I may not have put a knife into Brad’s suitcase—the thought of him being interrogated and, I hoped, cavity searched gave me a shudder of pleasure—but I was about to rain on their little slice of heaven (again).
Nikki Demeter, who owned the cleaning service that did Stella Maris, had given me the new code to the house. Her husband had left her, too, and now lived in North Carolina with his second wife and their newborn twins. I parked in my hidden spot and walked right up to the front door. No other cars in the driveway or garage. My intel (Louis, one of the security guards they’d hired for the wedding and who had ridden the school bus with me) had informed me that Ophelia was staying with Vanessa and Charles in Orleans.
The thought of the Fairchilds’ house, where I’d once been so welcomed and loved, gave me a pang. I’d never go into Vanessa’s kitchen again. Never sit on their porch and sip coffee. Charles would never welcome me with the words “There she is!” when I came into their house. Two years ago, when he’d had a heart attack, I was the one who talked to the doctors, oversaw his rehab and new diet. The one who’d given him a sponge bath on his third night in the hospital to spare him the indignity of being washed by a stranger.
Those two had been my family, but they sure had been able to drop me in an instant, hadn’t they?
I walked down the slate path to Melissa and Brad’s front door, punched in the code and went inside. I hadn’t really taken a good look around when I let Flower out, too worried about being caught.
It was stunning. White everything, floor-to-ceiling windows, posh midcentury furniture. Beautiful artwork . . . I recognized some pieces from Left Bank Gallery and Long Pond Arts. Gerry and Elsbeth Smith, who owned Long Pond Arts, were happily married, and they’d been together for, what, forty years? They held hands so sweetly when they walked down Main Street.
I had thought that would’ve been Brad and me. Guess not. Already, there were pictures of Brad and Melissa displayed. My heart cramped. After all this, I would not have taken him back if he crawled on Legos, but seeing him in these frames with another woman . . . that was where I used to be.
I stopped in front of a picture of Brad and Dylan, and my heart cramped again. Brad must’ve kept it on his computer, because I’d never had it printed.
I’d taken that picture, the two of them standing in the golden light at Boat Meadow in Eastham five years ago, just before Dylan had started eighth grade. They looked so much alike. Dylan was just about as tall as Brad there, but skinny. Still my little boy who kissed me on the cheek without reservation and hugged me happily when he got off the school bus.
I hoped Brad missed our son. I hoped it clawed at his heart. But it sure didn’t seem that way. Brad was on his way to France . . . if TSA had let him go, that was.
Here was one of him with Melissa and Ophelia, the child scowling directly into the camera. I couldn’t help smiling . . . but at the same time, jealousy flared. Brad had a stepdaughter or stepniece now. Our daughter never got to draw a breath, and yet Brad had a little girl in his life. I was all alone.
I turned and started. My intel had not warned me of a dog. A trembling, light brown Chihuahua in a Burberry plaid sweater sat looking at me. They must’ve hired a dog sitter. At least the dog wasn’t crated all day. Was the dog sitter here? No. No cars, no bike in the driveway. It was possible a teenager had been dropped off, but Louis had said the house would be empty. Probably, the dog sitter came and went a couple of times a day.
The dog cocked its apricot-sized head and whined.
“Hi, honey,” I said. “Don’t be scared.” Zeus could swallow that creature in one gulp. I hoped it stayed inside; foxes and coyotes would make short work of the bony little thing.
I approached the wee rat and picked it up. “Teeny,” said her pink name tag. “Sorry you didn’t get a better name,” I said. “I would’ve called you . . . I don’t know. Toffee.” She was cute, with her bulging little eyes and tiny paws. I tucked her under my arm and continued my tour of the house.
All very tasteful, all very perfect. I’d take a house with some character to this Architectural Digest spread any day. How could Brad, who had sat in a fat recliner from Cardi’s every night for the past twenty years, be comfortable in this sleek wooden number? Oh. Right. He was a pretentious dick. That’s how.
Teeny was licking my hand. “Thanks, puppy,” I said, petting her knobby head.
I went into the master bedroom. Soaring ceilings, huge windows with electric shades. Enormous bed with an upholstered cream-colored headboard, gorgeous blue duvet with a dozen accent pillows. Their bathroom was bigger than my kitchen. Soaking tub, giant shower with all sorts of bells and whistles, a huge double-sink vanity, toilet room, two closets.
Brad and I used to fondly share a sink at night, talking around our toothbrushes. He never had any qualms about bursting in to take a dump if I was in the shower. Now, Melissa would be spared such crudity.
Well, I had a job to do. I pulled the ziplock baggie out of my pocket, opened it and offered it to Teeny. After all, this wouldn’t work if she ate it. Fortunately, she sniffed and turned away, chastising me with disappointed eyes. Good. I set her down, got on my hands and knees, then wriggled under their giant bed. Teeny observed me, then trotted to me and curled in a circle against my side, no bigger than a donut from Hole in One.
“Aw,” I said. “You poor thing, having to live with these two. I hope Ophelia is nice, at least.”
Then I did the job I’d come to do—took the shrimp out of the baggie. They’d had shrimp at the raw bar yesterday, so any guest could be blamed. I looked for a spot to hide it. Here. Right here, between the wall and the foot of the headboard.
I lay there, staring at the underside of the mattress, Teeny’s little ribs rising and falling under my hand. This is where Brad slept now . . . well, not under the bed, presumably. Here, in this soulless, glorious room. Did he ever miss our room? Did he miss me? Right up until June, we’d always slept together like two spoons, an invisible, magnetic force drawing us to each other.
My eyes were tired and gritty. I still wasn’t sleeping well. It was dim and peaceful under the bed here, and the warmth of the little dog at my side felt so good. I’d just close my eyes for a minute.
I woke up to the sound of voices. Teeny was still at my side, snoring softly.
Shit.
“Teeny?” A kid’s voice. Ophelia, no doubt. “Teeny, where are you?”
“What do you want for dinner, darling?” Oh . . . crap. It was Vanessa. I thought they were staying at the Fairchilds’ house! Well, apparently their plans had changed. My heart started thumping with guilt.
“I don’t care,” Ophelia said. “Anything’s good with me.” Her voice was friendly enough. “Teeny? Where are you?”
“Go,” I whispered to the little dog, pushing her. “Go see Ophelia!”
The dog barked. “Sh!” I hissed, giving her tiny butt a gentle shove. “Go get supper! Suppertime!”
Teeny tilted her head at me and barked again.
“Now I hear you,” said Ophelia. “Where are you, honey? You under the bed?” There was a slight twang in her voice.
Then I saw knees, then a face surrounded by tight blond curls. Teeny bounced into her arms the second before the kid saw me.
Neither of us moved. Teeny licked Ophelia’s face.
“Hi,” I whispered after a second.
“Who are you?” she whispered back.
“Um . . . the cleaning lady?”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.” Time for the truth, I guessed. “I’m Brad’s ex-wife. I met you when you first moved in, remember? I brought flowers and cookies.”
Her pale eyes widened. “Wow.” Teeny’s tail was wagging hard.
“Ophelia, honey, come into the kitchen and help me make a salad,” called Vanessa. Ophelia grimaced.
“Salad. So boring,” I said.
“You got that right.” She didn’t seem inclined to bust me, or to leave her spot.
“Um, so listen, Ophelia . . . I’m obviously not supposed to be here, and if Vanessa finds out, I’ll be in a lot of trouble. Think you can keep this to yourself?”