SAMUEL
I’m still buzzing from the sex, can’t wipe the smile from my face. I’m glad my kids are too young to suspect anything, although I know Eden’s close. Still, Rachel and I were helped this morning by spring break and all its perks. I know there will come a time, and soon, when we will have to be more circumspect. But not yet, thankfully.
I finish my toast, then set my plate in the sink. My plan is to get some paperwork done before I start helping Rachel with the chores, but when I look out the window and see how glorious the weather is—bright-blue sky, not a cloud in sight—I reconsider. Maybe I’ll go outside and hunt bugs with Jonah. I know my son would love that, and I can always do paperwork another time. I smile to myself. Good decision.
As I head for the stairs, Rachel calls to me from the garage, and I freeze.
There is no mistaking the tone of her voice. Stern voice, is what the kids call it. She uses it on me occasionally, when I leave my socks on the floor, or when I’ve had a few too many beers and gotten overly vociferous about the Lakers.
She is calling to me from the garage. I know exactly what has inspired her stern voice. My euphoria vanishes instantly.
The jacket.
I pretend not to hear her. My thoughts race. How could I have been so stupid, leaving it by the washing machine? That was definitely a bad decision. I stuffed it into my dry cleaning bag last night, made a mental note to take it to the cleaner’s today. But I should have anticipated Rachel getting a jump on laundry. It’s the first thing she does when readying the house for visitors, even if it’s only Ruth. She throws in tablecloths and guest towels, even though they’re already clean; she worries that accumulated cupboard dust has made the linens dull and will inspire sneezing fits. It’s one of her slightly bizarre rituals that I choose to ignore. But now . . .
Shadow starts barking from the living room window. Rachel’s voice cuts above the din.
“Sam, I need to talk to you right now. Would you come here? Please?” Her please doesn’t sound sincere. It doesn’t even sound like an afterthought. Her please sounds a little bit like fuck you.
“Daddy, Daddy!” Jonah bounds into the kitchen. I can’t give him my attention. I’m too wound up. What do I say to Rachel?
The truth. Tell her the truth.
Perhaps subconsciously, I left the jacket there on purpose, knowing Rachel would find it. Maybe a part of me wants her to know so that there will be no secrets between us.
“Daddy?”
I push past my son. My legs feel like lead as I stomp from the kitchen, past the staircase, and head down the hall toward the garage.
Greta’s face fills my mind, her repellent lips, wandering hands, cloying perfume—that same perfume that permeates my jacket.
“Daddy, I have to—I have to—Daddy!”
Jonah trails me. I stop in my tracks and whirl around to face him.
“Not now, Jonah!” I bark at my son. Rarely do I use that tone, and I turn away from him before I can see the aftermath of my outburst, his trembling-lipped response.
Rachel waits for me at the threshold to the garage. She stands in front of the washing machine, my jacket in her white-knuckled grip. Her eyes search my face.
Thirty minutes ago, she rode atop me, gazing into my eyes with passion and lust and unswerving love. Now she looks at me as though I’m a felon. And I am.
The truth, Sam. Tell her the truth.
SEVENTY-ONE
RACHEL
No way, not possible.
When I bring the linens to the washing machine in the garage, I’m assaulted by a strong and familiar smell. At first I think it’s my laundry detergent, but I just started testing a detergent for one of my sponsors that has no dyes or perfumes. This fragrance is more citrusy. No, not citrusy. Peachy. Peaches and vanilla, like cobbler.
The realization hits me.
I drop the linens to the floor and gaze at the black net bag hanging from the wall that holds my husband’s dry cleaning. I take a tentative step toward the bag, and the scent of peach cobbler grows more intense. Partially obscured by the netting, but not obscured enough, is Sam’s olive jacket, the one he wore to work yesterday.
My mind is blank, at least for the moment, as I grab the bag and plunge my hand into its contents. I pull out the jacket and drop the bag. It falls to the floor and lands next to the Easter linens. I press my nose against the jacket.
Peach and vanilla. Nonnegotiable. Greta.
“Sam,” I call. “Can you come here? Now?”
My mind reels as I try to make sense of something totally incomprehensible. The saturation level of Greta’s perfume on my husband’s jacket—aka, his person—is not the result of a quick hug, which Sam has been known to impart upon his employees. The hug that created this had to have been long, drawn out. To get your scent embedded in someone else’s clothing would require a certain amount of grinding, pressing, hugging.
I shake my head. No, no, no. Can’t be.
Shadow is barking from somewhere in the house, loud and urgent. I almost don’t notice.
“Sam, I need to talk to you right now. Would you come here? Please?”
Sam’s been a little off lately, and I . . . I’m not sure what it is.
Is he having an affair?
No. It’s not that.
Are you sure?
I think of this morning, of making love with Sam. His sudden passion, his intensity, his urgency. Guilty conscience? I feel like I’m going to retch.
It can’t be.
I defended him to Ruth. I told her, told myself, Sam would never do that. God, how could I have been so stupid?
Sam stands in the doorway, and the look on his face tells me everything. I don’t even need to ask the question. I throw the jacket at him with as much force as I can. “Greta? What the hell?”
“It’s not what you think.” He takes a step closer to me, and I mimic it with a step back.
“Don’t even, Sam. What a freaking cliché.”
“It’s nothing, Rach. I swear to you. Nothing happened. On my life.”
“Nothing? Then how did Miss Thing’s perfume get all over your jacket? Wait, let me guess. She was cold and you were chivalrous and gave her your jacket to keep her warm.”
He shakes his head.
“You took her out to the site. Was Carson there?”
Again, he shakes his head. My anger erupts. My heart pumps at double speed and my mouth is dry, and I’m afraid if I say anything, I’m going to start screaming. He swears nothing happened. But something was going to happen. Which means something did happen.
“I don’t know why I took her out there, Rach.”
“Shut up!”
“No, let me explain.”
“Mommy?” Jonah calls from the house. An instant later he appears at the door, face flushed.
I rush to him and grab him by the shoulders and forcefully shove him back into the house.
“Private time,” I tell him, then slam the door shut.
SEVENTY-TWO