And now is when I really need to tiptoe.
“But don’t mention it to Guy, okay? I’m going to keep the dinner a secret until that night.”
“Of course. I’m not forgetting about his birthday, am I? That’s in September, I thought.”
“Right. This is for something else—a party for old friends of his who are coming to town to surprise him.”
I’ve put her in the kind of double bind I hope will guarantee she’ll keep quiet. She’s the type of executive assistant who doesn’t want to withhold anything from her boss, and yet she also wouldn’t chance blowing a special treat for him.
“I should let you go,” I add. “Have a nice day, Miranda.”
“You, too, Bryn. I’ll shoot you the email this afternoon.”
I thank her, and as soon as I disconnect, I exhale. So Guy’s told me the truth, at least about that one key detail. He was definitely trying to bail on Eve for the dinner party, which supports the idea that her behavior had made him uncomfortable about the idea of being in the same room with her.
My choice is obvious now: accept Guy’s story and move on. After all, I have no good reason to suspect my husband of anything really inappropriate. Of course, we’re still burdened with issues that must be faced and dealt with. Our marriage is currently off-kilter, out of rhythm, and we need to find our way back to that easy connection we had before—forged by love and support and sexual heat. I’m going to work like hell to get us there.
I text Guy back: “Yes, let’s talk. I love you, too.”
Strangely my energy has not yet started to flag, and I feel the urge to do something. Though I’m still banned by my doctor from running, walking is not off-limits. I locate my sneakers and stuff my feet into them.
After locking up the house, I saunter through the neighborhood, along cracked cement sidewalks twinkling with shiny fragments of stone. Most of the houses in this area are on the posh side, and their yards are lush with flowers—azaleas, petunias, and impatiens.
As I walk, breathing in the intoxicating summer air, I fight off thoughts about Eve Blazer’s murder, as well as the lingering guilt I feel about rifling through Guy’s belongings. I just want to relish the sensation of my legs moving, of being outdoors on this sunny afternoon and not splayed like an old dog on the daybed. With any luck, I’ll be jogging again by midsummer and savoring the rush that will bring.
As good as my body feels, I don’t want to push it, so I keep the walk short, promising myself I’ll repeat the experience tomorrow—and go even farther that time. I let myself into the house and climb to the second floor. At the top of the stairs I turn left. Before I can take another step, I hear what seems to be a rustling sound sneaking from the open doorway of the master bedroom.
I freeze in alarm. It sounded for a moment as if someone was in there, moving around. But it can’t be, I tell myself. I made sure all the doors were locked when I went out for my walk. I’ve surely just heard the house settling.
I wait for a moment, to be sure, and then take a few steps toward the bedroom, eager to kick off my running shoes. The rustling sound comes again and this time I haven’t any doubt. Someone’s in there.
With my heart in my throat, I start to spin around, ready to flee. Before I turn fully round, I see Guy pass in front of the doorway. He jerks in surprise at the sight of me.
“Bryn—I wondered where you were.”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. I’m relieved that it’s Guy, but at the same time concerned. Maybe there’s been another issue with the cops.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he says. “When I didn’t see you downstairs, I came up here.”
“But why are you home so early?” I cross the threshold into the bedroom and notice he’s still in his work suit.
“I got your text on my way back from Albany. I . . . I was so happy to see it. I thought I’d stop home for a minute to say hi.”
“That’s nice.” And I mean it. The anger I felt last night has finally dissipated. “Though it may take my heart a few minutes to recover from the shock.”
“I should have warned you.” He glances down at my shoes. “Were you out for a walk?”
“Yes. I came in through the front and didn’t see your car in the driveway.”
He closes the gap between us and grasps my arms by the elbows.
“Bryn, please let me make this up to you.”
Looking into his eyes, I feel an intense longing—part emotional, part physical—stir deeply inside of me.
“You don’t have to make anything up, Guy,” I say. “You just have to promise to be honest with me. There can’t be any more ‘I forgot to mention it’ stuff or ‘I didn’t feel comfortable mentioning it.’”