I glance around my tiny office. The windowsill is lined with a row of basil plants, a touch I added to make the space homier. Sitting here now, I feel like someone who has woken up in another woman’s house and has no clue how she got there. The lovely, perfect life I’ve created for myself is all a sham. Regardless of whether Guy’s a crook, he’s deceived me about his life, and there’s no way I can stay married to him.
Thank God, I think, my parents aren’t here to see the mess I’ve made of things. Yet at the same time, I long for the comfort of their presence. As my eyes well with tears, I brush them away. It’s not going to do any good to wallow in my misery. I’ve done enough of that during the past three months.
As I reach to turn off my laptop, I notice an email from Maycock. He’s reviewed the emails, he said, and will share the news with Corcoran, and promises to be back in touch. It’s too vague to be comforting.
What I need to do, I realize, is escape this house. While there’s no way I can leave town now—the cops wouldn’t stand for it—I can at least find someplace else to stay. I’ll use tonight to pack up and move out first thing tomorrow.
A sound pierces the silence, making me jerk in the chair. It’s the doorbell at the front of the house. I wonder if Guy’s come by despite my protests and decided to ring the bell.
I spring from my seat and hurry to the front of the house. But it’s not Guy. Peering through one of the side windows along the door, I spot Barb Donaldson standing on the porch, bearing a huge bouquet of white flowers. In a crazy way, she’s a sight for sore eyes. I compose my face and swing open the door.
She’s in another Palm Beach–style dress today, this one in bright pink and green stripes. Her pink lipstick has smeared a little, probably from the flowers having brushed against her face.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she says brightly.
“No, not at all. Come on in. Would you like an iced tea?”
She steps into the front hall and thrusts the bouquet toward me.
“I can’t actually stay. I just wanted to drop these off for you.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Barb. Let me find a vase.”
“I thought you might like them. There’s nothing like calla lilies to cheer you up when you’re not feeling well.”
I spin around so fast the movement seems to startle her. What’s Guy been saying? I wonder.
“Who told you I wasn’t well?”
“Oops, I hope I’m not blabbing something I shouldn’t. Kim Emerling mentioned it when I ran into her at an event yesterday. She said she’d had dinner with you and Guy, and that you’ve been under the weather.”
I can’t believe it. That woman definitely has it out for me.
“Well, I hope this doesn’t mean I have to give the flowers back, but I’ve actually been fine. I’m not sure how Kim ended up with that idea.”
Barb throws up her hands in mock bafflement.
“Who knows? It’s probably no picnic living with that bad-boy husband of hers. Oops, I shouldn’t have said that either.”
I let that one go.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you something?”
“Nope, I gotta skedaddle, but we’ll get together another time—and I still have to send you dates for the book club.” She lets her gaze roam the hall. “Where’s that handsome hubby of yours? He’s not working today, is he?”
“Just running errands,” I say too quickly.
“Well, tell him I sent my regards.”
As she straightens her bag’s strap on her shoulder, I reach into the pocket of my jeans, where I know there’s a clean tissue.
“Barb, the flowers smeared your lipstick. Let me fix it before you go.”
As I lean in closer, I pick up the scent of wine from her lips. She’s been drinking. Maybe more than a glass. I think of the wine she served at the shop and wonder if it might be a daily routine.
“I so appreciate women who look out for each other,” she says when I’m done. “Have a nice evening, okay? I bet a couple of newlyweds like you two always end up doing something fun on a Saturday night.”
I manage a smile. I don’t have the urge to manufacture a fake comment in reply.
After she’s gone, I consider again what she’s revealed about Kim. While she may not be my priority right now, it’s key to watch out for her.
Back in my office, I research hotels in town. There’s a small inn on Broadway called the Saratoga Arms that miraculously has a room free from tomorrow until Friday. I book it. Before I complete the information, I look to see if I could actually check in tonight, but the inn is full.
As dusk settles over the house, the dread I’ve felt each night returns, like a predatory creature slinking through the weeds. I go from room to room, flipping on lights, and then I start to pack, hoping it will be a distraction.