“Do you live alone, Sandra?”
“Yes, which has never given me a moment’s concern until now. But enough about that. Are you still up for lunch?”
“I’d love that. And my treat this time.”
“Can you give me a couple of days, until I’ve made a bit more progress on this event?”
“Of course.”
After we hang up I rise from my desk and wander through the house, mulling over what Sandra’s divulged. It’s hardly a surprise to learn that Eve came on to this woman’s husband. Beyond what Guy has told me, I saw her in action myself—the sexy aura she exuded, the low-cut top she was sporting that day in her office. What astonishes me is that Eve would take such a chance in a client’s home. That’s not simply flirtatiousness; it’s downright reckless behavior.
And that, I have to admit, adds a bit of credence to Guy’s version of events—that Eve made a play for him. Was that the end of it? I have only my husband’s word that he paid the check and ran.
I find myself at last in the kitchen, staring out at the yard behind the house. I’m back to the bottom-line question: What am I supposed to do? Accept Guy’s story as the truth and move on? Or not? I watch the cluster of ferns at the back of the yard quiver gently in the light breeze. Guy will be home in a few hours, maybe even earlier, since I know he wants to sort this out. I have to decide.
A memory surfaces. It’s a comment made by woman I interviewed a couple of years ago as a background source for Twenty Choices. She ran a large research organization, helping business leaders make decisions about where to take their companies. “In certain instances,” she told me, “the right choice isn’t obvious despite all the information you’ve gathered. So what you must do is gather even more information.”
That’s what I need, I realize. More information. I have to find a way to confirm whether all I have to blame Guy for is a flash of na?veté. As I watch the ferns wave, an idea takes shape.
I back away from the window and grab my messenger bag and car keys. The trip takes only ten minutes. As I pull to a stop in front of a row of brick and beige-painted clapboard town houses, I notice I’ve left a film of sweat on the steering wheel. I feel nervous, like I’ve decided to shoplift a piece of clothing from a department store and escape with it stuffed down my pants.
Fortunately there’s no one around, only a middle-aged man perched on a power lawn mower in a nearby yard, lost in whatever music is coming from his earphones. Most of the neighbors are probably at work at this hour.
I head up the path to the closest town house and pause at the entrance of the apartment on the lower level. Guy’s apartment. The one he’d rented a few months before I met him, after he’d taken the job at the opera company. I’ve been here around a dozen times since I met Guy but only once this year, a few weeks before the accident. If Guy was having an affair with Eve, he may have used the apartment, and it’s possible there’s evidence inside.
I take a long, ragged breath, find the key on my ring, and shove it in the lock. I’m about to do something I’ve never done before: spy on my husband.
Chapter 13
Despite the brightness of the day, it’s pitch-black inside the apartment. I fumble until my fingers finally locate the light switch on the wall. Once I flip it on, the small foyer springs into view, like someone jumping out from the dark.
I step from the foyer into the living room, locating the wall switch for the overhead pin lights. As soon as they pop on, I understand why the place is so dark. Before moving into the house, Guy lowered all the blinds on the windows and pulled the drapes closed over them.
I shake out my hands. I feel even more jittery now that I’m inside. Technically speaking, this is my apartment, too, so I have every right to be here, but it’s sneaky and sly of me to have come without informing Guy.
Get it over with, I tell myself. I swing my gaze over the small, L-shaped room. The place appears no different than when I was here last—the dark brown couch against the wall, two small armchairs in beige faux suede, the nondescript coffee table and end tables. After he accepted the job at the opera company, Guy had only two weeks to move from Miami, locate a place to live, and prepare to hit the ground running at work, so he’d rented this apartment with the idea of upgrading once he was fully settled. The two of us met not long afterwards, and within a short time, he was spending almost every weekend with me in Manhattan. It suddenly seemed pointless for him to switch apartments, especially in light of his determination to relocate to the city in the not-so-distant future.