I’ll tear the shelves out altogether.
Doubt flickers in my mind. This is the other woman’s home. She’s bound to be back at some point and find me here.
So what if she does come home? I dare her to try to reason her way back into this place. It’s mine. And maybe I had to unknowingly share Micah, but there’s no way in hell I have to share my house. Let her come.
Papa Hemingway leaps up onto the cushion next to me and nuzzles in for some attention. I massage the top of his head. He paws at me and cuddles on my lap.
Huh. He has six toes on his left front paw. The irony makes me chuckle; this cat proves nothing is right with the world anymore.
But maybe it can be made right. I stare across the room at the blank canvas I created the moment I cleared the shelves. Gray and unassuming, the built-ins blend into the rest of the room. Linear and simple. I don’t like the color. And, come to think of it, I don’t like the drab taupe walls surrounding me, either.
I abandon the cat and cross the room. The paint is chipping from the edges of the shelves, and the back panel in the cabinet all the way to the left is a little askew, as if installed just a touch out of square, but otherwise, the cabinetry seems to be in decent shape. Sturdy. Might I like this room better if I painted the cabinetry a bright white? If I painted the walls a cheery blue or green?
I open the cabinets and begin to pull out everything inside: issues of home decor magazines, crayons, scissors, art supplies.
Another cabinet holds a wicker basket of what appears to be yellow slipcovers that fit the rattan sectional in this room.
Another houses DVDs of old Disney movies, although a quick glance around the room proves there’s nothing to watch it on. I’ll head back to the mainland tomorrow to buy a television. I’m going to need something to occupy Bella; I’m going to be busy.
Job one: pack all the personal effects in the house. I won’t throw anything away, but I don’t want her clothing in the closets. I don’t want her blankets tossed over the beds. Come to think of it, I don’t want her beds, either.
Once the family room cabinets are empty, I tuck the yellow sofa slipcovers under an arm and take them down the hall to the laundry room. Eventually, I’ll purchase a new sofa, but for now, I’ll settle for sitting on clean cushion covers. There’s only a bit of detergent left—enough for a load or two—so I mentally add it to the list of things to buy.
That and cat food. I spy a nearly empty automatic feeder in the corner of the laundry room.