I take a few steps forward, glancing toward the short end of the L. It’s empty, like a dark hole, and then I recall that Guy’s desk once sat in that space. It’s now in the house, in one of the bedrooms he’s using as his home office this summer.
So far that’s the only thing that seems different. And yet . . . I sense something oddly awry, a detail I can’t put my finger on. And then it comes to me. The room feels unlived in. The books on the coffee table are perfectly stacked, the throw pillows neatly arranged and dented just so in the middle, like fedoras. Guy is neat but not this neat. It’s like the photo of a room on a vacation rental website.
He’s had it cleaned since he left, I realize. Which makes sense, I suppose.
I wander into the galley kitchen. The countertop is totally clear, everything put away, not that there was ever much in the way of tchotchkes. Glancing at the sink, I see that there’s an empty glass sitting all by its lonesome in the basin. I pick it up and peer inside. Droplets of water at the bottom. Guy, I know, has come by the apartment once or twice to pick up extra clothes, and he must have had a glass of water while he was here.
I tug open the refrigerator door. Just a few condiments like mustard and mayo, bottled water, and a shriveled lime.
There’s only the bedroom left. My pulse picks up in anticipation. Please, I think, don’t let me find anything. The door is closed, and it creaks as I push it open. Once again it takes a few seconds for me to locate the wall switch before I can flood the room with light.
The blinds have been lowered in here, too, and the bed has been stripped of its sheets, with the duvet folded neatly at the base. Nothing’s out of order.
I check the bathroom next. It’s as clean and clutter-free as the kitchen, with no sign that anyone has used it in weeks. I exhale deeply in relief. There’s nothing to suggest that Guy has brought a woman here, though I remind myself that he could have done so without leaving any evidence. Or he could have gone to her place.
I pass back through the bedroom, and as I’m about to turn off the light, I notice the picture on the bedside table, the photo from our wedding in a silver frame. It’s a shot of me, Guy, my brother, and Guy’s mother, who sadly died of a heart attack a few months after the wedding.
We held both the ceremony and reception at an inn on the coast of Rhode Island, near the town where we’d met, and kept it small, about thirty people in attendance. It wasn’t marriage per se that mattered to me but rather a life with Guy, and therefore I wasn’t in need of a big production to kick it off. And with my parents deceased, doing anything elaborate seemed inappropriate to me. It would have made their absence even more painful.
I step closer, lift the picture, and study it momentarily. Guy is wearing a gauzy white shirt and white pants, a wide smile on his face, and his arm is wrapped around me. I’m beaming. I’d just married a man with whom I felt in perfect harmony, someone who respected both my accomplishments and my independence and yet could also be a rock when life grew turbulent.
I set the photo back down and start to turn, eager now to leave. For the first time, I notice a faint scent in the room. It’s unfamiliar, not something I associate with Guy.
Thank God there’s nothing perfume-like or feminine about the smell. Rather, it’s woodsy and almost incense-like, hinting at exotic places far away from here. I freeze in place and breathe deeply, trying to interpret what I’m smelling, but the scent soon evaporates. Maybe I imagined it, like a ghost silhouette in a corridor.
Two minutes later I’m back in my car and headed home. Okay, I tell myself, you checked out the apartment, found no evidence of an affair, and now you have to decide how to respond to Guy. But as I pull into the driveway, there’s still a jittery buzz in my body, and I realize what it means: I’m not done snooping.
As soon as I’m in the house, I ascend the stairs to the second floor and push open the door to Guy’s home office.
It’s incredibly spacious, almost as big as the master bedroom, and, thanks to east-facing windows, bursting with sunshine today, a far cry from the gloomy apartment I’ve just come from. The windows are covered with elegant cream-colored drapes, tied back to let the light in, and the walls are decorated with a Victorian-style paper, featuring endless pale green palm fronds.
Guy has made a few adjustments to create more of a study/office feel. He’s turned the bed so that it runs horizontally against the wall and doesn’t hog so much room, set his desk between two of the windows, and pulled the armchair and ottoman out from the corner. Unlike in the apartment, I can actually feel Guy’s presence here. He’s left a blue crewneck sweater tossed on the ottoman along with a book he’s reading, and there are two empty espresso cups perched on the fireplace mantel. Guy may not be messy, but he likes to own the space around him.